Rescued by that New Guy in Town

by J. L. Salter

  "Well, that. But I've been half-way thinking that maybe he got himself locked up in that armory on purpose, just so he could sidle up and get me all goofy about him."

  It sounded like Ellen closed her office door. "Kris, do you know how that sounds? Think about it. If that were true — if he'd planned that initial event — do you realize how fantastically involved it would've been?"

  I sputtered. "But you said almost the same thing before…" I recalled the first time I'd revealed those circumstances. "He just had to hide for an hour or two and then come to my rescue. I wouldn't put it past him."

  "Well, I've had time to think about it because I sat down and tried to write a similar scene." Ellen paused to gather the facts. "Ryan pretends to fall asleep, manages to elude detection by all the people leaving, waits in total silence and darkness for you to wake up and start yammering, then he gropes his way over to you. Plus, he fakes a hangover, bribes a city policeman to roust you both, risks big trouble in court, and even trains a spider to hide your key."

  Stated that way, it did sound slightly unlikely, but Momma used to say, "Where there's smoke, there's fire".

  "Now don't you think your, uh, imagination is running away on this one?" Ellen probably meant to say paranoia.

  "Okay, maybe you've got a point. But it sure is weird that a stranger could get under my skin like Ryan has."

  "Kris, that could be a good thing. You need somebody under your skin. It's been a long time. You need to thaw out your heart enough to let someone peek inside. Maybe that's what happened at the shelter last weekend." Ellen paused. "You need to relax enough to start trusting somebody again."

  "I trust you." I had to think because it was a short list. "Uh, Eric — I trust him. Except he swipes my beer and eats all my snacks."

  "Not the same thing…"

  "I know, I know. You're right." She was almost always right; that's why I depended on her so much. "I know you have to get ready for your next session and I've got to go too, but I really appreciate this, Ellen. You're always a big help."

  "I'm pleased to help if I can, Kris. But remember — you're the one holding the keys. Unlock a few doors and let in some air and sunlight. And if a pirate with no background check wanders in, at least give him a chance. Okay?"

  "Yeah, okay. Thanks, Ellen."

  "Remember, you've got the keys. Bye."

  My eyes were damp as I closed the phone.

  ****

  The afternoon wasn't nearly as bad as the morning. Miss Z gave me a little space — if not physically, at least emotionally — and the few customers were mostly pleasant. Still no sign of the money order scuzzball.

  As soon as I turned in my money drawer, I hurried to my car. The mid-November air was cool but not uncomfortable, perfect weather for my flight jacket.

  If anybody had asked me how I felt that morning I would have snarled, but at that particular moment I felt pretty good. I wasn't exactly certain why. Maybe because I finally realized I'd probably see Ryan again — sometime, somewhere — but I'd decided to stop fretting about it. And we'd either pick back up where we left off, or not. It would happen or it wouldn't, and no amount of angst would affect that either way.

  It kind of felt like I'd shed a rough, heavy skin which I didn't need anymore. I took a deep breath. Yeah, I felt good enough to grab an early supper and go to the football game at seven o'clock.

  When I got home, I gave Elvis a kibble snack and took a short nap. Nuked a pot pie for twelve minutes and wolfed it down.

  Hey, my appetite was back.

  Chapter Thirty

  Verdeville High School hosted bitter rivals from the county immediately north, across the Cumberland River. Their city was significantly larger and presumably had a bigger draw for potential athletes, but they were still in our division. On paper, it was a mismatch but our boys had a lot of heart. The game was lively and close, our team won, and I nearly yelled myself hoarse.

  It felt good to relax and let down my defenses. Just a bit too chilly for my jacket alone, so I was glad I'd worn a thin vest underneath. I forgot my knit cap at home, but fortunately found a headband in my pocket to cover my ears. I'd also left my gloves in the car.

  I waited for the crowd to thin out a bit before I made my way down the bleachers. No need to spend extra gas idling my engine waiting for klutzy drivers to figure out which pedal to press.

