Naughtier than Nice (27 page)

This is Tommie McBroom, at her weakest moment.

This is Tommie McBroom, as terrified as she has ever been in her life.

This had to end for you.

For me, this has ended.

We're done.

We're done.

We're done.

This is good-bye from your confused muse, who now has profound clarity.

This is a parting farewell from your eclectic, bohemian, bourgeois friend.

Tommie McBroom

Once I was inside Rosemary Paige's sports car, she sped us along the 10 eastbound toward downtown LA. Monica fell asleep in the back. She had had a long night. Music was on low, Alice Smith covering Cee Lo's “Fool for You” on repeat, but I hadn't noticed the song of obsession.

Rosemary Paige said, “You're an amazing woman, Frankie McBroom.”

“You're in the wrong lane. We need to merge to the left to get on the 101 North.”

She didn't merge onto the 101 North to head back toward Dodger Stadium.

I said, “What is this, some kind of a joke?”

“It should be obvious, Frankie McBroom.”

“You need to get over and take the next exit.”

My phone buzzed at that moment and I looked at the text message. It was a photo from Driver. He had verified a photo of Franklin's wife on social media. That was when I knew I was in the car with Phyllis Rosemary Paige. Something showed on my face, some realization, because that was when she reached under her seat and took out a military-issued gun.

In a tone of complete disbelief I said, “You're Franklin's wife.”

Gun resting in her lap, Rosemary Paige reached underneath her seat again and that time she pulled out a bloodied knife.

She whispered, “Think about the kid, Frankie.”

My voice filled with fear and anger. “What are your intentions, Mrs. Carruthers?”

“I really wanted this to be between you and me at the end.”

Eyes on her, I moved away from her. “You're Franklin's wife.”

“I am the real Mrs. Carruthers, not the one who wants to be.”

“Why are you driving east on the 10? Nothing beyond downtown but cows, smog, and gangs.”

“Mexico. This ends south of the border. I complete my personal mission.”

“This is kidnapping. You are kidnapping a minor and me. Look, I am not with you willingly and I demand that you stop and let me and Monica out of your fancy red Dodge Charger at the next exit.”

“You have a nice home, Frankie. I liked the smaller one better, but the larger one is nice.”

“It was you. You broke into my homes.”

“I want you to know that any time I wanted to I could've hurt you and you never would have seen it coming. I dressed as you dress, even wore your lingerie, ate in your kitchen, slept in your bed during the day, took showers, lived in your house pretty much right under your nose.”

“You put on my underwear?”

“Only the brand-new stuff. Victoria's Secret is expensive. I'm not gross. I had to dress like you, get into your mind and try to understand what Franklin saw in you that he didn't see in me.

“Your home laptop isn't password protected. I know you stopped e-mailing him and I know he's never stopped e-mailing you. I read every love e-mail he sent you. That hurt my heart. He never sent me one love e-mail. I am his wife, and I was overseas fighting for his freedom, and not one love note.”

“I have no control over that.”

“I was inside your home the night you went on a date and kissed a handsome guy good night at the front door. I was on the
other side of the door watching you and him make out. You and Daniel.”

“I don't believe you. My alarm was on. It was always on.”

“Believe it, Frankie. I know all of your secrets. I went into your special room. The one at your first house, you were in that room with Franklin, doing things with my husband. You're a piece of work.”

“You broke into my home over and over, and now you're chastising my personal life?”

“You sleep with my husband, insult me, and have the nerve to look disgusted?”

“This is not the way to handle this, Mrs. Carruthers.”

“I saw the GoPro that Franklin had at his house. I saw what you and he did together.”

“Jesus.”

“No matter how many times you called his name, there was no Jesus in what you did with my husband. I really wished that I hadn't sat there in his bedroom and pushed play and seen what I saw.”

“Gatorade and flowers. You sat at my dining room table sipping Gatorade and holding flowers.”

“Gifts from Franklin's home. I had a little fun. When I first found where he lived, when I bypassed his security and went inside his home, I saw your things there. That pissed me off. I brought some of them back to you, that's all. I moved a few things that belonged to him from your house back to his.”

“You were in my home last night. You were inside of my home waiting.”

