Beautifully Wounded (The Beaumont Brothers) (3 page)

Lena

I sat on the curb, took the battery out of my cell phone, and picked up a rock while I waited for the taxi. I smashed the dinky cheap phone, shattering the plastic casing until it lost all semblance of any form of communication. Bits and pieces of pink plastic, a smashed LCD screen swirling with blue liquid, and thin wires dangling with tiny parts I didn’t have a clue about lay scattered in the gutter. I gathered them all up and stood, chucking the whole mess in the bushes. I’d worry about saving the planet another time. My phone hadn’t been anything fancy, but it did have GPS. Just in case I hadn’t killed Troy, I didn’t want him to find me—or the police, in case he
was
dead. That would make me a murderer. I wasn’t too sure how I felt about that. I locked the SUV, and threw the keys in my purse, better not to leave them anywhere near the vehicle. Not that it mattered—he had a second set. Then I reconsidered ... Why not? And dropped the keys on the ground in hopes someone would come along and steal the damn thing giving me an extra edge in my escape.

The taxi pulled into the station and stopped
just inches in front of me. The driver rolled down the window and smiled, his bushy gray mustache hugged the sides of his lips in a Yosemite Sam fashion. He reminded me of a picture I’d once seen of a little girl reaching her arms up toward an older man I’d presumed to be the girl’s grandfather.

“
Morning, ma’am, you call for a taxi?”

“
Yeah, thanks for coming so quickly.” I slid into the back seat keeping my head and eyes down. The warmth of the cab felt good, and I rubbed my hands together combating the chill that seemed to linger in them from the cold bathroom water.

“No worries. I’d hate to be standing out there waiting for a taxi in the middle of the night for very long. Came as quickly as I could. Where you headed?”

I thought I’d head south into California. I didn’t think this taxi driver would want to go that far, so I figured a bus or train would be my best option. “Do you know where the nearest bus stop is?”

“
Well, now,” he said, fingering his mustache, “You’d best go to the bus terminal. It’s about twenty minutes from here.” The driver’s silver-white hair glistened, and his dark brown eyes twinkled, as he glanced at me in the rear-view mirror. He was friendly and full of chitchat, not requiring much interaction from me. For that, I was extremely grateful—in fact, he practically conducted the entire conversation alone. We reached the bus station, and I paid him the twenty-seven dollars showing on his meter, plus tipped him an additional five.

“
Thanks. Now you just go in and ask for the South bound bus. They’ll take care of you.”

“
Thanks,” I returned, exiting the warmth of the taxicab. My fingers were still frozen, so I shoved them into my coat pockets and headed inside toward the sign that said, “Tickets.”

T
he bus came roaring into the terminal just as I finished paying. I ran to the curb as the doors hissed open and I stepped up, dropping the ticket into the slot. Conscious of my appearance I kept my face toward the floor and walked toward the back.

The bus
was almost empty except for a couple of women. A middle-aged woman whose caramel colored face gave me a thin smile as she clutched a large, grey, over-stuffed canvas bag closer to her. The bag took up the entire seat next to her. I continued down the aisle passing a young, blonde-haired woman holding the chubby hand of a small boy who sat next to her. His eyes focused on me as he squirmed out of her grasp and turned in his seat to watch me sink into the seat two rows behind him.

“Turn around, Sammy,” the woman next to him scolded. He ignored her request and continued to stare at me. I gave him a small smile
, and then scooted over to the seat next to the window so I could stare out at the road. I sighed. I was on my way. Resting my head against the cold glass I stared out at the old brick building of the bus terminal until it was no longer within my sight, saying goodbye to that life. To a life where every day I worried about whether or not I’d be slapped or punched in the face, tossed across the room, or kicked in the side.

I tried not to think about the possibility of the police looking for me as soon
as they discovered Troy’s body. I didn’t know how long that would be since we never socialized much, the bruises on my face preventing such conventional activities as get-togethers, and friends were a thing of the past.

I let th
e ride soothe my nerves as the bus lumbered its way down the highway. Trees blurred as we skated past them. I was exhausted, and eventually the purr of the engine must have lured me to sleep. The sudden jolt of a stop and the hissing sound of the doors opening startled me awake. I glanced around, not sure how long I’d been riding. A surge of hope formed in my heart, and I got excited when I saw the two signs on the side of the road.
Millstop two miles
, the other,
Jessie’s Used Cars
. Perfect, I just hoped I’d saved up enough money to buy something decent.

I gathered up my purse and
rose, happy to discover the bus was now empty. I stepped down the large steps and walked across the street to the small but clean-looking used car dealership. As I strolled onto the lot, I spotted a 2002 dark blue Subaru four-door hatchback. The bright letters painted across the windshield,
$5,000
. Just reduced to $2,000.

“
Here we go,” I whispered, reminding myself to be calm. I approached a man in a grey suit standing by the open glass door to a building that housed a couple other nicer looking cars. His opened jacket revealed a blue and white-spotted tie that was tucked into his pants. “Excuse me. I’m interested in that blue Subaru out there.”

