The Return of Cassandra Todd

by Darrel Nelson

  Turner drove the rest of the way to Mary Sweet’s place, while Loretta talked about taking the Buick out for more regular spins every Sunday after dinner. With Turner along as the driving instructor! Her suggestion threatened to permanently spoil his appetite.

  CHAPTER 14

  DURING THE DRIVE to Colorado Springs, Loretta talked about Mary Sweet. As Cassandra listened from the backseat, she instinctively held Justin close as he sang his sleepy song and finally fell asleep. She stroked his head gently, wistfully, as Loretta’s voice blended hypnotically with the rhythm of the tires.

  Mary Sweet was born in Pittsburgh’s Hill District, a predominantly black neighborhood, sometime in the fifties. Raised in a dilapidated apartment, she was abused by several of her mother’s boyfriends and seemed destined to mirror her mother’s life. But she managed to escape and find employment in a steel plant. There she met and married a young man, and they moved to Chicago. Mary eventually discovered her husband was a gambler. When she confronted him about it, he became angry, and so began a pattern of abuse that ended with her fleeing to a women’s shelter. She moved from one place to another until she finally found employment at a women’s shelter in Denver. But when she was attacked by a knife-wielding, crazed woman, she left and began an outreach program from her home.

  Cassandra fought back tears as they drove in silence the rest of the way. Mary’s story of abuse was reminiscent of another story she knew. All too well.

  As they entered Colorado Springs, Turner slowed down and took the approaching exit. Cassandra touched her eyes, hoping they weren’t puffy, and breathed in and out deeply several times in an effort to dispel the sadness.

  Ten minutes later they arrived at their destination. Turner pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine, checking to make certain they hadn’t been followed. Then he helped Cassandra carry Justin up to the house.

  Mary Sweet met them at the door. She was a diminutive black woman who exuded boundless energy, and Cassandra liked her immediately. In size and shape Mary contrasted sharply to Loretta. Mary was thin, almost bony, and was a head shorter than her friend. Her smile was genuine, but there was an urgency about her that suggested they would not be discussing the weather, the tabloids, or the latest fashion trends.

  “Come in, come in,” she said, glancing up and down the street before ushering them inside and closing and locking the front door. She hugged the four of them in turn. Justin had woken up when Turner carried him up to the house. Mary Sweet fussed over him and ran a hand through his curly blond hair. “Well, hello there, little child,” she said.

  Justin smiled and then rolled his eyes tiredly, stuck his thumb in his mouth, and promptly fell back asleep.

  “Bring him into the bedroom,” Mary directed, guiding them down a short hallway. “You and your son will sleep here.” She indicated the second door on the right, and Cassandra felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the hospitality. She sensed in Mary a kindred spirit.

  Mary smiled at Turner and indicated the door next to it.

  “This is your room.”

  Turner followed Cassandra into the first bedroom and lay Justin on the bed. Cassandra tucked her son in and kissed him on the cheek before accompanying Turner into the living room. The front curtains were drawn tight, and she noticed Mary peek through them once before motioning for everyone to sit on the couch.

  As they got situated, Mary went into the kitchen and returned a few moments later with three glasses of lemonade on a tray. “I know you’re probably exhausted,” she said, handing them each a glass, “but we need to talk.” She slid a chair close to the couch and sat down so they were practically knee to knee. “Loretta has told me about your situation. Let me make sure I understand the facts.” She recounted what Loretta had told her on the phone.

  Cassandra nodded solemnly to confirm the accuracy of the account.

  Mary reached out and took her hand. “So, baby girl, you won’t go to the police. What are you planning to do?” Her eyes suddenly narrowed. “You’re not thinking of going back to your husband!”

  Shaking her head vigorously, Cassandra said, “I want to go as far away as possible where my husband will never be able to find us.”

  “Live with relatives?”

  “No. Brad knows them. He’d track me down.”

  “So you realize he’s dangerous. Many wives try to make excuses for their abusive husbands. I’m glad you’re not hung up on that.”