“I was in your home when Tommie came over. I was going to have it out with you then, after I knew that you had gone to be with Franklin. I followed him when he went to meet you. He had no idea. He went up the hill, to a place lovers meet after-hours, and I eased up the winding hill behind him with my lights off. I was
angry, was going to surprise the two of you. But I saw him talking to a guy. I put my car in neutral and coasted backward down the hill; then I went to your home and waited for you and Franklin.”

“How did you get past my alarm system? That system is new. It's the best they make.”

“That's classified information. You're a civilian and not privy to how the military operates.”

“What do you want from me? I am not at fault here. What have I ever done to you?”

“Franklin. Let's talk about Franklin. Let's have a little girl-talk session on this road trip.”

“I have nothing to do with him, and you know I don't. I want nothing to do with him.”

“He fixated on your billboards. He saw your face on bus stops. You were his movie star.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about. I sell real estate. People draw mustaches on my images at bus stops. My picture is where people sit and fart while waiting on a smelly Metro bus.”

“You were the ideal woman. I don't see the attraction, but beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

“I never went after your husband. We met by accident, Mrs. Carruthers.”

“No, it wasn't an accident. It was orchestrated. Step by step, bit by bit, it was orchestrated.”

“I didn't go after your husband. I had no idea he was married, not until you called me.”

“You were so disrespectful.”

“You weren't exactly friendly yourself.”

“Look in the glove compartment.”

“Is there a bomb in there?”

“I don't hurt children.”

I put my fingers on the glove compartment, clicked it open, saw
that the inside was jammed with photos. She told me to take all of them out. I did. There were over a thousand snapshots.

All were images of me. It was my life, captured on film.

I asked, “How long have you been following me?”

“I
never
followed you—well, not until recently. I drove across America, came and met you when I had a weekend furlough. I drove day and night from San Antonio to LA and back just because I wanted to look in your eyes and try to understand what was so special about you, Miss Frankie McBroom.”

“I don't understand these photos. You've been photographing me since I met Franklin?”

“You're seeing this all wrong. I am not the bad guy here. Franklin took those photos.”

I looked at the images, confused, outraged, unable to think clearly.

She said, “He had fixated on you.”

“Why are you lying?”

“He had followed you and photographed you.”

“I met him by chance when I was at my PO box collecting my mail.”

“No, it was calculated. He had spied on you and saw where you collected your mail, and then he rented a mailbox at the same place on La Tijera Boulevard so he'd have a reason to run into you.”

I couldn't remember that day, couldn't focus with the blade of a knife pointed at me as she drove sixty-five miles per hour with a loaded gun resting in her lap, the business end aimed toward me. All I remembered, with any clarity, was back then I had the Christmas blues and had run into Franklin.

“He was married to me and obsessed with you. Isn't that just wonderful?”

“For all I know you took these.”

“I was deployed. I was tracking terrorists. I was stalking the big game.”

“I had no idea, Rosemary Paige.”

“Mrs. Carruthers
.
”

“Apologies. I had no idea, Mrs. Carruthers. This is the truth. I investigated him and found out this morning that he had filed for divorce and had tried to file before we ever went out.”

“He filed when he started to pursue you, Frankie. Don't you understand this? He filed when he saw you and began to fantasize about you and lose interest in me. He filed while he stalked you.”

“After I found out about you, I didn't want him. You heard me put him out of my home.”

“He didn't care. He wanted you and wouldn't stop until you said yes, knew eventually you would take him back.”

“I have no control over him begging, but I'd never take him back. I will be more than happy to file an order of protection and have it illegal for him to contact me, if that will make you feel better. Just pull into a police station.”

“He prefers you to me. That hurts. He changed my life, told me he loved me, and this hurts.”

“I have no control over that.”

“My parents disowned me because of him.”

“How did you meet?”

“I haven't seen or talked to my sisters. I envy what you have with your siblings. I sat and watched you, Tommie, and Livvy. Livvy was lucky. The night I followed her, the night I observed her, the apartment she went to, I had assumed that was her home. I was rushing and careless when I set it on fire.”

“You did what?”

“Then the home I had followed Tommie to, I thought it was hers, but then I realized she was having an affair with Beale Streets. I followed her home. If she didn't have a daughter, I would have
tossed a firebomb through her front window one night and burned her home to the ground too.”

