The Chronicles of Marr-nia (Short Stories Starring Barbara Marr) (10 page)

“I’ll kill you,
beetch
!” he screamed, grabbing at my neck again.
 
Luckily he was still off kilter, and so toppled and landed on his face, only knocking me over, but on my way down I heard the deafening
pow
,
pow
,
pow
of gunfire.
 
Then another, and then another.
 
I had no idea where they were coming from.
 
Was Howard dead?

I tried to get up, but Peach Fuzz was still on a mission to end my life.
 
He had crawled up on top of me and I could feel his hot guacamole breath in my face.
 

“You’re mine,
beetch
,” he said, pulling my hair and scratching my cheek with a shiny silver six-inch blade.
 
He moved the blade quickly to my throat.

It was like one of those awful dreams where you want to scream – you have to scream – but you can’t.
 
You open your mouth, and no sound comes out.
 
People were all around me, but I had no idea if I was going to live or die.

Suddenly, I realized dying wasn’t an option.
 
I had three girls to
raise
.
 
There was no way in hell I was going to die and let someone tell those girls that their mom had been too weak to save her own life.
 
What kind of mother would I be?

Without another thought, I dug my teeth, all twenty-four of them, into his bad-ass arm like a hungry piranha.
  
He screamed, dropped the blade and rolled off of me.
 
While I was rolling in the opposite direction, I heard another pop.
 
When I looked over, Peach Fuzz Number One was limp and bleeding.

A familiar voice in my ear said, “He was going for the knife again.
 
I had to do it.”
 
The familiar voice was Howard’s.
 
The familiar voice made me very happy.

That night, the news reported that there had been a shooting at a small shopping plaza in Rustic Woods, Virginia.
 
Three men had been fatally shot, and the assailants were still at large.
 
The Fairfax County Police could not confirm if it was gang related, but the FBI’s National Gang Task Force had been was to called on the scene to review the situation.
 
Interestingly, there was no mention of the apartment explosion.

Maria made it to the hospital just in time to give birth to a healthy baby girl who she named Paula Diane.
 
The other two girls, Sofia and Amelia were taken to a women’s shelter.
 
Howard assured me they would be cared for and kept under police protection until their families were found and could be notified that their daughters were alive and well.

The next morning, Howard came by the house after a long night of tying up loose ends and writing reports.
 
Deep circles under his eyes told me he’d barely slept, if at all.
 
I poured him a cup of coffee and we sat quietly, enjoying the married couple ritual.

“So, you
gonna
let me move back in, now that I’ve saved your life?”

“Maybe.
 
You have to tell me something first.”

“What?”

“How did you find us in that shop?”

“I had you followed, of course.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“I don’t trust Colt.”

“He’s your roommate.”

“That’s why he’s my roommate.
 
I can keep tabs on him.
 
He’s still in love with you, you know.”

“He’s harmless.
 
He’s our friend.”

Howard silently stared at his coffee, not offering a reply.

“Barb?”

“Yeah?”

“I
– ”

“Knock, knock!
 
Hello!
 
Anyone home?”
 
It was my mother.
 
The knock, knock was rhetorical.
 
She always barged in uninvited and unannounced.

Howard rolled his eyes.
 
He was not my mother’s favorite person, and the lack of affinity was mutual.

I wanted to hear what Howard had to say.
 
“What?”

“Nothing, I’ll tell you later.”

“There you are,” stated my mother, as if she seriously didn’t think she’d find us.
 
“Coffee?
 
Do you mind if I have some?”
 
Rhetorical again.
 
She was already pouring.
 
“It’s colder than a witch’s heart out there.
 
Barbara dear, how are you?
 
I’ve been so worried about you.
 
Look at that cut on your face!”

“I’m fine, mom.
 
It will heal.
 
You didn’t say hello to Howard.”

“Hello, Howard.”

“Diane.”

“How are things at the Bureau?”

“We’ve got things under control, Diane – no thanks to you.
 
You’re on our radar now.”

“I’m on everyone’s radar.
 
Did I ever tell you that I once turned down a job with the CIA?”

Howard rolled his eyes again.

“Those girls needed our help, Howard Marr.
 
You and your boys don’t get the job done.
 
And
there’s
more of them out there.
 
Hundreds, maybe thousands, of these poor girls.
 
Who cares about them?
 
Who’s going to get the job done and sweep the streets of the slime
who
enslave those poor souls?”

“Diane, your intentions were good, but you almost got them, yourself, and your daughter killed yesterday.
 
Leave the street sweeping to those of us who are trained to handle these things, okay?”

My mother sniffed, took a quick sip of her coffee, and then setting the cup down, made a new declaration.

“Well, I’m off.
 
I have an appointment with Senator Thomas today.
 
I’m joining her campaign – I’ll be her speech writer.”

“Since when are you a speech writer?”

“I told you
before,
I’ve written several books, including two memoirs.
 
I plan to publish them someday.”
 
She looked at her watch.
 
“I’m late!”
 