The salesclerk eyed
me sympathetically. “I take it you were in an accident recently,” he said, smiling. “Totaled your car?”

“
Yeah, the guy came out of nowhere,” I said, taking advantage of the supplied excuse for the way I must have looked. It sounded like a reasonable explanation for my condition, and one I would probably use over the next several days.

After we finished all the necessary paperwork using my fake ID
—Lana Martin, my mother’s maiden name—for the registration, I handed over the cash, and he plopped the keys into my hand. He never questioned the fact that I paid in full, with cash, but then I suppose two thousand dollars wasn’t really all that much money.

As I waited
for the clerk to clean the writing off the windshield, I went into the bathroom and cut up all my credit cards—they were in Troy’s name anyway—and flushed them down the toilet a few pieces at a time so I wouldn’t clog the plumbing. If I was careful, I might make it through the week, giving me time to find employment somewhere in some town. I was out of Oregon now and somewhere in California. I had no idea how far into the state I actually was, though I didn’t think very far. I sort of remembered seeing the “Welcome to California” sign not very long ago. When I came out of the bathroom, I stopped in front of a large display holding different brochures for things to do in Northern California. I tilted my sunglasses up a little to see what they were, and smiled when my eyes fell on the words, “State of California.” I snatched the map up, and making sure my shades were back in position, held up the folded booklet and turned to the girl at the counter in the lobby. “How much?”

“
Five dollars.”

“
I reached into my bag, pulled out a five, and laid it on the counter.

“Plus forty-one cents tax,” she said with a smile.

I groped around the bottom of my purse, hoping there were a couple of quarters down there. I found two and handed her both of them. “Thanks,” I said when she gave me my change. I walked out of the building and headed to my new car.

My
hands shook as I steered the small hatchback out of the parking lot, still unsure of where I was heading. I wanted to get away from the dealership quickly before allowing myself to study the map. I didn’t want to cause any unnecessary suspicion of someone realizing I had no idea where I was, just in case I hadn’t covered my tracks well enough. I had approximately two-hundred dollars in cash left after the purchase of the car. Not much, but maybe I’d get lucky and find work fast enough.

After what felt like hours on the
Interstate, I decided to make a change, and turned onto Highway 89. If Troy was still alive, or even if he wasn’t, I didn’t want him—or anyone—to find me, so I figured the more turns I took the better. After a while, I turned off the highway and onto a small winding road, which seemed to go on forever until I finally came to an intersection. Main Street lay before me, and I turned left, heading east. It was near nine o’clock in the morning. My side ached, and I was having difficulty breathing. I had a sick feeling my rib was badly bruised, possibly broken, and exhaustion crept into my body as I drove through a small town. It’s funny how hard adrenalin pumps the blood during moments of extreme fear and stress. I smiled at the little sign posted on the right side of the street. “Welcome to Turtle Lake.” The sign pictured silhouetted bodies, fishing, golfing and hunting, and a turtle, of course. It looked like it just might be the friendliest place on earth. I smiled as I passed another sign with a picture of a huge boxer turtle waving, with a bubble comment that said, “Population 573.” I scanned the sides of the street searching for a place to get a cup of coffee—some place dark preferably.

Nothing in th
at tiny town struck me as dark and private, though. I considered turning in to an ally, pulling over to rest for a short while, maybe thirty-minutes at the most. The town struck me as one of those places one only goes to for vacation. There was a coffee shop on my right, but I didn’t feel comfortable going in there. This was a very small town, and it was too bright in there. Not the type of place I wanted to venture into the way I looked. I’d never be able to hide my eye in there. I noticed a few little shops selling arts and crafts and other memorabilia, but they all appeared to be closed. While stopped at the single red light at the end of what looked like the main drag, I spotted a pub just on the other side of an empty field that actually looked open. At least the front door was open.

I
parked the car and caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. I tried to smooth out my long, tangled hair, but without a brush, it was hopeless. As I got out of the car, the sparkle of the tiny speck of a diamond on my left hand caught my eye. I removed the wedding ring and tossed it in the gutter. I’d be damned if I would live the rest of my life as some poor little battered wife, and I sure as hell didn’t intend to ever put that ring on again. Clutching my side, I hobbled through the door of the pub.

Jackson

“We’re closed.” The words automatically spit out of my mouth as the shape of a body appeared in the doorway that I’d accidentally left ajar.”

“
Oh. Sorry. The door was open. I didn’t realize.” With her hand clutched to the top of a raincoat, she turned to leave.

Why
was she wearing a raincoat? The sun was shining last I looked. “Wait,” I caught myself saying before I considered the reasons. I didn’t have any, other than the fact that she looked like she was in pain. The lighting in the room was dim. I hadn’t bothered to open the blinds at the front windows yet since the pub didn’t open for another couple of hours. Bar stools were still propped upside down on the bar from the floor cleaning the night before. “I guess it’s okay to come in. We’ll be open any minute.” That was a lie, but I didn’t really know what else to say. She looked so helpless I didn’t have the heart to turn her away.

