BOMAW 7-9

by Mercedes Keyes

  Shawn was the reason that hadn't happened.

  Here it was again, this time, circumstances surrounded a woman he had fallen for.

  "Officer Royce Collier—we're waiting. I want to know, what is it that you plan to do about my sister?" Shawn asked after spinning in circles in the middle of the room, trying to stay calm. "There is a man out there, whom I'm convinced, by her reaction to finding that he was here…I'm convinced, that he's going to try and harm her. Officer Collier, chances are, he may go too far, as she's cried, and try to kill her. Now—what are you going to do about it?"

  Royce stared at him, he then looked down at the floor. Hating to have to say it, he had little choice, "As an officer of the law—"

  "Stop right there! Don't say another word! Not - a - damn thing, that's what you're going to do. Say anymore, you're going to piss me off!"

  Royce stood up, "Shawn! I cannot—go against the law! He hasn't done anything yet!"

  Shawn was ready to explode, he turned from Royce, "Shanna…get up from that sofa, get a few things, let's go - right - now!"

  She looked up at Royce sadly, stood, doing what her brother told her to do; she had no choice. She felt bad for Royce, and fully understood his position, but she was scared. If John got his hands on her…it terrified her, she couldn't endure being with him again. After what Kathy Ann did to him, she knew he would get her back for that. He would punish her. Yet, this time, deep in the pit of her stomach, she knew—if he got his hands on her, he would kill her. She knew him. She'd left him with everything on him. Bills and all; anything that had gone wrong since her absence, she would be punished for. She'd kill herself first—before she would let him take her away from there—or even more, she would have to kill him. Because of the depth of his madness, she wasn't sure she would even be able to. Shawn, Jake—they were it. Entering her bedroom, Vivian had come in behind her. They could hear the men talking from her room. A second later, following Vivian, was Sylvia. The first thing she said, "Get enough for a few days, Shanna."

  Outside her room, Royce tried reasoning with Shawn. "Shawn…don't take the law—into your own hands." he cautioned him. "And I hope you have a permit for that gun."

  "FUCK—YOU! Okay? That's what you can do! Now— Fuck off!"

  Jake ran his hand over his face in a nervous gesture, Mundo stood staring at his stepfather as if he had grown wings—not angel wings, but bat wings, thinking, Only a white man can get away with that shit! My ass be spittin' gravel by now. Remaining silent, he then looked at Royce.

  Royce turned red in the face. The last thing he wanted, was strife between himself and Shanna's brother. He liked Shawn, but this situation was one that he knew was going to cause them difficulties, if the matter wasn't somehow resolved. He stood, feeling his frustration.

  "Shawn, please…I'm not trying to make this worse."

  Shawn glared at Jake, "What the hell did you call him for? Why the hell did you bother?"

  "Shawn, please…I need to know, if you have a permit for that gun?" Royce asked him again.

  "Shawn, please answer him." Sylvia pressed from the hallway, having heard his outburst. She stood hugging the corner of the wall off the kitchen, down from Shanna's room. Once more, she was facing this other man in him, a man more animal, filled with danger, one to use caution with - such a potent source of explosive deadliness - those ingredients were in this man, a part of the man she'd married, and the wick, the fuse to set it all off, his family. It frightened her - to see him in this mode, seeing him this way, made her ears ring, made bright lights dance before her; the experience was becoming surreal, as if it all belonged to someone else, surely not her. Her life was supposed to be in this world of peace, tranquility, where only laughter dwelled; that time of hell she once lived, she'd left that behind - back in Chicago, and yet, as she stood watching this man, who was her second husband; her chest ached with a knowing, that somehow - drama, hell, violence was perhaps a scent she gave off - one that lured this type of animal - man, to her.

  "Shawn... please..." She called, already feeling weakened from within by it all - he couldn't hear her.

  "Yes! I have a permit for my weapon." He answered, feeling hostile and angry.

