by Carolina Mac
My aim had improved considerably, and George beamed as he pointed out how much closer my shots came to the bull's-eye on the targets.
“You’re the new fuckin’ Annie Oakley. That’s what you are. I’m gonna’ call you Annie.” He winked at me.
“Only because I had the best teacher,” I said, heat rising in my face.
George gathered up the ammo boxes and I picked up the guns. Up close to the shack, we threw our stuff on a picnic table under a tree. The day had become hot and humid and the mercury was still rising. My shirt was sticking to me like the winner in a wet T-shirt contest, and my hair hung damp and stringy on my neck. When George came back with our drinks, his face was beaded with sweat. Not the best weather for a big guy like him.
“Sit down, George. You look like you’re going to have a heat stroke.”
“No fuckin’ kiddin’. I think I might.” He sat down and chugged his first beer.
My first went down easily as well, and I started to cool off a little.
“Let’s clean the guns later,” I said, noticing how tired George looked.
“Yeah, let’s,” he nodded.
George wasn’t saying much, and his breathing seemed more labored than usual. My concern for him was occupying my full attention and I didn’t notice Kenny pull in on the other side of the driveway. He hollered over to George and I turned my head.
Was that the girl with him last Sunday? I don’t think so. George was so right about him.
George noticed me looking at Kenny. “Bothering you, sweet cheeks?”
“Nope. I’m steering clear of that disaster area.”
“Fuckin’ right. That could be a bad thing gettin’ a helluva lot worse.”
“You are a wise man, George.”
He winked and went back to the shack. I had intentionally avoided looking in Kenny’s direction since he arrived, just to be on the safe side, but I heard yelling and cursing and glanced over. He and his new girlfriend were having a noisy disagreement. She kicked dirt at him, yelled an insult and stomped away from the table. He grabbed her arm and yanked hard to pull her back towards him causing her to stumble and lose her balance.
She recovered, swung her free arm and smacked him across the head. He jumped up and punched her in the face with such force, she fell backwards and cracked her head on the edge of the picnic table. She lay screaming in the dirt where she landed, her hand over her face and blood gushing out of her nose between her fingers.
I was on my feet and running before I thought better of it.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I hollered. I knelt down to help the sobbing girl.
“Stay out of my business, Portia. The same thing will happen to you.”
“Not likely, you worthless piece of shit.” As I spit on his boot, a huge arm wrapped around my shoulder and gently ushered me back across the road.
“Can’t leave you alone for one fuckin’ minute, can I?” George chuckled.
“Kenny hit that girl and it pissed me off,” I said stomping around the table.
“I can see that, little girl. Your face is red, your hands are shakin’ and there’s fire blazin’ in those gray eyes.”
George gathered up our gear, packed it into the saddlebags and we mounted up for the ride home. The wind blowing hard in my face helped clear the malicious thoughts of Kenny from my head. If George hadn’t warned me about Kenny and his ways, that could have been me stretched out in the dirt with a bloody nose or worse.
Thank God I had George.
CHAPTER THIRTY
I folded the paper, tossed it on the coffee table, and padded barefoot to the kitchen to refill my coffee mug. I popped a bagel into the toaster and sat down to tackle the stack of unopened mail I was avoiding—mostly bills that I sorted into a separate pile to be paid later.
One envelope had the return address of Matthew’s insurance company. I sucked in a breath and inserted the tip of the letter opener. Inside was a statement showing the amount that had been deposited in my account along with a polite letter offering the company’s condolences. I exhaled a big breath.
Imbued with newfound energy, I showered, put on makeup and dressed for my trip to the bank. I dug out my torn and ragged jeans that were earmarked for yard work, topped them with a paint-stained black t-shirt. I gelled my hair and pulled on black motorcycle boots. If Jim Timberman wanted something to stare at, he was going to get it, the stupid fuck.
