The Chronicles of Marr-nia

by Karen Cantwell

  “Barbara! You don’t understand. These girls are slaves. Forced prostitutes—they were kidnapped from their families when they were no older than Bethany and brought here to make money for these scum hoodlums. Have you ever heard of the gang, MS 13? Eventually they’ll just kill these girls when they don’t serve their needs anymore.”

  Now I felt like I was going to be sick. My Bethany was only ten. Not only had I heard of MS 13, but suddenly I realized why Howard was at the scene of the explosion.

  My mother had worked herself into a frenzy and went off like a rabid dog on the two gang members, screaming a slew of Spanish words at them. I had no idea what she was saying, but I was fairly sure she wasn’t reminiscing about her days as a showgirl in Vegas.

  While she knows how to irritate the hell out of me, she is my mother, and my first instinct was to protect her. As I moved in her direction, Peach Fuzz Number One grabbed me by the neck and shoved my face into the glass pane in front of me.

  With my face squished against the window, one eye had a perfect view through a thin amount of unobscured glass. Just on the other side stood my handsome Howard. Certainly, I thought, he’d brought half the FBI with him. The problem was, had they come in time? Actually, the bigger problem was, would I pass out while this pumped-up pimp choked the air out of me? The room started to spin while screams filled the air and glimpses of Master Kyo, my mother and Colt shot in and out of my blurred peripheral vision.

  Somehow, I managed to grab hold of two fingers that were wrapped around my neck, pulling them away so that more air could make it through my trachea. Where was Howard with the troops? Didn’t he hear the screaming?

  I became more aware of some sort of wrestling match, and realized it was Master Kyo going all Korean crazy on Peach Fuzz Number Two. Legs and arms were flying at lightning speeds. I saw the gun fly through the air.

  Meanwhile, if I wanted to maintain consciousness, I had to do something. My Tae Kwon Do skills had been mediocre at best, but now was not the time to question ability. Now was the time to do or be done.

  With all of the awareness I could gather and all of the strength I could muster, I grabbed, pulled and kicked. I kicked like I’d never kicked before. Peach Fuzz Number One went down fast, grabbing his crotch the whole way down. Turned out my far-flung foot had landed hard and square on the grisly gang member’s gonads. Ouch.

  Finally able to breathe, I regained my balance and looked up to see what was happening around me. A quick check told me all I needed to know: Master Kyo and Peach Fuzz Number Two were going at it, although it seemed PF was on the losing end of the battle. Colt was crawling for the gun which was half-way across the room on the floor. My mother and Paula were in the corner with Maria, who appeared to be in full blown labor.

  Figuring I needed to get Howard and his crime-fighting friends in to stop the blood bath, I turned and pushed hard on the door, nearly falling out onto the sidewalk in front of the shop. There stood Howard to my left, still standing like I had seen through the window. What I hadn’t seen at that time, however, and which was now in clear view, was the mammoth man standing behind him, gun trained on his head. A tattoo ran along the right side of his face and his red bandana was wrapped around his thick, bald head. The monstrous goon seemed very pleased with his catch, and through the shit-eating grin he wore on his face, I could tell he was missing both top front teeth.

  What I also saw were the four Fairfax County police squad cars all poised in my direction, with uniformed officers next to them, aiming their own firearms squarely at Howard and his toothless shadow.

  Instinctively, I put my arms in the air, even though I was innocent of any wrongdoing.

  “Howard?”

  “Barb. Don’t move.”

  “Am I allowed to pee my pants?”

  “Can’t laugh right now.”

  “Who’s your friend?”

  “Meet Julio Jimenez.”

  “He looks like a killer.”

  “He is.”

  “Are we going to die?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “You have a plan?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s encouraging.”

  “Barb.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I—”

  Howard couldn’t finish his sentence. He was interrupted by Peach Fuzz Number One, who had evidently recovered from my powerful punch to his privates. Peach Fuzz came flying through the door, attacking me from behind.

  “I’ll kill you, beetch!” he screamed, grabbing at my neck again. Luckily he was still off kilter, and so toppled and landed on his face, only knocking me over, but on my way down I heard the deafening pow, pow, pow of gunfire. Then another, and then another. I had no idea where they were coming from. Was Howard dead?

  I tried to get up, but Peach Fuzz was still on a mission to end my life. He had crawled up on top of me and I could feel his hot guacamole breath in my face.

  “You’re mine, beetch,” he said, pulling my hair and scratching my cheek with a shiny silver six-inch blade. He moved the blade quickly to my throat.

  It was like one of those awful dreams where you want to scream—you have to scream—but you can’t. You open your mouth, and no sound comes out. People were all around me, but I had no idea if I was going to live or die.

  Suddenly, I realized dying wasn’t an option. I had three girls to raise. There was no way in hell I was going to die and let someone tell those girls that their mom had been too weak to save her own life. What kind of mother would I be?

  Without another thought, I dug my teeth, all twenty-four of them, into his bad-ass arm like a hungry piranha. He screamed, dropped the blade and rolled off of me. While I was rolling in the opposite direction, I heard another pop. When I looked over, Peach Fuzz Number One was limp and bleeding.