“You're joking.”

“I don't harm children, not here in America. Children here are misguided, but they aren't threats, not like overseas.”

“You've being following my sisters?”

“
Observing
. Tommie's sweet, and I like her, but she's a mess. It's always the nice ones who do you wrong in the end. Blue is an excellent teacher. Tony, they respect him at his job. I haven't quite figured out the Asian woman that he and Livvy have befriended. She's a doctor, so I think it's a professional friendship. Monica has so much energy when she's at school. The teachers love her.”

“You followed my entire family?”

“I studied my enemy and looked for her weakest points.”

“I am not your enemy, Mrs. Carruthers.”

“You are and you know you are.”

“I have never been your enemy. Franklin is the enemy. If anything, we have a common enemy. We should be sipping wine and girl talking about him, comparing notes and dates. We should be trying to figure out how he played us so well.”

“I met Franklin online. My parents said the Internet was the devil's tool, but I found a way to connect with a world that they didn't want me to have any part of. My parents were right. They were right. I should've listened to them. I should have stayed in Pennsylvania where I was respected and valued.”

“You sound like you have family values. Why would you do things to my family? They have done nothing to harm you.”

“Afghanistan. Iraq. Doesn't matter where. Sometimes, even with the best-laid plans, there will be collateral damage.”

“Please. Let Monica out of the car.”

“You brought her along, Frankie. Whatever happens, it's your fault. This was to be where we ended our race. Our final marathon.”

We passed an overhead digital sign. An Amber Alert had been issued. That meant every electronic billboard on every freeway was lit up with the same information. On the digital display was Monica's grinning photo and full name, with the make and model and plates for the car we were in. As we passed cars I saw people look at us, then back at the Amber Alert, then raise their phones and start dialing 911. I saw that people were trying to be brave and follow us as they reported they had seen us, probably with hopes of having their faces on the news as heroes when this nightmare ended.

Rosemary Paige noticed we were getting a lot of attention.

She grinned as if she was amused. “How did they find us?”

I said nothing.

She finally looked up from the traffic and saw the electronic billboard, saw the Amber Alert.

“How do they know, Frankie?”

“That's classified information.”

“That's your last time being snarky.”

“You can dish it out, but you can't take it.”

“Let me see your phone.”

I handed it to her.

She saw it was on. GPS was on.

Driver was on the other end.

I said, “He's heard our entire conversation, Rosemary Paige. The authorities know everything.”

She dropped my phone out of the window, let it bounce, break, be run over by other vehicles.

I said, “Please, let Monica go.”

“You will regret that.”

“That's all I ask.”

“You are so going to regret that.”

“She has nothing to do with this.”

It happened so fast, in the blink of an eye.

She stabbed me.

Mrs. Carruthers growled and stabbed me viciously in my shoulder.

At first there was no pain at all. My body went into shock. It felt like a cruel prank, then I saw blood, realized that that bitch really had stabbed me. A dull throbbing kicked in and the pain tried to overtake my senses. Pain arrived, sharp and intense. I gritted my teeth, but there was nothing I could do. She had the knife. We were going eighty miles per hour now. She drove extremely fast but was very controlled, methodical.

My pain became great; she had stabbed me down to my bone.

I opened my mouth to cry out, but there was no sound. I struggled to breathe.

She gritted her teeth and said, “Scream and I will do the same to the child.”

“Bleeding. I'm bleeding. I'm bleeding.”

“I know.”

“You stabbed me. You fucking stabbed me.”

“Language, Frankie McBroom. Language. And show me some respect.”

I was wide-eyed; blood rivered from my wound. What kept me alive flowed from me, but nothing mattered except getting Monica out of this car. Her life mattered more than mine.

That psycopath sang along with Alice Smith as she took curves and transitioned to other freeways at the speed of a rocket. She rode treacherously close to big rigs. That scared me more than the knife wound. She took over the HOV lane and then was moving at
one hundred miles an hour through a cluster of big rigs. When traffic bottlenecked, she sped down the shoulder, a dangerous lane where cars could be broken down or there could be debris that could cause a tire to blow and the car to flip at that pace. Several miles later she merged back into regular traffic, a smirk on her face, convinced she had gotten away.

