Girl of Rage (9 page)

It had never made any sense. Until she discovered that Richard Thompson wasn’t even her father. Then the ugly stares, the disinterest, the bitterness of her exile all made sense. Andrea was the evidence of her mother’s infidelity. Richard was a bastard, but he was a bastard for a reason. Because of their mother.

Andrea started at a knock on the door. She sat up straight then grabbed for the long serrated kitchen knife Dylan had left with her. She didn’t answer the door.

Another knock.

She tensed. Dylan was supposed to identify himself by voice if he came. So who the hell was at the door?

She slipped off the bed where she’d been sitting, and moved in a silent crouch to the door. The blackout curtains were ineffective, weak light slipping around them in all directions, but they were enough to block her view of the outside. She slowly came to her feet and put her eye to the peephole in the door.

She froze. Outside, standing in the oppressively dim light, was the hotel manager or desk clerk, a grizzled Indian or Pakistani with nearly white hair and beard. Next to the manager was a bored looking police officer. The hotel manager said something in words too quick to understand, and the cop said, “No, don’t open it. What about the next one? That’s where you said the noise was from?”

Shit!
Andrea thought quickly. Someone, maybe the hotel manager, had called the cops reporting suspicious activity? Maybe reporting whatever was going on next door?

Did they think she was somehow involved in that?

A moment later she heard the thumping stop next door. A loud voice, the words unclear, then she heard the words clearly. “Open up. Police.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.
Andrea leaned close to the blackout curtain. Careful to not move it, she put her eye near the gap between the wall and the curtain, trying to get a view of whatever was happening next door.

Movement. Then a loud noise, and the door next door slammed. The cop moved into the room, and the manager stood outside. Loud voices. Shouting. A male voice, the john maybe, begging.

A moment later she saw a man come running out. Grey suit, his shirttail hanging out. He walked past the hotel manager, looked back, and then ran.

The door slammed. Andrea started to back away from the blackout curtain, but then she noticed that the manager hadn’t moved. What the hell was going on? He stood, his back to the door next door, hands clasped behind his back. His right leg bounced a little. He swayed on the balls of his feet, turning slightly toward Andrea’s room. She jerked back from the opening.

Then she realized exactly what was going on. Because she heard a female voice cry out. Loud. Someone
had
called the cops, and this was the result. Whoever that poor woman was next door, the cop had decided to exploit her too, instead of helping.

The rage that flooded through Andrea right then was nearly uncontrollable. She sank down, resting on her haunches, shaking with anger. She squeezed the knife in her hands tighter, wanting nothing more than to run next door and use it on the cop who was abusing his position.

Jesus Christ, what could she do about it?

And what would happen if Dylan came back right now? Would he blow his temper? Go next door? Would he get them caught?

Or was Dylan out drinking somewhere? She didn’t know much at all about him, except that he was a war veteran. Sarah had said he was a reformed alcoholic who had started drinking again. Andrea knew about addicts and alcoholics, and the one thing she knew was they couldn’t be trusted if they weren’t in some kind of serious recovery.

The noise started again, the headboard of the flimsy bed banging into the flimsy wall of the crappy room next door, and Andrea realized that she had no choice.

None.

The bathroom had a small window that she could climb out. She stuffed her few things into her plastic shopping bag, then walked to the phone. She closed her eyes, then picked it up and dialed 9 for an outside line. Then 911.

“Prince George’s County 911, what’s your emergency?”

“I’m calling from the Annapolis Road Motor Inn. A girl was prostituting herself next door, and someone called the police. Now the police came and they’re screwing her.”

“Ma’am, what is your room number?”

“I’m in 112. They’re next door, the door to the right of my room. The police officer is in there right now, screwing her. Do you hear me? Instead of helping her, he’s fucking her while the hotel manager keeps watch.”

“We’re dispatching someone right now, can you tell me your name?”

“No. I have to go.”

Andrea set the phone in its cradle and walked to the door. She set the chain on the door and turned the deadbolt. Then she ran for the back window. It was small, but she should be able to fit through. High above the toilet, the glass frosted. She slid the window back.