  "And is it to carry that weapon on the street?" Royce went further.

  "My permit is for me to use this gun, on my property! This house, is on my property! My property begins 45 yards from the top of this road, down past this house, past my other home and beyond it a distance to the eye, covering several acres, and then across the road and back up again, through those woods up to the next lot. And I'm fucking thinking about buying that too! As long as I'm within those boundaries, I will carry this gun. If any son-of-a-bitch, makes a wrong move—"

  "Shawn, stop!" Sylvia cried out, afraid of what would happen if he continued on. He was livid.

  He took a deep breath, glaring at Royce. "My gun, is to protect my family. I have a right—a constitutional right, to bear arms, and see to the safety and welfare of my family! So, listen up, Barney Fife! If he comes on my property, after my sister—any man, comes with the intent of doing them, my family, my wife - harm—it's me and him. May the better man win! As for you, either do something - load your one goddamn bullet, or—stay the fuck out of my way!"

  * * *

  "DAMMIT, DAMMIT, DAMMIT!" John pounded the steering wheel of his car, punctuating each cursed word with the rap of his hand, gun still in it. It was one thing to beat and control Shanna, but facing another man with a gun, that was something entirely different. As long as he had the advantage, he might go for it, but not face to face. Not with the other man holding a gun. No, no way. He was scared. He didn't want to get caught. If he could have guaranteed going in and getting a hold of her without bringing the attention of others, he would have done so. What stopped him was, he didn't know exactly what he was up against. He didn't know where in the house she was. Or whose house it was, for that matter. He didn't know who was staying there with her. Who did that truck belong to? The car she was riding in with the other man was gone. Leaving her jeep parked alongside a new truck. He'd almost missed her Jeep, because of the truck. The color of it stuck out and made him back up, because he was certain that it was hers, he'd driven further down the road, passed the second home on it. He'd pulled into a field between it, along a plowed field behind some trees. Then with quiet stealth, he'd crept back through the rear of the house and onward to where her Jeep was. It had been during that stint across the opening between the two homes that he'd been spotted. He'd run like the wind and dived beneath the truck and stayed put. Not daring to move. Wondering who was that who'd backed up, and pulled into the drive? They didn't live there because they'd been driving by, yet they'd backed up upon seeing him. He didn't understand, but he knew better than to let himself be seen again. The vehicle had sat a spell, then finally backed out. He'd waited a moment and it hadn't returned, nor had he seen anyone. He came out and made it the rest of the way behind the property onto the deck. He was trying to see through the windows, it had been so dark, that he was unable to make anything out looking in. With his heart pounding, he was trying to make up his mind to go in. If he just knew where she was in the house, he would go for it. Then the phone had started ringing. He froze. Ducked down underneath a window, waiting. It kept ringing, and no one inside the house stirred. With squinting eyes, he'd gotten enough nerve to raise up and peer inside. He couldn't make out any details, but it had looked like a laundry room, he made out a counter top, a washer and dryer, and cabinets and then a door. Again he was hesitating. He wanted to go in, but then what? Which way did he go if he opened that door on the other side of that room? What would he face if he went through it? Again, the burning question was, where was Shanna? He'd stood too long trying to decide what to do, when he heard the pounding of running feet, the crunching of gravel beneath them; more than one set because along with it came the sound of mumbling voices.

  One voice in particular, brisk and demanding. He almost swallowed his tongue
, thinking they might come back there, he dove over the deck rail and landed on the ground, and laid still waiting, heart rushing within like the gears of a locomotive. Then the pounding on the door. He almost crapped his pants. The last thing he needed was to be caught there with God only knew who, coming to look. He snail-crawled along the ground, slow and easy. Staying low like a snake, frightened of discovery. He made it to a tree, hiding against it, he glanced around it to see two men standing within a screen door, one banging on it; then the gun, the bigger of the two had lifted it as if ready to use it as he surveyed their surroundings.