I swiped my
hand through my thick black hair thinking I should have pulled it back into a ponytail. It hung down the back of my neck and onto my shoulders. It was the longest it had ever been, and it irritated me when I did any physical work like the mundane task of balancing out a register—usually my younger brother’s job—or mixing cocktails. Instead of telling her the pub wasn’t open for business yet, I decided to let her come in. There was something not right with her; the way she walked, slowly and carefully, as if she were injured. I pulled a stool down from the bar and placed it on the floor gesturing for her to sit, and walked behind the bar. She clutched her coat closed as she hesitated, but then slowly walked to the stool. Her hands shook as she placed her bag down on the bar, and I decided it might be interesting to play bartender for a while.

“
What can I get you?” I placed a napkin down in front of her.

“
Coffee, please.” She kept her head down, holding on to her dark glasses as if she could hide the bruise that protruded from under them.

I
took a bottle of Jameson's down from the shelf, poured some into a shot-glass, and set it in front of her.

“
I said
coffee
.” Her voice was soft and trembled as she spoke, and she looked around the place as if making sure no one else was there that she knew.

“
Yeah, I know.” I kept my voice soft, hoping she realized I meant no harm. “But you look like you could use this.” I stood with the bottle still in my hand.

She glanced back at the open door
. “I don’t drink. I mean, at least not at nine in the morning.”

“
Well, I think you should make an exception in this case. Hell, if it makes you feel better, I’ll have one too.” I poured another, picked it up, and waited for her to pick hers up and join me.

“
I don’t think …” The words came out slowly, and she paused and looked at me. “Do I really look that bad?”

I
nodded.

“
Well, okay,” her voice timid, she raised the glass, and I clinked mine against hers.

“
Bottoms up.” We emptied the glasses, and I poured her a cup of coffee. I decided to be bold and go all out. “So, where’d you get the shiner?”

“
I was hoping it would be dark enough in here that it wouldn’t be noticed,” she said, pulling off the glasses and glanced back again at the door.

“
Ouch,” I couldn’t help the cringe at the sight of the black eye. “Let me get some ice for that,” I said, as I strolled to the front door and shut it, turning the lock. Her shoulders relaxed a bit.

“
Thanks, but not necessary, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

I
didn’t acknowledge her objection. Instead, I filled a plastic bag with ice, wrapped it in a towel, and handed it to her. “Hold it on there for a good fifteen minutes. It’ll help the swelling go down.”

As
I studied her, waiting for her to answer how she scored the shiner, I decided that even with the black eye she was a damn attractive girl. Her reddish brown hair, lying loose around her face—most likely to help hide her eye—would be as smooth as silk once it met a brush again. She was thin, maybe too thin. She was running from something, or someone. No one, especially a beautiful young woman, comes walking into my bar—well any bar, for that matter—at nine o’clock in the morning with a shiner double the size of a silver dollar, clutching her coat closed while hobbling over to a seat. I wondered just what was under her coat, perhaps a nightgown, sweats—or nothing.

When she hadn’t answered
my question, I went for a different approach.

“
So, how does the other guy look?”

“
Huh? Oh, yeah ... ah, the other guy ... not so good.” She shook her head slowly and stared straight ahead, lost in her own thoughts.

“
Lover’s spat?”

She raised her hand to her face. Her cheeks flushed a little pink.
“Um ... no.” She was silent for a few seconds then piped up as if she’d just remembered something. “There was no other guy. I was in a car accident this morning.”

I
figured she was lying, particularly when I caught sight of the large handprint on her wrist protruding from the sleeve of her coat.

“
I don’t mean to sound nosey, but have you seen a doctor yet? You could have some serious injuries, you know. The way you walked over here it looks as if you may have a broken rib—or at least cracked—maybe two.”

“
I’ll be all right.” She sipped the coffee as she held the ice pack up to her eye and sat in silence. She took her coffee black. I appreciated that. I’d never understood how someone could ruin a great cup of coffee with cream and sugar. She looked around the pub. Her gaze settled on the stage.

“
You have live music here?” she asked.

“
Yeah, we do. A couple nights a week, sometimes more. Mostly on Friday and Saturday nights—just some local boys and myself occasionally. It helps bring in the tourists.”

She smiled and sipped her coffee again
, and when she set the cup down, I topped it off.

“
Thanks, um ... Where’s the restroom?”

I pointed behind her.
“Over there, just past the stage.”

She walked
slowly across the room. I’d considered offering her a hand, but decided to hold back. She didn’t seem open to accepting any help, but underneath that tough exterior, I detected a lot of fear. My interest piqued as she stopped briefly to look at my guitar on the stage as she passed by.