Racing From Evil: A Nikki Latrelle Mystery Novella; The Prequel

by Sasscer Hill

  Her faith in me was wonderful, validating, but a little frightening. It was more pressure than I’d experience before, but most of all, it told me how far I’d come in two years, how lucky I was, and what a wonderful thing Mom had done for me.

  “I’m going to lay a few poles on the ground. You walk him over and see what he thinks about it.”

  I did, he liked it, and a month later, I had him going over a course of one to two feet. He was a natural jumper, nimble around tight corners, with plenty of speed. The two of us had a future.

  As the days darkened into winter, the weather turned cold and wet. Our leaky roof, now over thirty years old, continued to deteriorate. It got so bad, Mom set out buckets in both of the upstairs bedrooms to collect the rainwater. The ceilings darkened with wet stains. The roof had been patched too many times, and we desperately needed a new one. But there wasn’t enough money.

  The morning Mom said she was having a guy come look at the roof, I was curious. Being older, I’d figured out the pile of papers she hid in a folder were bills. Unpaid bills, the worst being our mortgage, and something she finally told me was called a balloon payment.

  “Mom, how can we afford to fix the roof?”

  “I met a guy.” That was all she said.

  That Friday was a school holiday. Boiler raised the poles on the fences, and Wishful and I had a couple of glorious rounds of jumping. Then she lowered the poles a bit and brought out a stopwatch.

  “If you win a class, and there’s a jump-off, you’re going to have to go for speed. Can you do that?”

  I nodded, picked up the reins and eased Wishful into a trot. When I sat deeper in the saddle and pushed him with my legs and seat, he took off like a rocket. I had to collect him real quick to get him into each jump right, and then make sure I gave him his head as he lifted in the air for each jump. Each time we rose over the poles, I’d be looking for the next obstacle. Wishful and I were so connected he sensed what was coming next and went for it.

  When we finished, I was laughing and Boiler’s eyes seemed unusually bright.

  “Nikki, you’re a speed demon!”

  Wishful was blowing and full of himself, and I couldn’t stop grinning.

  When I got home, Mom called me from the kitchen in the back of the house. “I’m in here, honey.”

  She was sitting at the metal table with its red-and-white checkered cloth. I stopped abruptly in the doorway. A man sat at the table with her. He was thin and hard looking, with a sharp face. His forehead, nose, and chin thrust out like the blade of a hatchet. I didn’t like how comfortable he seemed in our kitchen. He must have brought the six-pack of beer on the table. He appeared to be into his second, and Mom had just emptied one of her own. The thing was, she almost never drank.

  “Nikki, this is Stanley.”

  “Nice to meet ya,” he said, his eyes studying me. He smelled like tar and had brown stains on his pant’s legs.

  I disliked him immediately and switched my gaze to the kitchen window where rain that had started on my way home ran in wavy rivulets down the glass. I could still feel his stare on me. I hated it.

  “Stanley’s a roofer,” Mom said. “A&A Roofing. It’s a good company, and he’s going to put on a new one for us!”

  But why was he in our kitchen drinking beer? And why was Mom in that tight blouse, and wearing so much perfume?

  That night, I lay in bed listening to the steady splash of water drops in the bucket near my bed. I felt out of sorts, like I saw things differently. What used to be familiar wasn’t anymore.

  As the water beaded on the ceiling overhead, I began to think about my mother, Helen, in ways I hadn’t considered before. Was she lonely? Did she like this man Stanley? He was tough looking and wiry. Was she attracted to him? Did she want him to be . . . her boyfriend? The thought made me cringe. I couldn’t stand him. His eyes and voice were too friendly when he looked at Mom, and I didn’t like it.

  During breakfast the next morning, I tried to speak to her, but the words wouldn’t come. Mom started chewing on her lower lip and avoiding my eyes. Finally, she met my gaze.

  “What is it, Nikki?”

  “Does Mr. Rackmeyer have to come inside our house when he does the roof?”

  “Why would you ask that? Stanley’s a nice guy. We’re lucky I met him. He’s giving us a big break on the cost of the roof.”

  “Why?”