As I walked through the glass door of the bank, more than a few heads turned in my direction. Jim glanced up from his computer and raised his eyebrows as I strutted past his office. I smiled, giving him a wave as I joined the line. The teller updated my account and printed out my balance with a questioning look. She eyed me up and down, then politely inquired if I needed an appointment with an investment counsellor. With one of my best smiles, I declined, saying I would take care of it myself. I withdrew the cash I needed, shoved it into my wallet and made my exit.
On the way home, I stopped into the Harley store to pay the balance on my bike. Thinking Kenny might be working, I steeled myself for an unpleasant encounter of the worst kind, but the store manager, Jackson, was at the desk.
He was a muscular, good looking guy in his thirties, tanned, with dark hair and big brown eyes. His right arm was tattooed with a python winding its way down towards his wrist. Extremely life-like, I couldn’t keep my eyes off it. He wrote up a receipt for the full amount and I paid in cash.
“We offer free delivery,” he said, gesturing to my sling. “If you want, I can drop your bike off tomorrow morning.”
“That would be so helpful. I hadn’t figured out how I was going to pick it up.” I escaped from the store without a further Kenny incident. No need to go looking for trouble.
WHILE I munched on a sandwich at the kitchen table, I searched the phone book for the Oakwood Apartments in the west end of the city.
“Oakwood Management, can I help you?”
“Yes, I hope you can. I was thinking of renting in that area and I wanted to find out firstly, if you had vacancies and secondly, what the monthly rent was for your largest apartment.”
“Right now, all of our suites are occupied. Our three bedroom units rent for nine hundred a month. Would you like me to put you on a waiting list?”
“No, not today, thanks. I’m just making inquiries.”
Nine hundred a month for that dump?
I finished my coffee, changed my clothes for a visit to the hospital and left the house.
After spending a couple of hours reading to Marcy, my mood was less than cheerful. I stopped into the gun store to see George and perk myself up. He was sitting on a stool smoking, waiting for a customer to make up his mind on a hunting knife. He grinned when I walked through the door.
“I have news,” I said. “My bike is being delivered tomorrow. Can’t wait.”
“Before you take it out on the street, you’ll have to take the course and get your license, little girl.” George put on his best serious face.
“I’ll book it today. I promise.” Two more customers came into the store and moseyed up to the counter to speak to George. I gave him a wave and left.
Before going home, I pulled into the parking lot of the bank down the block from my usual bank and went in. I bought a bank draft in the amount of ten thousand, eight hundred dollars. When I returned to the Jeep, I put the money into an envelope with a note saying, ‘Darlene Abernathy - apartment one ten - rent in full for one year.’ The drugstore next to the bank had a post office in the back, where I sent the payment by express post to Oakwood Apartment Complex Management Company.
This wouldn’t help her with her abusive husband, but she could possibly kick him out and still have a place to live with her children.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I spent an hour in the garage rearranging Matthew’s golf clubs, his ten speed bike, and other toys I should have disposed of by this point in time, to make a space for my new Harley. I made a mental note to call Good Wil
l for a pick up.
At nine-fifteen the black and orange Harley trailer backed into the driveway, giving the neighbors their morning eyeful. I stood on the grass while Jackson skillfully unloaded the bike. It was easy to see he had unloaded many before mine. He rolled the bike into the garage, flipped the kick stand down, and then motioned for me to join him. Man, he had a gorgeous smile.
“Do you know much about bikes?”
“Nope, I’m a newbie.” I said. “I have a lot to learn.”
“Okay then, I’ll point out the different gauges and tell you what they’re for, so you won’t be boggled right off the bat.” He laughed. “Why don’t you sit on the bike while we do this?”
I threw my leg over the bike and got comfortable. The smell of the new leather filled me with a sense of euphoria and pasted a permanent grin on my face. “Okay, I’m ready.”
Jackson was a patient man and thorough in his demonstration. By the time we finished, I had touched every part of the bike and could name most of them.
“Time to start it up,” he said. “Go ahead.”
I turned the key and it started on the first try. That throaty Harley ‘rumble’ filled the garage and most of the neighborhood. I looked at Jackson and grinned as I squeezed the gas and revved it.