  Cassandra slumped in her seat. “I used to be. I’d tell myself that his abuse was somehow my fault. If I could only look better, keep the house tidier, and spend less money then he’d stop yelling at me.”

  “Mental abuse is just as hurtful as physical abuse,” Mary sighed.

  “I used to think it was the bad economy and the pressures of his business,” Cassandra continued. “I thought that the stress was to blame for his bad temper. And I felt guilty because I was part of his stress. After all, he was trying to provide for Justin and me.”

  “But now you know better, don’t you?” Loretta said, unable to keep her disgust for Brad out of her voice.

  Cassandra nodded and wiped away a tear.

  Mary leaned closer in her chair. “Over two hundred thousand women are physically abused by their husbands or significant others every year in America. Can you imagine? That’s more than six hundred women every day!”

  “So many,” Loretta muttered, genuinely shocked.

  “And it’s actually more than that,” Mary added. “A large number of incidents are never reported. A medical friend told me that less than 20 percent of battered women ever seek medical help. Wives make excuses for their husbands, and many others won’t report abuse because they think the police won’t do anything about it.”

  More tears formed in Cassandra’s eyes.

  Mary rubbed the back of Cassandra’s hand compassionately. “I can’t say I agree with your decision not to go to the police. It’s important to get the facts on record, to document the nature and instances of the abuse, and start a file that can and will be used one day to see that justice is served. But I realize you’re not ready yet, and I won’t pressure you. I’m just glad you had the courage to leave. Children who are exposed to family violence can suffer symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.”

  “Post-traumatic stress disorder?” Loretta asked.

  Up to this point Turner hadn’t contributed to the conversation. Now he said, “Post-traumatic stress disorder involves the symptoms that appear after a stressful event, like a natural disaster or an accident.”

  Or living with an abusive father, Cassandra thought bitterly.

  “Well, listen to you,” Mary said, arching an eyebrow at Turner.

  “Symptoms can include things like bed-wetting or nightmares,” he continued. “Kids who witness abuse can have medical problems, such as stomachaches and headaches and even depression.”

  Cassandra winced at the mention of depression. Was it possible her four-year-old son was susceptible to it?

  Mary took both of Cassandra’s hands in hers. “Leaving was the best thing you could do for your little son, bless his heart.” She paused and studied Cassandra momentarily. “I said I wouldn’t pressure you to go to the police, and I won’t. You’re under enough stress as it is, baby girl. You look exhausted. What you need to do is go somewhere safe where you can have time to think and relax and sort things out.”

  “Where would that be?” Cassandra asked wearily.

  “A former client of mine owns a small cabin outside of Silverthorne. For years she’s been trying to talk me into making use of it, but I’ve never taken her up on it. Matter of fact, she called again just the other day, so I know the cabin is available. I’ll call her and tell her I’ve decided to accept her offer. It’s an ideal place—private and secluded. I’ll give you the directions in the morning, and you can leave . . . after you get some rest. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Loretta said before Cassandra could reply.

  CHAP
TER 15

  TURNER WAS AWAKENED in the middle of the night by a cry. He lay in bed, staring into the darkness, listening. Muffled voices were coming from Cassandra’s bedroom, next door. At first he couldn’t make out what was being said, and he wondered if he was having a high-school-related nightmare.

  A voice rose in pitch, and he heard, “Scary, Mommy. The man was scary.”

  Moments later a shadow crossed the threshold of his door, and he quickly sat up, completely awake now. He heard another voice, a woman’s. Since Loretta’s niece had picked her up earlier, he knew the voice belonged to Mary. She was speaking in hushed tones to Cassandra, who was answering back, although he still couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  His bedroom door slowly opened and a dark figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, backlit by the light from the streetlamp on the corner. “Turner, are you awake?” It was Mary.

  “Yeah.”

  “Get up quickly.”

  He was on his feet in an instant, struggling into his pants.

  It may have been dark, but he wasn’t going to parade around in his boxers. Even if they were clean.

