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The malevolence in the man’s tone has me stopping in my tracks. I turn, expecting to see some drunk who’s compelled to intimidate anyone walking past his home.
No one stands before me, though. I focus on the trailer with light beaming through the larger windows, and the flickering bulb tells me it’s on its last legs.
When a young girl’s voice pipes up with, “I was only gettin’ some water,” the timid, defeated quality in it acts like an invisible tether drawing me closer to the rundown home.
My booted feet make quick, sure strides toward the door, and it isn’t until I reach the base of the wooden set of stairs leading to it that I falter.
What the hell am I doing? Now I’m suddenly trying to play savior after a night with a grief-stricken gang member?
A loud crash sounds from inside the trailer followed by a pained cry, and a fragment of memory flashes to life. On its heels is the memory of pain I once felt at being at a man’s mercy.
No one should ever feel that way. The instant the thought strikes, I don’t hesitate. I fly up the rickety stairs and lay my hand on the doorknob as the man hollers at near-deafening levels. With my other hand, I press my thumb and finger together, and everything goes silent.
I’m not the least bit surprised the door’s been left unlocked, but I’m grateful as I burst inside. Frantically searching for the girl, I find her curled up with a hand at the side of her face while her arm is raised in an attempt to protect herself. She’s a teenager and far too thin. Bared by short sleeves, her arms bear older marks from where this bastard’s hit her before.
My attention veers to the man who stands frozen in place, a leather belt gripped in one fist. His face is a mask of thunderous fury while his eyes are filled with evil delight.
Motherfucker. I don’t even give it a thought. I rip that goddamn belt from his fist and start whipping him with it. Face. Arms. Head. Groin. Chest. I don’t give a shit where, as long as the leather leaves its mark on this sick fuck.
I lose track of time, no idea how long I’ve been lashing out at him, but sweat beads at my hairline beneath my ball cap when I finally drop my hand to my side.
I could kill him, and no one would know. The thought strikes with such vengeance that it has my knees going weak, and I stumble backward. What the hell? That’s not who I am. Just because I spent a few hours with a gang member who admitted to being a murderer doesn’t mean it’s okay to entertain thoughts like that.
For fuck’s sake, apparently, Daniel’s bloodthirsty gangbanger quality rubbed off on me. I toss the belt aside as if it’s burned me and put more distance between myself and the man.
His face is a bloody mess, barely recognizable with his lips busted and eyes swollen, just as both his fists are. I’d be surprised if he could bear to curl his fingers around anything for a while.
Turning to the young girl, I study her features, committing them to memory in case I see her the next time I’m out in town.
On my way out, I glance at the kitchen table whose legs have pieces of wood braced beneath them to keep it level and from wobbling. A stack of bills, envelopes stamped with the red Final Notice lie in the center. I sift through them, noting the last name listed on them. Edward Whitaker.
Picking the nub of a pencil from beside the stack of mail, I write a message for Ed in bold block letters on one of the envelopes. Then I tuck it inside his clenched fist.
Once I close the door behind me and trod down the steps, I press my thumb and finger together again, listening carefully at the bottom of the stairs. The only sounds that spill out from the trailer are the man’s painful moans.
Quick, lighter footsteps skitter, retreating before a door closes quietly. The sound of the man’s heavy slump onto the creaky couch greets my ears next, and he lets out a long, agonizing groan before silence descends.
The instant I detect the slurred, “Thefuck?” I know he read the message.
Hurt her again, and I’ll hurt you.
Silence descends, and a relieved breath rushes out of me as my feet carry me quickly to the road.
I don’t want to examine what compelled me to do that and if it has anything to do with the man I left asleep in that motel room. What I do know is, I used my ability to help someone else who needed it.
And I don’t regret it one damn bit.
23
DANIEL
Awareness edges in, and I panic, shooting upright in bed, my gun in hand. It takes me a moment to get oriented and realize where I am. That I’m in a shitty motel room and not at home.
“Christ,” I mutter. I fell asleep beside a complete stranger with my goddamn gun laid out like an offering. I scrub my hands over my face and turn, reaching for Mac, only to stop short.
She’s not there.
Instantly, my eyes veer to the bathroom, but the door’s open and it’s dark inside.