  My question made her lips compress. “I told you. He’s a nice guy. I don’t want to hear any more about this from you. We need his help. Do you like listening to water drip in your room all night? I sure don’t!”

  Two days later, Mom went out after dinner and didn’t get home until late. I could smell the perfume and beer on her. I could smell tar and some other scent I didn’t recognize and didn’t like. A few days after that, when she came home from her job, Stanley was with her.

  He gave me a smile like a rodent baring its teeth. “How ya doin’ kid?”

  “Okay.”

  “She don’t say much, does she Helen?”

  “She’s a good kid. Just a little shy sometimes.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” He moved toward our staircase. “I wanna see those leaks upstairs.” Without asking he went up like it was his own house. We followed.

  I hated seeing him inside my bedroom. My skin crawled when he sat on the edge of my bed, picked up the stuffed horse I’d had for years and grinned as he stroked it.

  “Nice horsey, Nikki.”

  When we went downstairs, Mom and Stanley had a beer in the kitchen. And when I asked Mom about dinner, Stanley said, “I’m taking you girls out tonight.”

  Mom blushed. “You don’t need to do that, Stanley.”

  “Pretty girls like you two deserve it. It’s settled.” He took a big swallow of his beer. “This is a nice house ya got here, Helen. Solid brick. Foundation’s sound. I get this roof fixed up, you’ll be sitting pretty.”

  When they finished their beer, he took us to MacDonald’s in his Chevy truck. It had a rack on top loaded with aluminum ladders that rattled and banged every time we hit a bump. The truck’s cab was dirty, and smelled like burnt tar.

  At McDonald’s it was embarrassing how thrilled Mom was to have a man buy us dinner. Then I felt guilty for feeling that way.

  When Stanley took us home, he parked his truck on the street, and came inside.

  “I got homework,” I said, and hurried upstairs to my room. But I stood in my doorway listening. I heard the tops on two beer cans pop, and the murmur of their voices, the words indecipherable until Stanley voice got louder and whiny.

  “Come on baby, let me stay tonight. You know you want me to.”

  I thought I heard Mom say something about me, then he said, “She’s gonna have to get used to it.”

  Mom’s voice sounded uneasy as it reached me where I stood frozen in my doorway. I thought she said something like . . . “married first.”

  Stanley left soon after that and I prayed Mom had come to her senses and pushed Stanley out of our lives. But two days later, she came home with a ring on her finger and a happy glow on her face.

  “Stanley and I are getting married.” She looked at me, and I could tell she didn’t like my obvious disappointment. “Listen, Nikki, we won’t have to worry about that balloon payment anymore!”

  When I didn’t respond, she jerked her hands wide apart. “Can’t you be happy for me?”

  I stared at the kitchen’s green linoleum floor and didn’t answer.

  3

  They got married in the Baltimore City Courthouse on a Wednesday. I begged off and went to school instead, where my math teacher snapped at me for not paying attention and “being in another world.”

  That evening, Stanley took us to Applebee’s to celebrate, except I had no appetite and could hardly swallow my food.

  Across the table, the eyes in that hatchet face stared at me, the lips flattened in annoyance. “What’s the matter with you, kid? You upset about something?”

  �
�I’m just tired.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t ride so much. What do you think Helen? She need to ride all the time?”

  “She really likes it, Stan. It’s good for her.”

  “If you say so. Me, I ain’t so sure.”

  After that I tried to hide my feelings. I’m surprised my face didn’t crack from my pasted-on smile.

  If it hadn’t been for Boiler, Jill, and Wishful, I don’t know how I would have made it through the following spring, summer, and fall. Boiler talked the school’s headmistress into letting me ride on the team that spring, and Wishful and I cleaned up, winning many of the individual classes in shows with rival schools. The Potter’s team went on to the championships, and the walls of my bedroom were lined with blue ribbons. But most important, the horses kept me sane.

  Stanley, true to his word, put a new roof on the house with a couple of his crew, and they patched and painted the bedroom ceilings. It was all Mom talked about.

  “Nikki, hasn’t Stan been wonderful? We’re so snug and safe now!”

