Part 7 (1/2)

”She had a stroke and she died.”

”You're lying,” I screamed, ”I knew it, I knew it. You gave her that methyl s.h.i.+t, you-”

He moved so fast I didn't even have time to react. He jammed the heel of his hand into my chin and I stumbled back, fell over one of his guest chairs, and tumbled, landing on my back on the carpet and then my head thumping against the floor and the world wobbled. When I started to roll to get up, his foot got me hard in the ribs and rolled me over again. The wind tore out of my lungs and when I tried to get it back, there wasn't enough, not enough. Another kick was blunted as I turned, rolling onto my side.

I got up and flipped the c.o.c.ktail table over at the same time. The empty decanter and gla.s.ses on the top slid off and crashed to the floor. I kicked the table at him. Round, it rolled but he sidestepped it and came at me fists up, like a boxer, springing on his feet. I didn't know he knew how to fight. I knew he exercised but he was fast, faster than me. I took a swing at him and he ducked it easily and drove his fist into my gut. I stumbled and his fist connected hard to the side of my head, and the world flashed white, followed by dancing stars, like a cloud of fireflies trapped in my eyes.

He put his foot on my back and shoved. I went down, skidded on the carpet.

”Howard,” he said, calmly.

I rolled, grabbed the decanter that I'd knocked over, swung it, and smashed it in half on the corner of his desk.

He looked at the rent in the antique wood, the deep gouges, and frowned.

”It's going to cost me a fortune to fix that.”

I stumbled to my feet and lunged at him with the broken gla.s.s, stabbing at his stomach. He sidestepped easily, gracefully, seized my wrist and torqued it.

”Stop it, or I'll break your arm.”

I couldn't stop him. My hand sprang open and the gla.s.s dropped. He kicked my leg out from under me and I went down and shard of gla.s.s bit into my thigh. He still had my wrist.

Until I bit him.

I sank my teeth into the meat of his palm and his hand flew open. My arm was tingling, felt like jelly. I pulled it to my side and threw myself at his legs, hit him, and he went down on top of me. His fist hit my nose and blood splattered on my face, thick and hot, and filled my mouth with the coppery taste of my own blood. He grabbed my head, pulled, shoved it against he floor. I twisted out of the way and his fist barely missed my face in another ringing blow. I yanked my leg up and drove my knee between his legs and got him right in the b.a.l.l.s.

He howled, rolled off me, but recovered. I kicked at him and went for the door, fell as my leg went out from under me, got up again. Lance was standing at the top of the stairs.

My father stepped out of the office and kicked me in the ribs. Something popped as I smashed against the far wall and fell, clutching my stomach, trying to breathe. He kicked me again, his foot hitting me under my ribs. It hurt like nothing I'd ever felt before. Not even the time I broke my ankle at the swimming hole and had to lean on Alexis to walk back to town. Lance was still standing there, watching.

My father looked up at him.

”Go to your room and close the door.”

Lance stumbled backwards and disappeared.

”Help me,” I called after him, ”Call somebody!”

My father took me by the collar in one hand, by the belt in the other, and threw me. I didn't even know he was that strong. I went up, and for a sickening moment I was in the air, then came down on top of the ma.s.sive slab of a mahogany coffee table in the living room. In movies, tables break when you hit them. In real life, the table breaks you. I though the pain was bad before, but it was otherworldly. I started to roll off and he finished the job with his foot.

I tried to get up, but I just laid on my side while he kicked me in the stomach again and again and again until I wretched and loosed a burning hot wad of vomit onto the floor.

Then, very calmly, he took out his phone. I could barely understand what he was saying.

Four men came to the house and walked inside, and didn't say a word.

I remember two of them. One was enormous, like a gorilla in a business suit, his arms like overstuffed sausages in the sleeves. The other was tall, skinny, and he was a G.o.dd.a.m.n cop. They picked me up by the arms and dragged me outside, my feet sliding over the gravel in the back yard, and lifted me into the bed, and not gently. It hurt like h.e.l.l when the metal rails in the bed of the truck hit my side. The other two were Amish, I thought, except one was driving the truck.

My father talked to the men alone, then walked over to the bed and stood over me, looking down, the sun behind his head. He was like a great, wavering shadow.

”Listen to me very carefully,” he said.

”f.u.c.k, you,” I choked out.

”Are you picking up your little girlfriend tonight, or is she coming here?”

I froze, icy terror in my chest, spreading down my limbs. Oh G.o.d, Alex.

”She's not, she's...”

”Shut up. This is the deal, Howard. These men are going to take you away. There you'll stay, and you won't come back here. You won't call, write, email, text. You'll have no contact with anyone from Paradise Falls, that annoying little c.u.n.t included. Do you understand?”

I stared up at him and wheezed.

”If you do, I'll have half a dozen men f.u.c.k her to death and leave her in a ditch. Are we clear?”

”Where... where...” I choked out.

”Anywhere but here, Howard. Anywhere but here. You stay away, she'll be just fine. You don't, and I'll make sure you see her before you join her.”

He slammed the tailgate shut. Two or three of them got in the truck, I can't remember.

They drove to Philadelphia like that. I was in h.e.l.l. Every b.u.mp carved new trails of agony through my body. By the time we got there, I thought I was going to die.

It was the cop who dropped the tailgate. I didn't know where I was, beyond Philadelphia.

I pa.s.sed out while they were carrying me.

When I woke up laying on a mattress on a cheap, rickety metal bed, I had nothing but my bloodied, stained clothes, and my wallet. Somebody had stuffed five hundred dollars cash inside. My eye was swollen shut, and every time I moved agony cut through my body. Sitting up was a monumental effort, standing a herculean struggle. I didn't know where I was, except that I was sharing a room with another man who sat up when I got to my feet.

”You best lie back down,” he said.

”Where the h.e.l.l am I?”

”Lutheran mission. Ridge Avenue.”

”Where's that?”

”Philadelphia. United States.”

”Right. Thanks.”

When I stumbled out of the room, I found myself in a narrow hallway. It turned out to be a low, bunker-like building attached to a church. I knew it was a cla.s.sy place when I saw the churchyard was closed off with barbed wire. People asked me my name, where I came from. I didn't tell them. All I could think about was Alex. Half of me was screaming at the other half. I couldn't leave her alone, I couldn't abandon her and trust my father not to hurt her. The other half screamed louder- if I got back there they'd kick the s.h.i.+t out of me again, maybe kill me, and drop Alex's body on top of me.

I knew my father was a s.h.i.+theel, but nothing like this.

Alex, Alex, Alex, my every thought was Alex. Every thought was sorrow, my grief sucking all the strength out of my legs. I spent more than a week laying on that bed, eating s.h.i.+tty soup and stale bread, going nowhere. I had some cash in my wallet and that was it, nothing else to my name, not even my truck. When I saw myself in the mirror, I realized I was a mess. The cut in my leg must not have been bad; it healed up okay even if I could tell it was going to scar ugly.

I was still limping when I went into the Navy recruiter's office.