  There were four gangways from the front of the bleachers down to ground level, which included locker rooms for both teams, equipment space, and what the coaches called training rooms. There were also a few public restrooms and the former grimy snack bar. But the new Refreshment Center, on the other side of the paved walkway next to the fence, had just been completed before the previous week's game. It looked like all the leftover materials and debris had been piled near a corner of the parking lot. Our bank had paid for the materials but the booster club fathers had built it. It was my first time to see the new concession stand. Pretty good job for a group of unsupervised dads drinking beer on a late October weekend.

  "Hey!"

  The slurred voice startled me and I whipped around.

  "Aren't you the bimbo who dressed up like a witch?"

  "Buzz off." It may have sounded bold, but I was already frightened.

  "Maybe she rhymes with 'witch'." A second man lurched from the darkness — obviously the drunk's buddy, also intoxicated.

  My heart raced. "Look, you guys. We had a good ball game. Go get yourself another drink and leave me alone."

  Hands grabbed me from behind — a third goon! I struggled and my pocketbook fell to the littered sidewalk. If they were after money, there it was. But money was clearly not their motive.

  "Hey, I caught the witch!" That third drunk pinned my arms behind me. I recognized his voice — the money order scumbag! "This is the one I tole y'all about… with the hot body."

  I struggled every way I could. I wanted to scream, but terror froze my throat and I fought the painful urgency to empty my bladder. I couldn't loosen his tight grip on my arms and my feet couldn't reach anything but his shins.

  "She's kicking the fire outta me! Grab her feet, Billy!"

  Billy went for my feet and I smashed his cheek with my shoe. After that minor injury, Billy turned downright explosive. "Haul her over to the parking lot." He looked around and pointed toward the farthest light pole. "Off in that corner, behind that junk pile."

  Behind that construction debris was the last place in the world I wanted to be with three violent drunks. Where were all the other spectators? I should have departed with the main part of the crowd.

  With direction from Billy, the second drunk managed to grasp one of my knees, even though I smacked his head and shoulders with my free foot.

  Billy muttered something sinister but my brain couldn't process his actual words. I just knew it represented violence.

  I couldn't move my head much, but I turned toward what remained of the thinning crowd as they moved away in the distance. I was only able to squeeze out one hoarse syllable, but it was loud enough to carry: "Fire!"

  "What'd she say?" asked Billy the illiterate belligerent drunk.

  I'd heard if someone in trouble yelled "rape" or anything suggesting an assault, people would run the other way, but if they yelled "fire" people would come closer to watch. Maybe even assist. I could hope.

  A woman turned and crammed a cell phone to her ear. An older man walked tentatively in our direction, but then stopped. Obviously, he realized it was a scuffle rather than a blaze.

  I figured any help would have to come from Heaven, because those two folks were surely my last human hope.

  The three attackers dragged me farther away from potential help and closer to what felt like doom. I struggled to get one foot free again and I kicked one of the goons before they re-secured my legs. I wasn't actually thinking at that point, but some kind of survival instinct told me that I'd fight them with everything I had… even if they killed me for it.

  One of them rippe
d the zipper down my jacket and tore open my vest. I tried to scream again, but a filthy hand slammed over my mouth. I bit him and he yelped. I heard Billy's evil voice utter something too horrifying to comprehend. I knocked my head backwards into the chin of the one holding me tightly. With him briefly startled, his grip loosened and one of my arms got free. I raked Billy's face with my short nails, causing more shock than actual damage. He whacked me backhanded and the guy behind me secured my arm again.

  Breathing heavily, Billy leaned very close; he quivered with rage. "Okay, now you've done it…"

  "Stop!" A loud voice from somewhere I couldn't see. "The cops are right behind me and they're looking for three more backwoods donkeys tonight." Captain Blood! My buccaneer! Back in town! I couldn't guess how many police he had with him, but I sure was relieved to see him.

  Billy paused in what must have been complete astonishment that anyone dared approach, but he quickly gathered his limited and alcohol-impaired wits. "What cops?"

  I didn't see any police either, but figured it was because the money order toad held my upper body so tightly.