It stuck.

Damn it.
What was she thinking? She should have checked the window first. But the rage, the thumping next door, all of it was just too much. She yanked at the window again, bracing her right leg against the corner of the wall. Slowly, she felt it beginning to separate. Finally, with a sudden crack, the window snapped back and she slipped off the toilet, falling to the floor and hitting her head on the wall. Her vision went white, for just a second.

Jesus. She had to move. Back on her feet, she stretched for the window, lifting herself up and through it with both arms.

Her window was directly above the bed of a white, dirty pick up truck. She let her body fold through the window, hanging on with both arms and flipping over, landing in the truck feet first. The truck was parked in a dirty alley behind the motel. A ten foot high chain link fence, tangled with weeds and brush, was about ten feet from the back wall, the space between worn and potholed concrete. Puddles of filthy looking water filled the potholes.

Andrea jumped to the ground from the back of the truck. Old crushed beer cans and condom wrappers scattered the alley. She ran to the end of the alley then calmly walked out from behind the building. The motel, a grey painted building that looked as if hadn’t been maintained since the 1990s sat on a corner of a two lane road and a larger, six lane divided highway. Annapolis Road was lined on both sides by fast food places, mini-malls, check cashing places and pawnshops.

She walked, back erect, across the two-lane road and sat down at the bus stop. Dylan would be back soon—she could keep an eye out for him here.

Three police cars were already in the parking lot of the crappy little motel, lights flashing. She couldn’t tell from here what was happening. But she knew she didn’t want to be over there.

There was Dylan.
He was walking up the street toward her, a new backpack slung over his shoulder and a large shopping bag in his hands. His eyes darted from her, to the hotel, then back to her. No change of expression. The police out front were obvious.

He sat down next to her at the bus stop and lit a cigarette. “What happened?”

With as few words as possible, she explained the situation. When she talked about the police officer exploiting the woman in the room next door, his fists clenched.

“You did the right thing,” he finally said.

“We need to find a new place to stay,” she replied.

“Yeah. Here, I got you some clothes. I hope they fit. Jacket, pair of jeans. Size six shoes. I thought we’d head to the public library, get on the Internet. I want to touch base with Alex, then we’re going to have to disappear again.”

Andrea nodded. “Okay, Dylan. It sounds like a good plan. But somewhere along the road, we stop running. I want to know who my father is, and why this stuff is happening.”

“Yeah, me too,” he said.

They stood up when a bus slowed down. “Let’s take this one,” he said. “If it goes to a train station, we can go from there.”

She nodded, and they waited on the edge of the sidewalk as the bus came to a stop.

Andrea glanced over her shoulder toward the motel. An ambulance had arrived at the hotel, and a young woman was being led to it by two female police officers. She had a black eye.

The no-longer-bored police officer was handcuffed and being led by two of his fellow officers to a car. Andrea gave a grim, satisfied smile and stepped onto the bus.

Adelina. May 2. 6:55 am Pacific

“We have to get going, Jessica. Let’s get you together, and then you can sleep again in the car, okay?”

Adelina felt her eyes water with frustration as she finally gave in and physically pulled Jessica up, pulling her legs forward until they dangled off the edge of the bed.

“Mmmmm, I’m okay,” Jessica mumbled.

The exhaustion, if anything, was worse now than it had been the first few days after they’d arrived at the retreat. Sister Kiara had been clear about that. Ten to twenty days where Jessica would do very little other than sleep or eat. Six months where she would seem listless. Increased risk of heart trouble, strokes or brain aneurisms because of damage to the blood vessels.

Most meth addicts relapse, Adelina. She’ll need a great deal of care and close attention.

Right now Jessica just sagged in place. At least she didn’t curl up again. The sun would be up shortly, and she wanted to be out of here within the next few minutes. She couldn’t trust that the manager of the campsite would keep his promise. He might realize he had fugitives on the property. He might call the police figuring a reward might be in the offing. He might do
anything
, and she wasn’t willing to take a chance.