  “Whatever.”

  “Nikki, I hate that word. Please answer me.”

  “Mr. Rackmeyer is wonderful, okay?”

  She shook her head, her lips a thin line.

  By that time Stanley had taken over the couch in our living room where he watched sports on TV and drank beer every night. I stayed in my bedroom with my books. The stories opened another world and a temporary escape from Stanley.

  But even the best novel couldn’t blot out the noises that came from Mom and Stanley’s room late at night. They made me sick, and most nights I ended up with the clock radio jammed against my ear.

  But Mom seemed happy. She had new clothes, and Stanley bought them a fancy king-sized bed. So I sucked it up, or at least tried to, until I neared my thirteenth birthday. By then, I’d changed enough, that for months, Stanley had been looking at me differently, and one night when I came downstairs for a soda, my life took an ugly turn.

  He was on the couch with Mom watching a Ravens game. I could feel his eyes following me as I went by. When I walked back through with my drink, he whistled.

  “Helen, look at our girl. She’s sprouting tits. Gonna be a real looker, like you.”

  Mom’s lips compressed. “Don’t talk like that, Stan. You’re making her uncomfortable.”

  “Damn, woman. I’ll talk how I wanna talk. She’s gonna have guys beating our door down, so she might as well get used to it.”

  Mom stiffened, and he put an arm around her. “Relax, honey, I didn’t mean nothing.”

  After that I wore baggy tops and spent as much time as possible in my room or at Carmen or Letitia’s house. After they met Stanley, they didn’t come over to our house anymore, and that fall, I was glad when it got cold, providing an excuse to hide myself under even more layers. I figured if I was careful, he’d leave me alone.

  Near Christmas, Mom made eggnog. But Stanley said it was too weak and made a run to the corner liquor store for a bottle of Jack Daniels. When he got home, he went out to the wood porch in the back of the house. It was freezing out there, and where Mom liked to use it to store her bucket of eggnog. Stanley poured the whole bottle of bourbon into the mixture.

  Mom and I stood in the kitchen doorway watching him, listening to the gurgle of booze coming out of the bottle.

  “Jesus, Stanley. You’re going to knock us out,” she said. But then she giggled. She’d already had a glass of the weaker version, which had plenty of bourbon and rum.

  I was ready to bolt for my room, but Stanley said, “Hey, sweetie, don’t leave. You’re always runnin’ off to your room. Sit with us and have a glass. It’s Christmas, for Christ’s sake.”

  He got three glasses and ladled them half full. I looked at Mom. She shrugged, gave me a weak smile. “Go on, you’re old enough for a sip or two.”

  “Come on, girls.” He led us to the kitchen table, Mom lit the red Christmas candle in the center, and we sat.

  They drank up. I sniffed the concoction and took a sip. If it hadn’t been loaded with cream, sugar, and nutmeg, I would have spit it out. I swallowed, and felt it burn all the way down.

  Stanley kept glancing at me as he drank. Mom seemed oblivious.

  “Nikki,” she said, “now that your ceiling’s fixed, I was thinking about getting new curtains for your bedroom. Would you like that?”

  “Uh, sure.” I pushed my glass away, “I don’t think I want any more of this stuff.”

  Stanley pushed up from his chair. “Babe, you are wasting some really fine shit.” He moved around the table to where I sat. “I’ll drink it for you.” He leaned over, brushing his hand across one of my breasts as he reached for my glass.

  Mom saw him do it, but she looked away, and said nothing.

  That’s when I knew she was a liar.

  Four weeks later on a bitter cold January day, I was called out of history class to the principal’s office. I had no idea why, but I rubbed my arms as an inner chill hit me in the long tiled hallway.

  Mr. Wheatley, or “Wheaties,” as the students called him, waved me into his office, his face and eyes tight with some emotion. He gestured at the metal chair before his desk

  “Nikki, please sit down.”

  I did, and he got right to it.

  “I’m sorry to tell you. Your mother passed away this morning.”

  “No. That’s not possible.”

  “You know how icy it is outside. She slipped from the curb. A city bus was coming. I’m so sorry.” He took a short breath. “It happened fast. They say she probably didn’t feel any pain.”