Monica woke up. “Auntie? Why are we going so fast?”

“Monica, everything is okay. I need you to keep your eyes closed.”

She could tell we were in trouble, knew that she had woken up in my hell.

Monica cried, revealed her terror, and I knew she saw my blood dripping.

I looked back at her and forced a smile. “Monica, just sit there and be quiet and Auntie will do her best to make sure you're okay. Mo Mo bo bo, banana fanna fo fo.”

Tears poured and she said nothing. She had awakened from a dream into a nightmare.

Soon one single highway patrol car followed us, was directly behind us, at least four car lengths. He followed us for three miles, less than three minutes, before another California Highway Patrol unit came down the ramp and entered the freeway, looked at the car. I put a bloodied hand up to the window so he could see. He saw Monica in the backseat, saw a terrified child who was crying but saying nothing, then looked at the driver. They backed off, slowed to the pace of the CHP behind us, blocked that lane.

She asked, “What was your time?”

“What?”

“The marathon. Your time. I allowed you to run, allowed you to finish your last run. Your time?”

“Does it matter?”

“Are you being flippant?”

“Let the child out of the car. If you have an issue with me, let it be between us.”

“LAPD is following us.”

“CHP, not LAPD.”

“They have turned on the flashing lights.”

“Let Monica out of the car. Let her run back to the police.”

“You're in no position to make demands.”

“Be reasonable. You're a soldier. You don't do this to innocent children.”

“There is a Starbucks coffee cup in the cup holder in the back. Get it.”

“Are you going to poison me?”

“Get it. Don't make me ask you again.”

I reached back and touched Monica on the knee, whispered that Auntie was sorry, told her it was okay to cry, that I wanted to cry too, and I eased the Starbucks cup from the cup holder.

Through tight lips Rosemary Paige commanded, “Open it.”

Inside the cup was a detached penis with
boegroes
surgically inserted under the foreskin.

I dropped the cup and tried to get away from the detached member. Mrs. Carruthers forced me to touch it. Mo saw my expression of terror and screamed. Mrs. Carruthers yelled, demanded quiet.

She said, “I couldn't pretend anymore. This covert operation, I was tired of spying.”

My voice shook as I made my redundant plea. “Let Monica go.”

“I apologize for the negative things I said about the kid. I didn't mean it when I called her a half breed and said she looks like a little yellow monkey with ugly hair. I was just writing things to get to you, that's all. I have a lot of black friends. I married a black man. I'm not racist. She's a wonderful child. Precocious and amazing. I mean that from my heart.”

“Prove you're sorry. Let my niece go.”

“Watch your voice.”

“Rosemary Paige . . . Mrs. Carruthers . . . you can stop before this goes too far.”

“Understand, I have to complete my mission. When you dedicate yourself to something, you don't bail just because it's not in your favor anymore. You have to stay committed to the mission statement.”

“You don't have to do this, Mrs. Carruthers. Franklin is not worth all of this.”

She stabbed my leg. I screamed in pain, a level of pain I had never known.

She was beyond her point of no return. I was as powerless as Monica.

She said, “Frankie and Frankie. Frankie and Frankie. Frankie and Frankie.”

She had nothing to lose now.

She had risked it all. The gun was in her lap. The bloodied blade was in her right hand.

She said, “Try it and next time it will cut your throat. Just try and take it from me.”

She was trained to torture and kill. I was trained to talk shit and sell houses and make money.

Flashing lights and sirens added to the roar of the engine, a sound that barely muffled Monica's whimpering and asking for her mommy and daddy to save her and her auntie from the bogeywoman.

The loud croaking noise, that
weee onngg weee onngg,
the high-pitched sound from a dozen sirens, those wails and their overlapping and alternating pitches, that warble that screamed terror, and the speed of this madwoman, my being injured, all of this was too much to wake up to. Mo trembled and cried. It hurt, but I reached back and held Monica's hand. My hand was bloodied, but she held my fingers.

She said, “Auntie, I went to the bathroom on myself.”

“It's okay, Monica. It's okay. I think I did too. This will be our little secret, okay?”