  About seventy feet away, Ryan didn't answer, but he swiftly closed the remaining distance. He paused at the debris pile and picked up something; it took him hardly an instant to select whatever it was.

  The creep holding me whirled around so fast that my legs were nearly behind us when he stopped. No cops in sight. Well, hopefully Ryan at least had his shotgun with him. Or a bazooka. Nope. Apparently he'd brought no firepower at all. In his hands were a short piece of iron and a slender scrap of lumber about four feet long. I sure was banking on that bazooka.

  All three goons seemed to be on the same wave length and each of their pea brains likely transmitted the same message: we can kill this guy and then do what we want with the girl. The money order slug reached inside my jacket, under the vest, and rubbed a hand roughly over my bosom. There weren't words to describe my terror.

  Billy spoke first. "Looks like your unlucky day, punk. You ain't got no cops with ya, an' you're out-numbered big time." He pulled a folding knife from his front pocket and opened it with a practiced whip of his wrist. "Now we're gonna have to carve you up a bit just 'cuz you're slowin' us down."

  Ryan didn't speak — just kept moving. His eyes were mainly on the knife man, but he clearly kept track of the other two goons.

  Billy was wary and held his position.

  It was the second criminal who moved first… with a somewhat clumsy lunge at my rescuer. I gasped and must have closed my eyes for an instant, but still saw what happened.

  Had his footing been more precise, Drunk Two might have been a greater threat. As it was, Ryan whacked the back of his knees with the lumber scrap and Two folded backwards like a greased trailer gate. Amazingly, Billy didn't join-in; he just watched with his ugly mouth hung open. Once Number Two was on the ground, Ryan quickly smacked his skull with the rusty rebar which I estimated was about the length of a standard tire iron.

  I'd never heard that sound before. Not a clong like in Three Stooges films — it was a thud like hard steel on thin flesh over thick skull. I felt no pity for Drunk Two, but the violence of that blow scared me even more.

  Billy's expression changed from astonishment to fury.

  I struggled against the grip of the money order cretin, but he had better position and superior strength. Nothing I could do hurt him any more than a few additional blows to his shins and ankles.

  I never saw Billy pick up anything, but he held something besides his knife. Billy was evidently smarter than he looked because he quickly turned his head and lurched like he was about to flee. Right when Ryan moved forward, Billy whirled and flung a good-sized chunk of brick.

  It struck Ryan somewhere on the face and the blow clearly stunned him.

  Ryan didn't drop his weapons, but seemed to briefly lose focus. That was enough of a waiver for Billy to close their distance. Ryan swung again with the board, but missed, and the opponent's knife sliced deep into the back of Ryan's upper sleeve. Ryan grunted, but still didn't speak. I couldn't see how badly he was cut, but for a second it seemed enough to render that arm inoperable because Ryan slowly lowered the board until its end clonked on the ground in front of him. He looked like an exhausted gladiator who'd finally lost the ability to swing his heavy blade.

  Billy's ugly face formed the most sinister smirk I'd ever seen in real life. I figured that drunk was perfectly capable of literal murder if he was angry enough. And he was irrationally livid right then. Billy seemed to sense the defeat of his foe and approached slowly.

  Ryan's face sagged. With only the light from one tall pole, it was difficult to interpret. It could have been exhaustion or maybe the pain from his wounds. The way the end of that board just rested on the ground, I worried the knife slash had severed Ryan's upper arm muscles. I saw blood trickling down one side of his face from the brick's impact. Had Captain Blood given up?

  Evidently Billy thought so. He displayed that sinister expression again and moved closer. He uttered some uninventive curses and spoke horribly threatening words which my brain couldn't process. I struggled against the money order scumbag, who merely tightened his grip with one hand, dragged his other paw along the tops of my thighs, and laughed crazily. They must have all been on drugs as well as booze.

  Though Billy seemed certain the lumber scrap was out of play, he still kept an eye on the rebar in Ryan's left hand. As Billy approached even closer, he waggled his knife and held up his own left hand as a shield, if needed.

