The Miracle Strip (25 page)

We stepped out of the car and into the humid night air. The side door of Tan Fannies stood open and the sound of music and men catcalling the dancers drifted out into the neighborhood. I moved swiftly across the street with Denise right behind me, into the sheltering darkness of the trees that surrounded the Outlaws' front yard.

There were no motorcycles in the front yard, only a large white Lincoln parked under the lone light shining onto the gravel driveway. A small garage marked the end of the driveway like a mausoleum. There was no sign of life on the inside of the faded wooden house. It stood eerily silent, its front porch casting an ominous shadow over the bushes that lined the front of the house.

Denise and I moved quickly past the front of the house and began edging closer to the windows along the side. One small window was open about six inches.

“If I boost you up, can you open it more and crawl in?” I asked Denise.

“Me?” Denise squeaked.

“Well, I'd go myself,” I whispered sarcastically, “but I got eight inches and twenty pounds on you, so it'd be hard for you to lift me.”

“Twenty-five,” she whispered caustically. “Let's go.”

I braced my back against the side of the house, laced my fingers together, and hoisted Denise as far as I could. With a harsh thud that seemed to rattle the ancient house, Denise heaved her tiny body across the windowsill. There was the sound of a soft splash, then Denise's voice swearing. A few moments later, the thick mop of black hair appeared at the window ledge.

“Wouldn't you know it,” she called softly. “Right in front of the friggin' toilet. I'm soaked.”

“Forget about that,” I said. “Get to the back door and let me in. And be quiet. Somebody could be in there.” Denise's eyes widened and she disappeared. I crept cautiously around to the back door and waited. In a matter of moments the door creaked open and Denise beckoned me in.

“God, you stink,” I whispered.

“I don't think they worry about flushing, Sierra,” she said softly.

“All right, did you hear anything? See anything?”

“You can't see a freaking thing in here,” she answered. “How're we going to find anything?”

“Stand still and listen,” I commanded. We were both silent, listening for anything we could pick up. Somewhere above us I could hear the faint sound of a dog whining.

“Oh God, it's Arlo,” Denise breathed. Before I could stop her she was gone, racing through the darkened house, bumping against furniture in her haste to reach her baby.

I followed her, pulling the penlight I'd brought out of my back pocket and using it to pick my way through the house. The place was a shambles. Dirty sofas, ripped armchairs, and battered end tables lined what was intended to be a living room and dining room area. The banister shook and nearly came loose as I attempted to climb the steps. I could hear Denise crying and talking—I hoped to Arlo.

I followed the sound of her voice down the central hallway, past bedrooms that appeared to have mattresses on the floor and little else. I found Denise in the corner of a front bedroom, on her knees, with Arlo firmly clutched in her lap.

“Sierra,” she cried, her voice choking with tears, “I think he's dying.”

I stepped over to her side, squatting down beside the two of them. The room reeked of dog urine and feces. The small wire cage that had been Arlo's prison was covered with dog shit. I shone the flashlight on Arlo and realized that he was indeed in bad shape. His ribs stuck out through his encrusted fur and his eyes were sunken into his head. He stuck out his little pink tongue and tried to lick Denise's hand.

“What have I done?” she cried. “This is all my fault.”

“Denise,” I said, “you can't do this. We've got to get Arlo out of here, right now.” I stood up, reached to help her up, and froze. Someone was walking down the hallway toward us.

It was too late to react. There was nothing we could do and nowhere to hide if we'd wanted to try. The room was filled with the glaring light of a single lightbulb that hung from the ceiling. Even as I blinked, trying to adjust to the brightness, I knew our intruder. His boots were the first thing I saw and the last thing I remembered about him.

“I knew you'd be back,” Rambo said to Denise. “I see you brought the SPCA along with you.” Behind him I could hear the snickers of his companions, and I knew then that we were trapped. When I'd thought it was only Rambo, I'd figured maybe we could take him, but with three or four on two, there'd be no chance.

Rambo stepped easily into the room and looked around. Two other men followed, chains dangling from their back pockets and guns in their hands. Rambo paid no attention to his entourage. He was looking at Denise while he pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his shirt pocket.