And in her usual
Endora
-from-Bewitched manner, she was gone as quickly as she had appeared.

“Is what she said true?”

“About turning down a job with the CIA?”

“About more girls out there – forced prostitution.”

Howard nodded.
 
“It is.
 
These gangs aren’t pretty and they aren’t nice.
 
Drug running, human trafficking – it’s their business.
 
It’s how they make a living.”

“It’s gross.”

Howard nodded again.

“I never hear about this on the news.
 
You’d think they’d be all over stories on like this.”

“People care about their retirement funds and stock market portfolios.
 
It’s easier to confront.
 
Girls being kidnapped and sold into slavery – not so easy to confront.
 
Easier to ignore it, or pretend it’s someone else’s problem.”

“It’s gross.”

“You said that already.”

“Because it’s true.”

“We’re doing what we can.
 
I promise.”
 
He stood up, kissed me on the head, and looked me in the eyes.

“I have to go too – people to meet with, slime to lock up.
 
The usual.
 
Can I take you out to dinner tonight?”

“I thought you’d never ask.
 
I’ll have to check with my husband, though,” I smiled as I followed him.

“I don’t think he’ll mind.”

The doorbell rang just before Howard reached the door.

“Hmm, wonder who that is?”

I spied a man from Rustic Woods Fancy Floral standing outside the open door.
 

“These might be for you,” Howard said with a sneaky smile on his face, as he walked past the man who holding the suspiciously long,
ribboned
box.

After signing and thanking Joe the Floral Man, I ripped open the box – a dozen purple roses – my favorite color.
 
The card read:
 
Life is too short.
 
Let the romance begin.
 
I love you.
 
Howard.

BONUS SHORT STORY:

“The Recollections of
Rosabelle
Raines”

By Karen Cantwell

This short story was originally published in the mystery anthology,

Chesapeake Crimes: They Had it
Comin
’

If you enjoy this story, be on the lookout in 2011 for the novella,

The Many Lives of
Rosabelle
Raines

“The Recollections of
Rosabelle
Raines”

Rosabelle
Raines had lived at least a thousand lives, and much to her dismay, she could recall them all.

Lying on the cold, winter ground,
Rosabelle
rubbed her aching eyes while she recovered from the most recent incident.
 
Some wisps of her fine, ebony hair had slipped from their silk netting, falling over her face.

“
Rosa
,” whispered her sister, Flora.
 
“Are you with me?”

Drained of energy,
Rosabelle
moaned, but would be unable to speak for a minute or more.

“Does this happen often?”
 
The man she heard speaking appeared as a blur at the end of her tunneled vision.
 
He seemed to hover miles away, but in reality, his warm face was nearly touching hers.
 
She could smell his breath – a touch of ale, she thought, and possibly some corned beef.
 
She detested corned beef.

“She . . . she has . . . fainting spells.”
 
Flora offered a worried, tentative explanation.
 
Weaker in spirit than
Rosabelle
, she was badly affected by her sister’s spells.
 
They gave Flora such distress that she would suffer stomach maladies for many days after.

“We should get her to a doctor,” the man urged.

“No!”
 
Rosabelle
shouted, her voice returning just in time.
 
Rosabelle
found herself sitting upright, and the man responsible for her condition was no longer a distant blur.
 
Pleasing to her eyes, he was fair of skin and possessed a head of enviously thick hair the color of summer wheat.
 
In his left hand he clutched a newspaper and a stovepipe hat made of a fine silk that belied his humble station.
 
Perhaps the hat was a tribute to the late President Lincoln.
 
Rosabelle
might not care for his corned beef breath, but she would consider a person of good spirit if he revered a man the likes of Mr. Lincoln.
 
Not a popular sentiment for a woman from the South,
Rosabelle
knew, but she did not often subscribe to opinions just because they were popular.

“I have no need for a doctor, sir.
 
A brisk walk in the fresh air and some tea at our destination will be the only medicine I need.”
 
She brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes.
 
“Flora, could you help me to my feet please?”
 
Rosabelle
placed a hand in the shallow snow to give her some leverage, while holding the other up for her sister’s assistance.

“Here, let me help.”
 
Eli Witherspoon, the young man who had touched
Rosabelle’s
hand by way of introduction just moments earlier, was about to touch her again by placing his own hand under her back as support in her attempt to stand.

Signaling him to keep his distance,
Rosabelle
rebuffed his offer promptly.
 
“No!
 
You have done enough.”
 
Stuttering a moment on her words, she quickly corrected herself.
 
“What I mean to say is you are too kind.
 
Truly, sir, your assistance is unnecessary.
 
We have a system, my sister and I.”
 
With minor struggle,
Rosabelle
was on her feet.
 
She quickly tucked the wayward strands back into her snood, attempting to regain some appearance of dignity.
 
“See?
 
I am upright.”
 
Rosabelle
gave a slight curtsy to Mr. Witherspoon while brushing snow from her sapphire velvet cape, then placed her hands back in her muff for warmth.
 
Only then did she recognize the newspaper the young man held.