  "Shit, shit, shit." John had whispered in a panic. He froze, daring not to move a muscle. The lights came on in the house, a man's voice from within it. The front door was opened, the man holding the gun, did one last look around and disappeared inside. John jumped to his feet and ran back the way he came. Ran for his life, his heart abusing his chest without let up. He'd stopped to rest behind the second house and noticed the home across the road with a light shinning. Someone was coming out of it. He ducked back again, wondering if they all knew each other? He glanced back and the figure was out of sight, he legged it the last bit back to his car, jumped in, started it and got the hell out of there.

  As he drove back to his hotel, eyes burning, tired, he kept wondering, who was the man with the gun? There was a man inside, and another man. Three! Where'd the other two come from? Had the one who stopped in the vehicle, been one of them? Had he gone for help? He must have. Who were they? The question kept hammering within his head. All he could think of is that they must have been her brothers. John Sykes wasn't about to get killed. It was her, his wife, he wanted to kill. Yet, doing so, he wasn't about to face time for it. Neither did he wish to get into a scuffle with one of her brothers, or all three for that matter. He hadn't met the oldest of her brothers, but he'd heard enough about him from Shanna. She'd tried throwing him in his face a few times, as if that would keep him off of her. At first it did, until he learned that he was in California somewhere, and no one knew where. Even so, he'd met the one, Derrick—a big fellow. He'd stared at him with searching eyes, that time he and his wife came to visit them. Stared at him as if trying to read him, he'd only smiled and acted as right as rain. Treating Shanna extra good, seeing about her in ways he hadn't normally if it weren't for one of her brothers being present.

  Shanna had lied. Said she'd been in a car accident, and that was the reason for her bruising. Another time he met the other brother and her sister. He didn't like them, and that was the reason he insisted they remain in Ohio, away from her family. Her father was another one that scared him. Bart had hated him on sight, practically. He'd also threatened to kill him if he heard one word about anything done to his daughter. Shanna had kept word from him. After all, he promised her, any of her family showed up there, they were as good as dead.

  She believed him.

  Now, things were all different. She was back among them. Someone was living with her, had to be. That car was gone and a truck was parked by her Jeep. He had to be careful when he killed her. Even with the odds stacked against him, it was still on his mind to do it. She wouldn't get away from him that easily. It was a matter of principle. She'd been warned. She knew the consequences of putting him through what she had over the last few months. He just had to get his hands on her, and get away. He was still sweating from his run, from getting the hell scared out of him. Irritated, he wiped at the sweat and gnashing his teeth, he made several rapid swipes at his neck; something was crawling on him. He leaned over and put his gun away before he blew his own brains out; slamming the glove closed, driving down the back roads, trying to find his way back to the main road. He was itching, probably had ticks crawling under his clothes as he sat. The thought of them made him shiver. He needed to get back to his hotel room, shed his clothes and search his body. As for Shanna, he needed to know who that was she was living with? Who owned that property? He didn't even know the name of the road. He'd just driven down it, was on the verge of giving up for the night, when he spotted the Jeep. There was only two days left. Sunday and Monday. He would check out of the hotel he was in, and check into that Super 8. He even contemplated sticking up a Kwik-Trip, for some extra money. Problem again was, he was scared of confrontation. Afraid of getting caught. Afraid of someone else holding a gun. He didn't like fighting. Didn't like getting hit. Didn't like the feeling of pain. John sniffed and wiped his soaked face, then slapped at his hair, something was crawling in there. He was afraid, and grew angry because that word brought up the thought, "I'm not a coward! Not no goddamn coward! 'Cause I wanna be careful, that make me a coward?! Hmph!" He thought about the first real ass-beating he'd laid on his wife. She'd laughed at him, and asked incredibly, "You're not afraid, are you? You backing down like that, they're going to think you're a coward. People are gonna think you're a coward." She had said.