  Mary led the way into Cassandra’s bedroom. Justin was whimpering softly and Cassandra was trying to console him.

  “Turner,” Mary said, lowering her voice to a whisper.

  “Someone’s outside.”

  He stared at Mary in disbelief. During their drive to Colorado Springs, he had repeatedly checked to make sure they weren’t being followed. They had spent the late evening talking and then had called Loretta’s niece, visiting until she arrived and drove Loretta home. Then they had said goodnight and headed for separate bedrooms. Everything had been in order, and their plans were proceeding smoothly. Now this.

  “Are you sure?” he whispered hoarsely.

  “Justin had to go to the bathroom,” Cassandra replied, her voice equally hoarse. “When I was tucking him back in bed, he said he saw a man at the window. When I looked up, there was no one there.”

  “The man was scary,” Justin said, his voice quivering.

  “Were you having a bad dream, little child?” Mary asked, stroking his head.

  “I saw him,” Justin insisted.

  “There’s only one way to find out,” Turner said. “I’m going to slip outside and have a look around.” He realized nothing less would ease minds and alleviate fears. And there was no sense calling the police. If Slick or his cohort were out there, they would simply disappear when the police arrived, and Mary would be left to explain things to the disgruntled officer who answered the false alarm. And once the police left, the intruder would return and be really scary this time.

  Mary slipped something cold and metallic into his hand.

  “Take this.”

  Turner didn’t need to hold it up to the window to know that she had given him a handgun. He hesitated to take it. He had never had any experience or training with weapons, unless you counted the archery lessons he gave at Camp Kopawanee. He might end up accidentally shooting himself in the foot. “Thanks, ma’am,” he said, returning the handgun. “I’ll be fine without it.”

  “If someone is out there, he may have one,” she whispered.

  That may be true, Turner thought, and the intruder may not have any compunction about shooting him. But Turner felt safer relying on his experience for a guide and his wits for a weapon. “You keep it,” he said, implying that if the man outside got by him, she was the last line of defense. He glanced around the dark room. “I’ll slip out a side window. Is there one near some tall shrubs?”

  “Use the den window. The cedars along the side of the house will give you cover.”

  “Be careful,” Cassandra whispered.

  Turner nodded, intending to be very careful. If men were out there skulking in the yard, he didn’t want to wander in and catch them off guard. Surprise a wild animal on the trail and there was no telling what might happen. Same principle with dangerous men. “Keep as quiet as possible,” he said, giving obvious advice. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Mary guided him into the den. He carefully opened the window and poked his head out, listening for any telltale noises. A dog barked in the distance, and the sound of traffic on the freeway hummed steadily in the night air, but otherwise it was still.

  A three-quarter moon hung in the sky, casting a silver sheen over the yard. There were no visible signs that the area had been violated, and no indication that anyone still lingered. Still, a perfunctory glance wasn’t sufficient to draw any final conclusions.

  Turner climbed through the window and eased himself to the ground, careful not to betray his presence by stepping on a twig or brushing a branch against the side of the house. He ducked low and left the security of the bushes, scampering across the lawn and heading for the darkest recesses of the yard. Pressing against a tree to catch his breath, he listened above the sound of the blood pounding in his ears. A noise could mean anything . . . or nothing. The dog had stopped barking, but the steady sounds of the distant traffic continued. He hoped the white noise would cover any sound he made as he began the slow process of circling around to the back of the house.

  He couldn’t help wondering if he was walking into a trap. Slick and Twitch could be waiting to twist his arm into giving up Cassandra and Justin. And he didn’t doubt for a minute the men’s powers of persuasion. The trick was to avoid them altogether, verify their presence or lack thereof, and do it without revealing his presence and getting himself captured.

  Or . . . something worse.

  As he crept through the row of fragrant cedars that bordered the yard, Turner prayed his foot didn’t land on a dry twig or on the tail of a sleeping cat. One errant sound and his presence would be announced as surely as if he pulled out a trumpet and played a cavalry charge.