  A familiar voice in my ear said, “He was going for the knife again. I had to do it.” The familiar voice was Howard’s. The familiar voice made me very happy.

  That night, the news reported that there had been a shooting at a small shopping plaza in Rustic Woods, Virginia. Three men had been fatally shot, and the assailants were still at large. The Fairfax County Police could not confirm if it was gang related, but the FBI’s National Gang Task Force had been was to called on the scene to review the situation. Interestingly, there was no mention of the apartment explosion.

  Maria made it to the hospital just in time to give birth to a healthy baby girl who she named Paula Diane. The other two girls, Sofia and Amelia were taken to a women’s shelter. Howard assured me they would be cared for and kept under police protection until their families were found and could be notified that their daughters were alive and well.

  The next morning, Howard came by the house after a long night of tying up loose ends and writing reports. Deep circles under his eyes told me he’d barely slept, if at all. I poured him a cup of coffee and we sat quietly, enjoying the married couple ritual.

  “So, you gonna let me move back in, now that I’ve saved your life?”

  “Maybe. You have to tell me something first.”

  “What?”

  “How did you find us in that shop?”

  “I had you followed, of course.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “I don’t trust Colt.”

  “He’s your roommate.”

  “That’s why he’s my roommate. I can keep tabs on him. He’s still in love with you, you know.”

  “He’s harmless. He’s our friend.”

  Howard silently stared at his coffee, not offering a reply.

  “Barb?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I—”

  “Knock, knock! Hello! Anyone home?” It was my mother. The knock, knock was rhetorical. She always barged in uninvited and u
nannounced.

  Howard rolled his eyes. He was not my mother’s favorite person, and the lack of affinity was mutual.

  I wanted to hear what Howard had to say. “What?”

  “Nothing, I’ll tell you later.”

  “There you are,” stated my mother, as if she seriously didn’t think she’d find us. “Coffee? Do you mind if I have some?” Rhetorical again. She was already pouring. “It’s colder than a witch’s heart out there. Barbara dear, how are you? I’ve been so worried about you. Look at that cut on your face!”

  “I’m fine, mom. It will heal. You didn’t say hello to Howard.”

  “Hello, Howard.”

  “Diane.”

  “How are things at the Bureau?”

  “We’ve got things under control, Diane—no thanks to you. You’re on our radar now.”

  “I’m on everyone’s radar. Did I ever tell you that I once turned down a job with the CIA?”

  Howard rolled his eyes again.

  “Those girls needed our help, Howard Marr. You and your boys don’t get the job done. And there’s more of them out there. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of these poor girls. Who cares about them? Who’s going to get the job done and sweep the streets of the slime who enslave those poor souls?”

  “Diane, your intentions were good, but you almost got them, yourself, and your daughter killed yesterday. Leave the street sweeping to those of us who are trained to handle these things, okay?”

  My mother sniffed, took a quick sip of her coffee, and then setting the cup down, made a new declaration.

  “Well, I’m off. I have an appointment with Senator Thomas today. I’m joining her campaign—I’ll be her speech writer.”

  “Since when are you a speech writer?”

  “I told you before, I’ve written several books, including two memoirs. I plan to publish them someday.” She looked at her watch. “I’m late!” And in her usual Endora-from-Bewitched manner, she was gone as quickly as she had appeared.

  “Is what she said true?”

  “About turning down a job with the CIA?”

  “About more girls out there—forced prostitution.”

  Howard nodded. “It is. These gangs aren’t pretty and they aren’t nice. Drug running, human trafficking—it’s their business. It’s how they make a living.”

  “It’s gross.”

  Howard nodded again.

  “I never hear about this on the news. You’d think they’d be all over stories on like this.”

  “People care about their retirement funds and stock market portfolios. It’s easier to confront. Girls being kidnapped and sold into slavery—not so easy to confront. Easier to ignore it, or pretend it’s someone else’s problem.”

  “It’s gross.”

  “You said that already.”

  “Because it’s true.”

  “We’re doing what we can. I promise.” He stood up, kissed me on the head, and looked me in the eyes.

  “I have to go too—people to meet with, slime to lock up. The usual. Can I take you out to dinner tonight?”

  “I thought you’d never ask. I’ll have to check with my husband, though,” I smiled as I followed him.

  “I don’t think he’ll mind.”

  The doorbell rang just before Howard reached the door.

  “Hmm, wonder who that is?”

  I spied a man from Rustic Woods Fancy Floral standing outside the open door.

  “These might be for you,” Howard said with a sneaky smile on his face, as he walked past the man who holding the suspiciously long, ribboned box.

  After signing and thanking Joe the Floral Man, I ripped open the box—a dozen purple roses—my favorite color. The card read: Life is too short. Let the romance begin. I love you. Howard.

  “The Recollections of Rosabelle Raines”

  By Karen Cantwell

  BONUS SHORT STORY:

  This short story was originally published in the mystery anthology, Chesapeake Crimes: They Had it Comin’.

  If you enjoy this story, be on the lookout in 2011 for the novella, The Many Lives of Rosabelle Raines.