  Shanna's Imprisonment

  The past incident that made Shanna say it, took place when they lived in their first apartment complex, which had a few tenants, single males especially, who made no effort to hide their appreciation for Shanna as the most appealing eye candy in the block of flats, thus far. At first, their blatant wolf-calls were done when she was alone. She, of course, ignored them, carrying on with her activities. Subsequently, they grew bolder. Bold enough to do it while she walked with John. She'd been proud at first that he ignored them, and carried on with her as if they didn't exist. But then, as time went by, they started saying to her, "Hey, how about you drop the dead-beat, give a real man a try?" Again, ignored. Yet, the more they made the comments, the more aggressive John became with her. Telling her that it was the way she dressed. The way she wore her hair. The way she walked. The way she looked at them. The way she wore her make-up. The perfume that she was wearing. Accusing her of liking their attention. Accusing her of really wanting them over him. Next thing she knew, she had become a slut. A whore. A bitch in heat. The abuse had begun, and - at first, the first four years of it, had been verbal. Forcing her to downplay her looks. Her appearance. What she wore. Forcing her to keep her head down. Forcing her to rush to her vehicle. He was stressing her. The guys that would not let up, were stressing her. It had all become too much. Shanna had long known, had long sensed, that she'd made a mistake in marrying John Sykes - instead of him defending her, himself - putting the guys in their place from the start - she became the source for all that was wrong.

  He was the first man she'd ever been in a relationship with. The first to give her attention that wasn't impeded by the presence of her brothers, her family. Totally naive to the ways of men and having the type of brother's she had, the type of father she had, she never imagined a man being any other way with a woman, with her; than being kind, gentle and protective. John was proving to be none of those things. In fact, as time progressed in the relationship, she wanted out. She regretted marrying him. Four years into it, things were beginning to intensify. Now, with the wolf-calls and attention of the men, adding to their degenerating marriage, the accumulative lot was making her life a living hell - and yet, it had only just begun. Feeling she could take little more, the pressure had finally built beyond what the pot could hold, things were about to spill over; as they were coming out of their apartment, the wolf-calls started again; Shanna had had enough.

  "Come on, guys, give us a break already! I'm not interested, leave me alone! Leave us alone! Please!"

  John couldn't believe she had said that, and of course for him, that made it even worse, bringing them more to their attention. They'd started laughing, laughing at him. The group of men consisted of white and black. It had at first been just the white guys, but now, because she spoke up, the black guys got into it. "Ah, miss lady, don't be like that! Yo'man don't mind! Hey, m'man, ain't that right? You'on mind if we chit-chat with yo' ol'lady a bit, do ya? Go take care of whatever you doin', leave her here with us." One of the black guys started, making the others laugh and join in. One of the white guys said, "If anybody gets
a chance at her, it's gone be me—find your own woman!"

  "Man, what you sayin'? She fair game—look at her ol'man—duckin' and runnin'!"

  He practically was, dragging Shanna along with him to their car. Immediately upon getting in, he blasted at her. "WHAT THE HELL DID YOU THINK YOU WERE DOING?!"

  "Telling them to leave us alone! I'm getting sick of it. Why won't you stand up to them?!"

  "Everything was just fine until you had to open your big mouth! If you had just shut up, and carried on, that would be that!"

  "No! That is not, that! Every stinkin' day, I have to live through you going on and on about how it's my fault! And its' not my fault!"

  "Parading like a slut is the problem!"

  "I am not a slut! And I don't parade about like one!" She defended herself, turning away to look out of her own window.

  He started the car, both of them breathing hard as he pulled out of the apartment parking lot. Shanna sat quiet a moment as he drove, and then turned to him and said, "You're not afraid, are you? You backing down like that, they're going to think you're a coward; People are gonna think you're a coward."

  "Who you calling a fuckin' coward?! You laughing at me too, now?" He asked, turning red.

  "I'm not calling anyone a coward! I'm not laughing at you, I'm just saying, you can't back down—stand up for yourself, stand up for me!"