  The matted leaves provided a soft bed, and he was able to reach the backyard without incident. As he peered around the trunk of a large tree, he froze. A figure was huddled in the shadows at the back of the yard, near a small shed. Turner saw a red glow and realized the man was smoking. He tested the air and decided it was a sweeter blend than the cigarette variety. Undoubtedly it was something illegal and equally unhealthy.

  In the moonlight he recognized Twitch. How the man had found them, Turner couldn’t guess. Turner had been careful to ensure they hadn’t been tailed. But despite his precautions and care, here was Twitch, casing the place and waiting.

  Justin had seen a face at the window. His non-nightmare had just become Turner’s real nightmare.

  Turner crept closer through the foliage. The pinprick of red light grew brighter, followed by a puff of white smoke, and he could hear muffled talking. Were there two men? It was then he realized Twitch was talking on his cell phone.

  “What now?” Twitch inquired. There was a long pause and then he said, “Are you sure? I say I sneak in right now, knock out the doofus, and nab her.

  Another pause. “Okay, okay. I’ll wait. Just hurry up.”

  Turner had heard enough. His blood was now the temperature of a refrigerated beverage.

  He made his way back to the house and climbed in cautiously through the den window. “It’s me,” he whispered, warning Mary so she didn’t shoot him by mistake.

  “What did you find out?” she asked anxiously.

  “There’s a man in the backyard,” Turner replied, closing the window and following Mary into Cassandra’s bedroom.

  Cassandra listened to Turner’s report and then asked, “What are we going to do?”

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Turner said, remembering Twitch’s suggestion about knocking out the doofus.

  “But what about the guy outside?” Cassandra asked anxiously.

  “We’ll have to scare him off,” Mary said. “Give you a head start.”

  “How?” Turner and Cassandra both asked at the same time.

  Mary wagged a finger in the air. “This calls for a lesson from the Good Book.”

  “With all due respect, ma’am
, there isn’t time for Sunday school,” Turner said.

  “It’s not a talking lesson, it’s an activity lesson,” she replied. “When Gideon and his army were sent against the Midianites, he used a plan that tipped the scales in his favor. It’s time for Operation Gideon . . . and help from the good Lord Himself.

  Turner, you and Cassandra get the child and your belongings and wait at the front door. On my signal, head for the car and drive away like fury.”

  “Where to?”

  “There’s a motel just off I-25, along East Pikes Peak. One of the women I counsel runs it. Tell her I sent you.” She scribbled down the information and handed it to Turner.

  “What about you?” Cassandra asked.

  “I’ll go to the Johnson’s, two doors down, and call the police.

  I’ll stay there until they arrive. That will give you time to get away. The police don’t need to be the wiser that you were ever here. I’ll leave you out of my statement.”

  “But, ma’am—”

  “Just trust me on this. I’ll call you in the morning with directions to the cabin. Now get moving.”

  She had an air of authority reminiscent of Loretta. They obeyed.

  Mary joined them at the front door moments later, carrying a boom box. “I’m going to open the back door a crack and put this in the gap,” she said. “Then I’m going to turn on the back porch light, which is a floodlight, and illuminate the entire backyard. When the light comes on and the music starts blaring, that’s the signal.”

  “I hate to leave you here,” Cassandra said.

  “I’ll be okay at the Johnson’s. I’m just sorry we didn’t have a chance to talk more. But you’ve got to get away.” She glanced heavenward as if uttering a prayer and then headed for the back door, carrying the boom box.

  Turner and Cassandra waited.

  An eternity passed before the back porch light flashed on, accompanied by a sudden blast of gospel music. To anyone in the backyard, it must have sounded as though the Second Coming had arrived.

  Turner flung the front door open and grabbed the suitcases. Cassandra picked up Justin and followed Turner out to the car. Turner threw the luggage in the backseat as Cassandra climbed in the front, holding Justin against her. Turner climbed behind the wheel, cranked the engine, and in honor of Mary’s request, drove away like fury.