After I turned off the engine, he handed me a thick book and said, “Here’s the owners’ manual. Even though we’ve gone over the basics, it wouldn’t hurt if you read the book as well. Especially the trouble shooting section. If you have a problem on the road chances are you can fix it yourself, if you know what to do.”
“What if I get stranded?”
“As long as you have a phone and CAA, you’re covered. Make sure you have the plan that has free towing.” He laughed.
“Sounds like experience talking.”
“When you ride a chopper like I do, you’re always breaking down.” Jackson shook my hand and thanked me for my business. As he walked back to the Harley truck I couldn’t help but notice his tight jeans. Nice butt. I sighed.
After lunch, I took my coffee into the garage, sat on the bike and reviewed all the parts with the manual in my hand. Left hand – clutch, right hand – front brake, back brake – foot brake. The turquoise paint glistened, the chrome gleamed, and my heart fluttered every time I looked at it. I started it up again, just to listen to the rumble.
Department of Transport informed me where the weekend course would be held, when I called to reserve a spot. I called George at the store, told him that the bike had been delivered and asked him to come for dinner after he closed up.
He arrived around seven-thirty and we chilled on the patio with a couple beers.
“I booked the training course for Saturday. My arm is healed enough to ride if I’m careful.”
“You know, little girl, you use one of their bikes to learn on. You don’t want to be dumping yours anyway ‘n scratching the shit out of it the first day. You’ll dump it soon enough.”
“I thought I would have to take my bike. They didn’t give many details on the phone.” I walked over and checked the meat on the grill. “Almost ready.”
“I didn’t tell you this before, ‘cause I didn’t want you getting’ a big head n’all, but your cookin’ is pretty fuckin’ good, little girl.”
I laughed out loud, “Gee, thanks. I think.”
George cleaned up his steak, in no time flat, ate two baked potatoes, three cobs of corn and a heaping side of coleslaw. Then he made short work of half the apple pie I picked up at the bakery.
“Room for coffee?” I asked
“Maybe later.” He lit up a smoke and leaned back in his chair.
Angel was lying on the grass, happily gnawing on a steak bone, while I drank my coffee.
George lit up another smoke, pushed his chair back from the table and got to his feet. “Let’s go see the bike.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
SUNLIGHT streamed across my bed cradling me in a golden river of warmth. When I opened my eyes, I stretched both arms without thinking, and there was no pain. Today was going to be a good day.
Angel ran downstairs and waited, wagging her stubby tail, at the patio door until I caught up to her. I turned off the alarm, unlocked the door and left it open to the morning breeze. She sprinted to the back fence like the devil was behind her. I smiled at her enthusiasm, turned on the coffee maker and went to retrieve the paper from the front porch. The street was all but silent at that hour of the morning, the air crisp and fresh. The tree buds had exploded into leaves the color of wet frogs, and the crab apple blossoms were glorious shades of pink, plum and fuchsia. Calmness seeped like warm butterscotch syrup through my veins.
After skimming through the paper, I poured my second cup of coffee and resigned myself to tackling the bills that had piled up. Matthew had always paid them somehow on the computer, but he never showed me how to do it. I wrote the checks one by one and put them into envelopes the old fashioned way. Maybe some people liked getting mail. What did it matter?
I showered and dressed in a white skirt, white tank top, a black button-down shirt, and slipped my feet into white sandals. My face was tanned from the shooting range, needing very little makeup, just lip gloss and a little blush.
Before leaving for the hospital, I cut a large bouquet of flowers for Marcy’s room, wrapped the stems in wet paper towels, then plastic wrap and put them on the front seat of the Jeep. I grabbed my purse, sunglasses and keys and locked up.
When I stepped out of the elevator on the eighth floor, there was no one at the nurses’ station. Odd. As I made my way down the hall, I could hear sounds of activity coming from Marcy’s room. I started to run, almost crushing a nurse into the door frame when I reached eight twenty-two.
“What’s happening? Did she wake up?” I cried.