  The pervert clutching me moved slowly sideways, dragging me with him. Number Three evidently wanted a better view of Ryan's demise.

  Though his face angled down slightly, Ryan's eyes stayed on Billy's. At just the moment I was certain Billy would plunge his blade into my rescuer's belly, Ryan whipped that board upward into Billy's crotch with such violence and velocity that it nearly lifted that creep right off the ground. Billy's agonized scream further terrified me, still slow to catch on to what had happened.

  Once Billy was down to his knees, he lost control of the knife. Ryan smashed the steel rod on the attacker's skull like he was driving a railroad spike with a sledge hammer. Billy collapsed onto the uneven ground like a molten cartoon character.

  Drunk Three gasped and probably wet himself from fear — he was the only punk left standing. Continuing to squirm, I was finally able to wrench myself free and turned to face him. I swung a wide arc with a closed fist, but he ducked quickly out of reach. My terror had turned to fury and if I'd had a weapon I knew I would have killed him.

  Ryan kicked away Billy's knife and came up beside me. Both of his hands still held implements, but I leaned into the left side of his chest.

  The previously aggressive creep just whimpered.

  You don't feel sorry for a dirtbag who's harassed you at work, mauled you behind a debris pile, and was, in all probability, about to…

  "What… are ya… gonna… do?" His pleading question was staggered by gasps and sobs.

  I didn't know what Ryan had in mind, but I was thinking castration. We already had Billy's knife nearby.

  Ryan separated from me, moved closer to Number Three, and raised his one-by-two. I figured Ryan was going for a head shot, but he brought it down vertically, with the full force of the board's blunt end on the slug's instep. He howled like a crippled banshee.

  Wretch Three knew his punishment was not over. Between sobs and wailing, he repeated his question. "What're ya… gonna… do?"

  Ryan stepped to the side and circled round behind him until the suddenly-sobered drunk was between us. "I'm gonna give you chance to get away, creep."

  "But my foot's busted." Three continued to sob and gasp.

  "Too bad. You should've thought about odds when you three baboons attacked a woman with no weapons." Ryan whacked his rebar against the lumber scrap with a loud thwack. "Here's your choice, freak. You can try to get through me, or take your chances against the young lady you were pawing a few minutes ag
o."

  Ryan's choices stunned me. He had both weapons. Was Ryan really going to send this violent thug over to me? Petite female unarmed me?

  It was a no-brainer for Drunk Three — he whirled and headed straight for me! I tried to remember all my self-defense training. Wait! I never had any defense training — not really. Just a Power Point presentation in college P.E. If that much. I did remember wrestling with my brother, but that was a million years ago and Eric wasn't trying to kill me.

  With his crushed instep, that slimeball wasn't moving too well, so I had an extra second to think. Think? The mind doesn't actually calculate at those times. In such situations a brain shuts down everything but ingrained responses like run or attack. My brain had been fixed on running for most of the previous twenty minutes, so it finally shifted to attack.

  The cretin gained a bit of grim resolve as he hobbled toward me. I easily side-stepped him and aimed a swift kick at his privates. Missed that area, but I struck his lower abdomen and he folded over with an anguished wail. On the ground, sideways — in what I'd call fetal position if it didn't insult all the unborn babies of the world — Drunk Three clutched his knees and moaned. I still had some attack energy left, so I went around behind him and let loose the hardest kick my leg had ever produced, ever. Most of the blow was dispersed in his fleshy rump, but the toe of my shoe clearly reached his most vulnerable spot with sufficient impact to add a long and loud shriek to his limited vocabulary.

  A siren blared in the distance and a vehicle obviously headed our way. Soon the flashing blue lights of a Verdeville Police cruiser appeared. Ryan tossed the rebar and one-by-two on the construction pile and hugged me tightly with his left arm. I knew his right limb was cut, but still didn't know how badly.

  With considerable noise, a tall, one-striped patrolman approached; I didn't recall ever seeing him before in Verdeville. His service pistol was drawn and a heavy flashlight occupied his left hand. "Exactly what's going on out here?"