“There's a bounty on you, you know,” he said. “Walt don't like it, you being a bitch and ripping us off.”

“I didn't—” Denise began.

“Shut up!” Rambo screeched. In two quick steps he'd covered the distance between us and stood inches from Denise's face. His breath was sour with alcohol. His eyes were narrow pinpoints and his breath came in quick shallow gasps. Rambo liked his cocaine, I thought.

“How'd you know we were here?” I asked, hoping to draw his attention away from Denise and Arlo.

He looked at me and blew smoke right in my face. A thick, black-handled knife had materialized in his hand. He stepped closer, bringing the knife up close to my face.

“How do you think them titties would look if I was to carve my initials in them?” he rasped.

I didn't move, didn't say a word. One of his companions sniffed uneasily and this distracted Rambo momentarily. When his attention returned, his mood had changed.

“You think we'd leave the clubhouse unprotected?” he asked. “You were seen. Sam, here, just walked on over to Tan Fannies and let me know you'd arrived. We've been waiting.”

“Look,” Denise said, “I've got the money. I was going to tell you that Leon couldn't do the deal and give it back.”

“What kind of dumb ass do you take me for?” Rambo asked. “You two ain't going nowhere until Walt comes back from Daytona. No, you two ladies are our guests for the weekend, so enjoy yourselves. I can assure you, me and the boys are going to enjoy ourselves.” Rambo reached out and flicked the material of my shirt with his knife.

“Rambo, you up there?” a male voice yelled out from downstairs. “You got company.”

“Shit. It's them damn Mexicans, I bet,” he said to the others. “Come on.” Rambo walked briskly from the room followed by the two men. “Lock up,” he barked.

One of the men pulled the door shut, and from the outside I could hear the sound of a key being inserted into the dead-bolt lock. Denise began to tremble uncontrollably. I felt a chill move through my body. Below us, the house began to fill with loud voices and music. The bikers were partying, and when they reached their peak and finished with whoever had come to see them, we would be the next item of interest.

Two minutes passed in which neither of us said a word. Denise perched on the edge of the filthy mattress, rocking Arlo back and forth like a baby. Finally she looked up at me and I saw the fear was gone from her eyes.

“Well,” she said softly, “I'm thinking the window.”

I stepped softly over to the window and looked out.

“I'm game if you are,” I said. “We're over the porch roof. It's steep and it looks kind of rotten, but if we could make it to the edge, it would only be about an eight-foot drop.”

“What about Arlo?” she asked.

“I got an idea about that, too,” I said. I pulled the black turtleneck I wore off, stripping down to my black sports bra, and tied the neck hole closed. “Put him in here,” I said, holding the bottom end of the shirt open, “then turn around.” Arlo was too weak to move or put up a struggle as I strapped him to Denise's back, papoose-style.

“Ready?” I asked. Denise nodded and I moved to the window and slowly raised it. The high-pitched squeal it made filled the room, echoing off the empty walls. I stuck my head out and looked down. The porch roof was a four-foot drop. It would be easy as long as we didn't land on a rotten piece of shingle or slip on the thin layer of moss that coated the disintegrating shingles.

“Go first,” I said. “I'll try and help.” The short drop to the porch roof was nothing Denise couldn't handle if the roof held.

Denise swung one leg over the windowsill and stopped. Arlo was tied to her back and not moving.

“Sierra?”

“What?” Another sound was filtering through, past the sounds of bikers partying. It was the sound of someone in the hallway. Denise looked up at me, her eyes wet with unshed tears.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Nobody ever went out on the line for me before.”

The footsteps were definitely coming closer, stopping outside the door. We had to move quickly. I gave Denise a little shove.

“Someone's coming, hurry,” I urged.

Denise lowered herself over the edge and dropped softly onto the roof below. Crouching down, she began to inch her way toward the end of the house and the sheltering branches of a pine tree.