“Could you wait in the hall, please? You can’t come in here right now.” One of the nurses called to me over her shoulder.
“I want to see her.” I tried to push past the nurse guarding the door. She made me do an about face and go back into the hall.
“Wait here just a couple of minutes. I’ll be back to talk to you.” She went into Marcy’s room and closed the door, leaving me leaning on the wall.
Five minutes later, three nurses and a doctor came out and closed the door behind them. The doctor took a step towards me and I knew by the look on his face, Marcy was gone.
“Mrs. Winterstein passed away. I’m very sorry.”
My legs gave out and my body slid down onto the cold tile floor. I gave myself up to the blackness and let it enfold me.
“Open your eyes, dear. Take a sip of water.” A nurse held a paper cup up to my lips.
I choked on the water she offered, as I struggled to stand.
“Don’t rush yourself, dear. Just sit on the floor until your head clears.”
After lounging on the tile like a limp rag, for another five minutes, I managed to get to my feet with a little assistance. I sat on a chair in the waiting room until I was recovered sufficiently to walk to the nurses’ station.
“May I ask why Mrs. Winterstein died?” I asked the nurse in charge.
“She succumbed to her brain injuries. I’m sorry.”
Bob murdered her. That’s what you should be saying.
When I got down to the parking lot, I sat in the Jeep for half an hour and cried before I was able to drive home.
I skulked through the house like a zombie. With the drapes closed and the doors locked, Angel and I huddled together in our misery like two lost souls. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. Nothing eased the pain. Nothing quelled the anger.
The only call I took was from Marcy’s mother telling me that her memorial service would be in North Bay on Friday. I jotted down the particulars and assured her I would attend.
Late in the afternoon, I made an effort and drove two blocks to a small florist shop in a strip mall close by. I ordered white roses for Marcy and wrote the message that I wanted on the card.
On my way hom
e, I made a quick stop at the gun shop to see George. He always managed to make me feel better. He was finishing his bank deposit and getting ready to close up when I walked in. The air in the shop was heavy with smoke and the pungent smell of gun oil.
“Hey, little girl, why the sad face? You look like you been cryin’.” With a heavy scowl, he walked over to the door, turned the lock and pulled down the blind.
“My friend Marcy died. Her husband, Bob, beat her up and then pushed her down the stairs and she died from her head injuries. She’s been in a coma for a long while,” I sobbed. “That bastard killed her.”
George wrapped his massive arms around me and let me cry until I was cried out. When the tears finally stopped he kissed my hair and pulled me back to look at me. “You okay now, baby girl?”
I nodded. “Better—I have to drive to North Bay for her funeral on Friday.”
George’s face clouded over. “What about Angel?”
“She can ride along for company. I’ll stash her in my hotel room while I’m at the service.”
“Take your piece. Beautiful, single girl alone on the highway. No fuckin’ good.”
“I’ll throw it in the glove box, and I’ll have Angel for backup.”
“Never even heard a growl outta that one. Don’t know if she would help out or run.”
“She would help out. Already did.”
“Good to know.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
HIGHWAY eleven was endless and boring in the gray pre-dawn hours. I drove through Tim’s for steaming hot coffee, a breakfast sandwich and a couple bottles of water for Angel. I munched on my breakfast as I drove. Angel rode shotgun with her head hanging out the window and her little black ears flapping in the breeze. The mere sight of her enough to ward off predators, but just in case, I'd followed George’s advice and stowed my Beretta in the glove compartment.
Farther north, the highway was socked-in with an early morning mist, and even on low beam, my headlights weren’t making the way any clearer. Everything was shrouded in gray. I was squinting to see the white line, when a massive dark shadow appeared directly in my path. I slammed on the brakes. Angel rammed into the dash, barking and growling. We came to a jolting stop three feet from the back end of a moose. The massive animal turned her head, regarded the Jeep with disinterest and lumbered down into the ravine at her own speed. I sucked in a deep breath, gave myself a moment to stop shaking and resumed driving. Moose encounter of the first kind.