At the same time, she wasn’t taking her daughter out looking like this. Jessica’s face was smudged with what looked like dirt. Her t-shirt was rumpled and dirty, which was probably fine—she was a teenager after all—but her hair was also a snake’s nest of tangles.

“Hold still,” Adelina said. And in the dim light of the cabin in the northern California forest, she began to brush her daughters hair.

“It’s okay … stop…” Jessica said, pushing Adelina’s hand and the brush away.

“Hush,” Adelina responded. She brought the brush back up and began to brush. Jessica’s hair had always been lighter than her twin’s, brown like Alexandra’s—and Richard’s. .She could see his features clearly on Jessica’s face. The squarer than was entirely feminine jaw, the thick, almost luscious eyebrows. Richard had been a handsome bastard, after all.

Of course, that was one of the saddest parts about their marriage. It’s not like Richard couldn’t have picked up a woman. For thirty years she’d seen a parade of unfortunate women throw themselves at her husband, though it had become less common as they’d grown older. She never cared. If he was busy with someone else, he was far less likely to bother her.

Right now, Richard wasn’t her problem. Jessica, her eighteen-year-old daughter, was. Jessica was leaning forward now, her eyelids heavy, and Adelina said, “Come on, Jessica, sit up. We’ll be in the car soon.”

A few more swipes with the brush brought Jessica’s hair into some kind of order. Not beautiful, because large amounts of it broke off every time it was disturbed. Her hair was far thinner than it had been a few months ago. Her whole body was far thinner. Once again, rage at her husband flooded through Adelina. He’d been with Jessica, in California, while Jessica fell apart from grief and addiction.

While Jessica went to parties with guys from school, Richard had been busy in his office doing God-knows-what. Adelina had never trusted him. She’d never loved him. He’d never been her
husband
in any way that mattered. But she’d believed that he’d watch after his own daughter, while she stayed in Washington to deal with the aftermath of Ray’s murder and Sarah’s injuries.

Instead, he’d just let her do whatever she wanted. She’d signed her own report card and erased messages from the home answering machine documenting her absences from school. While he stayed locked in his office, doing whatever the hell it was he did, Jessica had found their emergency cash fund—ten thousand dollars, sorted in a steel box in the attic—and spent all of it.

While he stayed locked away in his office, Jessica had become a slave. All it took was one night at a party.

Miriam said it was okay, Mom,
Jessica had told her, tears running down her face.
She said it wasn’t addictive. I didn’t know it was meth.

It was too late. When Adelina returned home from San Francisco, she knew there were problems, but not how serious. She knew Jessica was losing a frightening amount of weight, but briefly, her grades returned to normal. January and February crawled by, with Jessica attending weekly therapy sessions. Adelina began to believe they were home free, until Jessica snuck out on a Friday night in April, two days after her eighteenth birthday. She came home with her clothing torn and dirty and a nasty bruise on her face.

Emergency room. Waiting hours. Long discussions with the doctors and therapists.

Then the ugly news. No available beds for three more weeks.

Finally Adelina decided. She made the arrangements to take Jessica to a private Catholic retreat tucked amidst the redwoods, and hired a doctor and nurse to attend to Jessica during the worst of the withdrawals.

“Almost done,” Adelina whispered, as she finished brushing Jessica’s hair. She hadn’t realized tears were flowing down her face. Almost angry with herself, she swiped at the tears and pulled Jessica to her.

“Can we get some breakfast?” slurred Jessica.

“Yes. Let’s go,” Adelina said.

She took her daughter’s hand and they left the cabin. The sun wasn’t quite up yet, but it was close, the sky a vivid rose and orange shimmering through the trees. Adelina led Jessica to the car, then walked around to the driver’s side and got in. Once they were both buckled up, she slowly drove out of the campsite.

Adelina shivered when she saw the old man who managed the site. He was standing outside the cabin near the entrance, in a grubby t-shirt, with a suspicious expression on his face. She was grateful he’d let them stay, but it worried her for the future. She thought about his expression as she drove away from the campsite, pondering his suspicious demeanor, then abruptly pulled the car over.