  “No!” I felt like I was splitting in half. “She can’t be gone.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he said again.

  I tried to digest what had happened. What this meant. A rush of fear hit me. I wrapped my arms around my sides.

  “I understand how hard this must–”

  “You don’t. I can’t . . . I won’t live with my stepfather!”

  He looked startled, and then seemed to give my outburst some thought. “If there is a problem with your stepfather, we can have Social Services step in.”

  I stared at him. “I don’t want Social Services.”

  “The difficulty, Nikki, is your file doesn’t show any direct family. You don’t have a grandparent, aunt, or uncle?”

  “No. There’s no one.” My hands started shaking and I felt nauseous.

  Over the next three days the house was filled with people. Mom’s two friend’s from Potter’s kitchen staff brought pans of lasagna and meatloaf, while neighbors brought flowers and more dishes of food. I was grateful when Carmen and Letitia came with their mothers.

  But Boiler didn’t come. Her absence gave me a lost feeling. She had to know. Maybe she’d be at the funeral.

  With all the people coming and going, Stanley left me alone except for the afternoon he asked to see my cell phone.

  “Want kind of phone you got there, Nikki?”

  “Just an Android.”

  “Lemme see it. Come on, hand it to me.”

  When I did, he put it in the pocket of his work vest. “We can’t afford for you to have this, kid. We gotta watch the money now that Helen’s salary’s gone.”

  “But I need that,” I said.

  “Maybe later. If you’re a good girl.” He had a triumphant little smile as he turned to walk away from me.

  From then on, I locked my door every night, even pushing my armchair against it. I never cried. Instead, I’d lie in bed, fully clothed, staring blindly at the new ceiling, while my thoughts scrabbled around my head like rats in a cage.

  On the fourth day there was a simple memorial service. Stanley had arranged for it at the nearest funeral parlor. There was no church, no burial. He had my mother cremated and told the funeral parlor to get rid of the ashes.

  Again, my disappointment and confusion were sharp when Boiler didn’t come.

  About ten people showed up at the house afterwards and when they left, I knew they wou
ldn’t be back. Not after hearing Carmen’s mother whispering to our neighbor Mrs. Gonzales as they sat on the couch. They didn’t realize I was standing behind them.

  Carmen’s mother whispered so low I barely heard her. “Why did she marry him? He’s just awful.”

  When Mrs. Gonzales answered, her voice sounded so contemptuous. “To get a new roof? Or maybe he’s good in bed.”

  “Don’t talk about my mother like that!”

  Startled, they whipped their heads around to stare at me.

  “Oh, Nikki,” Mrs. Gonzales said. “I was just–”

  “I hate you!” I bolted from the room and ran upstairs. Even then I didn’t cry. Crying could keep me from being alert and on guard. I wasn’t a kid anymore. I was thirteen. I should be able to figure out what to do.

  My thoughts and their little rat feet scurried through my head, finally stopping someplace useful. Boiler. Maybe she would help me. I’d go to her in the morning.

  But late that night, Stanley came to my room.

  4

  Sometime after midnight, the sound of footsteps awakened me. Stanley was outside my door. I’d known he would come. Why hadn’t I run?

  Something smashed against my door, low, near the floor. Stanley’s steel-toed boot? Another crash. I heard the lock give way and a splintering sound from the wood.

  Think Nikki. Think!

  I sat up fast, rolling away from the noise, out of my bed, onto the floor. I reached underneath for my rubber riding boots. Stanley jammed the door open a few inches. As he forced the door open wider, the legs of my armchair screeched against the wood floor. As usual, I was wearing my street clothes. I pulled on the boots and leapt to my feet.

  He was in the room. The overhead light flicked on.

  “Nikki, sweetie, why aren’t you in bed?” He wore his underwear and heavy boots.

  I couldn’t speak. My legs trembled. My pulse pounded in my ears.

  He smiled, baring his rodent teeth. “You shouldn’t be locking your door on me. I want us to get along, honey. I’m your friend.” His teeth gleamed white. “Let me show you.”