“I want my mommy.” She had awakened from a soft dream, found herself in a horrible nightmare, and struggled to talk between stifled sobs and hitched breaths. “I want my mommy and my daddy.”

There was no way out of this. I should have seen this coming. I had been fooled again.

If I had inhaled hard enough I would have been able to smell the smoke from a fire at least fifty miles away.

Franklin's home in Blair Hills was ablaze, was burning to the ground. Franklin was inside.

While I was still running the marathon, she had dealt with Franklin in the most horrific way imaginable.

I had no idea if my house was still standing.

That home had no importance to me now.

Mrs. Carruthers was polite, took the Starbucks cup from me, then threw it out the window as she drove.

Mrs. Carruthers asked, “What's the penalty for littering here in California?”

In severe pain, hand clamped down on my wound, sweat draining from my face, I looked in the side-view mirror at the police. They were there but could do nothing for us. Monica had put her face in her lap, her eyes covered with her hands. She was hyperventilating. She could barely breathe.

Mrs. Carruthers said, “Be glad the kid is in the car. What was in the cup, well, I was going to make you suck on what you had loved until Tijuana. I'm sure he'd've liked that. He liked that so much when you were in Africa and Italy. I swear that was the plan, cocksucking bitch. Be glad the little girl is here.”

I whispered, “Please. I will do whatever you want me to do, just let Monica out of the car.”

“You called me crazy. You had no idea what my life had been like, and you called me crazy.”

“I'm sorry for that. I was upset. You didn't exactly make a favorable first impression.”

“You have no idea how many of my friends have died for a pointless war. I needed the money to support my husband and I went to war when I was young and stupid. America and the military-industrial complex can both go to hell. America spends more money on the military than a dozen countries combined. I lost my husband to you because they allowed it to happen. They have more ongoing conflicts and wars in the world than any other country, and every time I came home and tried to be a wife they sent me right back. You never would have stolen my husband from me if the government hadn't been complicit.”

“I'm sorry you had to go through all of that. I really am.”

“The thing that's the most insulting is if I had died in the middle of all of this, he would still be my husband and would have gotten over four hundred thousand dollars. He wanted the divorce when I was home, when I was safe, but when I was deployed, when I was dodging bombs, he was hoping to get a big payday. Frankie McBroom, Franklin was more complicated than you can imagine. He conned me. Married me. Got me to join the army. I think that's what he did. My death would have been his gold mine.”

She cranked up the volume and Alice Smith sang loud enough to drown all screams.

Rejected by family. Betrayed by man and country.

She had been hoodwinked. She had been bamboozled.

Her logic was as flawed as her rage was bottomless.

She was losing control. In my mind she had lost control a long time ago. In order to do the things she'd done she'd lost the plot months ago, maybe years ago.

There was no traffic in front of us, just dozens of highway patrol cars following as both police and a pair of news helicopters flew overhead and played this moment live for Los Angeles.

She exited the freeway and sped down the ramp.

Surface streets were twice as dangerous for a high-speed chase.

The muscle car did over sixty where the speed limit was twenty-five miles per hour. She broke through stop signs and endangered pedestrians. People were diving out of the way to keep from being run over. She ran red-lit intersections as she fled with Monica and me as her hostages.

She hopped back on the freeway. The lunatic stabbed me again. Monica shrieked and cried.

Mrs. Carruthers snapped,
“Shut up, shut up, shut up.”

She was breaking down.

I was in horrific pain, the world foggy now, and in my agony I raised my right hand and rubbed my bloodied fingers on the passenger-side window. I painted the window with my own blood. The news choppers were close enough, and I knew with those telescoping lenses they could see my crimson window, would broadcast the bloodied handprint in the window to the rest of Los Angeles. This was real breaking news. People would love a tale about ruthless betrayal and bloodthirsty vengeance. When we passed under bridges, people were on top, had gathered to watch the way the roaches had come to watch O. J. Simpson back in the day. On the opposite side of the freeway, in northbound traffic, they had all seen the choppers in the sky and now the traffic was starting to get congested with looky-loos.

Southbound freeway entrances had been systematically blocked as the high-speed chase continued, and with no cars being allowed to merge into the pursuit, it became just us and open highway in front of us, again going over one hundred miles an hour as she stomped the accelerator to the floor.