I was halfway out the window when the door to the bedroom swung open. I didn't wait to see who it was. I swung my other leg over the sill and jumped, barely catching myself as I hit the roof. My left foot slammed into a rotting shingle and sank two inches down into the roof's surface. The porch wasn't going to take much more abuse and might not even hold the two of us as we tried to climb down.

There was a muffled shout and then Rambo stuck his head through the window.

“Don't even try it!” he yelled.

I didn't look back, just kept heading for the edge of the porch where Denise waited under the sheltering arms of the pine tree. I knew he was coming. I reached the lowest edge of the porch and laid down.

“Denise,” I said, “hang on to my wrists and the edge of the gutter and drop down. It's only eight feet.”

Behind me I heard Rambo swear and swing his leg over the windowsill.

“Hurry,” I said. Denise wasted no time. She grabbed my wrist with one hand, anchored herself alongside the gutter, and swung over the side of the house. Light spilled out into the yard from the lower floor, and the loud sounds of bikers drinking and yelling echoed through the tiny yard. No one would hear her drop.

Rambo swung himself over the edge and dropped onto the roof behind me. One foot landed in the rotten hole and sunk up to his ankle.

“Goddamn it!” he roared. “I'll kill you.” He lurched across the roof and I didn't wait to see if he'd make it. I grabbed at the gutter and prepared to swing off into the darkness.

“Not you.” I felt my head jerk backward, throwing my body off balance. Rambo's hot sour breath coated my face. “One down, one to go,” he snarled. Wrapping my hair firmly around his thick hand, he led me, stumbling backward, across the rotting porch roof and toward the gaping window where the others waited.

I couldn't fight back. I could barely keep my balance as he dragged me. Down below, I could still hear voices and the sound of men running and shouting to one another. I didn't hear a sound from Denise. Had she made it? Could she possibly have gotten away before the others knew what had happened? I wasn't much for praying, not in any organized sort of way, but I found myself muttering the rosary from childhood. She had to get help for me. She'd do that, wouldn't she?

Rambo pulled me through the open window, not caring that he scraped my back against the sill, not easing up on my hair.

“So I got you,” Rambo said, sneering. “We'll get your friend, too. She couldn't have gotten too far. Then we'll have us a real party.” One of Rambo's men laughed and I felt my stomach turn. “What d'you say we have a little entertainment?” Rambo asked his friends. “Wouldn't them Mexicans love a little T and A before they go?”

He turned back to me and took his time looking me over. “I hear you can dance,” he said softly, tightening his grip on my hair. “Well, I got a hungry audience downstairs. I think we oughta let them see you, one last time, before you go.” He laughed, a high-pitched evil laugh that shot out over the others' laughter.

One last time before you go.
The words echoed through my head. What happened when the music stopped? I didn't want to think about it. Instead I turned my head as far as I could, given that my hair was wrapped around Rambo's grease-stained hand, and looked him dead in the eyes.

“You assholes are in luck,” I said, “'cause I'm the best that's ever been. Now let go of my hair.”

There was a moment of silence. Rambo just stared at me, like I was too brain-damaged to know what happened when the act ended and I was alone in a room with a bunch of bikers and their coked-up friends. Then he nodded slightly, let go of my hair, and pushed me toward the door. Where in the hell was Denise and how long could I stall these morons?

The excited rumble of voices and noise stopped when Rambo shoved me into the living room. There had to be twenty men and maybe five women, although calling them by gender was giving them the generous benefit of the doubt.

“Over there,” Rambo said, pointing toward a long table. “Do it on there.”

“Yeah, then we'll do you,” someone yelled out and the others laughed. I had no doubt that he was speaking for all the men in the room. What a fucking way to go.

“Wait,” I said. “Let me see the music. I gotta have music.”

Rambo hesitated, then pointed to the stereo and CDs that lined one side of the wall. I wandered over and squatted down, pretending to peruse the selections. I waited until I heard Rambo walk up behind me, then I stood up and turned, a CD in hand.

I couldn't tell you what I picked, just that I knew it had a good beat and a playtime of over four minutes. It was going to have to be the longest and best performance of my life, because when it ended, if Denise hadn't gotten to the cops, I'd be beyond saving.