  “The Recollections of Rosabelle Raines”

  Rosabelle Raines had lived at least a thousand lives, and much to her dismay, she could recall them all.

  Lying on the cold, winter ground, Rosabelle rubbed her aching eyes while she recovered from the most recent incident. Some wisps of her fine, ebony hair had slipped from their silk netting, falling over her face.

  “Rosa,” whispered her sister, Flora. “Are you with me?”

  Drained of energy, Rosabelle moaned, but would be unable to speak for a minute or more.

  “Does this happen often?” The man she heard speaking appeared as a blur at the end of her tunneled vision. He seemed to hover miles away, but in reality, his warm face was nearly touching hers. She could smell his breath—a touch of ale, she thought, and possibly some corned beef. She detested corned beef.

  “She . . . she has . . . fainting spells.” Flora offered a worried, tentative explanation. Weaker in spirit than Rosabelle, she was badly affected by her sister’s spells. They gave Flora such distress that she would suffer stomach maladies for many days after.

  “We should get her to a doctor,” the man urged.

  “No!” Rosabelle shouted, her voice returning just in time. Rosabelle found herself sitting upright, and the man responsible for her condition was no longer a distant blur. Pleasing to her eyes, he was fair of skin and possessed a head of enviously thick hair the color of summer wheat. In his left hand he clutched a newspaper and a stovepipe hat made of a fine silk that belied his humble station. Perhaps the hat was a tribute to the late President Lincoln. Rosabelle might not care for his corned beef breath, but she would consider a person of good spirit if he revered a man the likes of Mr. Lincoln. Not a popular sentiment for a woman from the South, Rosabelle knew, but she did not often subscribe to opinions just because they were popular.

  “I have no need for a doctor, sir. A brisk walk in the fresh air and some tea at our destination will be the only medicine I need.” She brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Flora, could you help me to my feet please?” Rosabelle placed a hand in the shallow snow to give her some leverage, while holding the other up for her sister’s assistance.

  “Here, let me help.” Eli Witherspoon, the young man who had touched Rosabelle’s hand by way of introduction just moments earlier, was about to touch her again by placing his own hand under her back as support in her attempt to stand.

  Signaling him to keep his distance, Rosabelle rebuffed his offer promptly. “No! You have done enough.” Stuttering a moment on her words, she quickly corrected herself. “What I mean to say is you are too kind. Truly, sir, your assistance is unnecessary. We have a system, my sister and I.” With minor struggle, Rosabelle was on her feet. She quickly tucked the wayward strands back into her snood, attempting to regain some appearance of dignity. “See? I am upright.” Rosabelle gave a slight curtsy to Mr. Witherspoon while brushing snow from her sapphire velvet cape, then placed her hands back in her muff for warmth. Only then did she recognize the newspaper the young man held.

  “Interesting article, is it not?” Rosabelle asked.

  He looked at the paper with an odd expression, as if it had materialized out of nowhere. “Ah. Well . . .” He cleared his throat. “I have not read this paper yet.” He fidgeted in a nervous manner, shoving the paper under his arm.

  “You should!” Flora exclaimed, her eyes brightening. “Rosa and I read it earlier today—a fascinating story about a lady spy! What was her name, Rosa?”

  “Abigail. Abigail Dawes,” Rosabelle answered, studying the distracted Mr. Witherspoon intently.

  “That is the name!” Flora said. “A lady spy for the
South. Evidently she is a master of disguise. It is very intriguing. She escaped from jail some three weeks ago now. Gives me goose pimples all over my arms.”

  Mr. Witherspoon pulled a watch from his breast pocket to check the time. “That . . . is . . . yes. Interesting. Well, excuse me for my abruptness, but . . .”

  “No.” Rosabelle put her hand up as if to stop his words mid-air. “Excuse us, sir. Come, Flora, we will be late for our engagement with the Waters family.”

  Rosabelle rushed away, her long hooped skirt pushing the snow along like a plow, while Flora, trailing desperately behind her, looked back at Eli Witherspoon, giving him an apologetic smile.

  Flora’s interest in Mr. Witherspoon was not lost on Rosabelle, but she did not have time to be concerned with such trivial matters. Not since her recollection.

  “Rosa,” Flora wheezed, finally reaching her sister. “You were so rude to Mr. Witherspoon.”

  “Me, rude? Did you see how strangely he was behaving?”

  “Maybe you intimidated him. You have that effect on people. Oh! I very much wanted to speak with him longer.”

  “Sister,” Rosabelle said, stopping abruptly and pointing down the road from where they had come. “Look. Your Mr. Witherspoon has disappeared into thin air.” Indeed there was no sign of the man.

  Rosabelle continued on. “And did you hear him say he had not yet read the newspaper?”

  “Well—”

  “Yet it was crinkled and worn and turned to the Abigail Dawes article several pages in.”

  “But—”

  “Flora, something is afoot with that man, and before the day is done, he will either kill or be killed. If you have an interest in this Mr. Eli Witherspoon, come help devise a way to determine which it will be. Hopefully we can stop this crime before it occurs.”

  Full of vigor and intention, Rosabelle turned on her heel and quickly crossed King Street just as a horse and buggy passed. Flora jogged to catch up.