Surviving The Fall

- Title Page

- Chapter I

- Chapter II

- Chapter III

- Chapter IV

Surviving the Fall

A thriller and two short stories

William R. Potter

Copyright © 2011 by William R. Potter

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

SMASHWORDS EDITION

SURVIVING THE FALL

Chapter I

DECEMBER 26

James Goodal jarred the oversized revolver from a dying man’s hand and then tossed the weapon across his living room. Even in the after-midnight darkness, he could see blood, soaking red the beige carpet near his feet. The man no longer stirred so James averted his gaze to the top of the staircase and to his surprise, he couldn’t see or hear her.

“Ashley,” he called.

No answer.

“ASHLEY!” he yelled as loud as his voice would allow.

Still no answer.

Fear held James in place; fear of what he would find if he ascended to the second floor of his home. He thought he heard a faint, weak whisper calling to him. A shiver went through him, and he knew he had to move.

He stepped over the body and charged up the stairs for the second floor, and after an instant, he found her a few feet from her bedroom.

“Oh god, Ashley, no!” The teenager had both of her hands clutching her left thigh a few inches below her crotch. Blood was seeping between her fingers. James knew that if the bullet had cut the main artery in the leg she could bleed out.

His mind was adrift in panic, searching for what he should do. Then it slammed into his brain. “I’ll call an ambulance.” He jogged for the phone next to his bed and quickly dialed 911.

“Ambulance!” he blurted when the operator asked for his emergency.

“My roommate was shot in the leg. It’s bleeding badly!”

While sprinting back to where Ashley lay, he pulled off his pajama top and placed it on Ashley’s leg.

“Apply pressure!” the operator said.

“I am!” He kneeled next to Ashley with one hand on his portable phone and the other holding the shirt to the wound.

“Is she breathing?”

“Yeah, she’s looking right at me.” The horror in Ashley’s eyes sunk into him and panged his heart. He had never in his life felt so worried for another human and so utterly useless to help.

“The ambulance is just a few minutes away, sir,” the operator said.

Then the operator began asking about how Ashley was shot, about the kind of firearm, and who fired it.

“Is the shooter still in the house, Mr. Goodal?”

“Yes, I think he’s dead.”

“Dead, sir?”

“Yes, I killed him.”

James set the phone aside and took Ashley’s hand in his. “It’s okay, Ashley. They’re coming. Just hold on, sweetie. Hold on.”

“I love—you—James,” Ashley said almost silently, and then her body wilted and her eyes rolled back and closed.

“ASHLEY, No!”

Chapter II

ASHLEY METCALF

Seven days earlier, James walked west on Kingsway in the sleet of a mid-December Friday afternoon. Inside the oversized shopping mall, holiday mayhem was in full effect. The politically correct powers had all but eradicated Christ from Christmas, and he wondered what the point of it all was anymore. Even the mall Santas couldn’t be called St. Nick or Kris Kringle; they were affectionately referred to as the man in a red suit.

He had no interest in shopping for presents or any of the forced family get-togethers that would ensue. The entire holiday only served to remind him that he was separated from his wife and only recently at that. The street was packed with cars, each occupant in search of the perfect gift opportunity for that special someone. He shook his head. He needed coffee and that was the only purchase he cared to make.

In the distance, a vehicle made a panic stop with tires screeching. Everyone just needed to calm down, he thought.

“Now get out and trade punches,” he said to himself. He smiled.

Instead, the driver floored the accelerator and sped toward him. The vehicle was an enormous late ’70s Cadillac with aftermarket-smoked windows, chromed wheels, and ultra low-profile tires. Then the driver’s door opened and a body flew out into the street and rolled over and over until it came to rest stomach up. The Cadillac didn’t slow down; in fact, it increased speed and roared past him. The person lying on the pavement was a woman and she put her hands to her face; however, she did not get up from the middle of the street.

For a moment, James thought he had walked into a movie shoot. He looked around, and no one was moving to help the woman so he began to step into traffic. He put his arms up and waved his hands to get the attention of the motorists, and in seconds, he was standing over the woman.

She was young, not even driving age, he presumed. Despite her scrapes and cuts, she was beautiful. A horn sounded and he startled. He looked into the girl’s eyes and saw a level of fear that he himself had never experienced.

James reached down and scooped the woman into his arms and carried her as a groom would carry his bride over the threshold. He held her until he reached the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street and he placed her on a bus stop bench seat. She said nothing. She sat staring at her hands in her lap, with her bleach blond hair covering most of her face.

“Are you okay?” James asked. He saw blood through her torn jeans at the knees and from a scrape on her chin.

She remained quiet.

“I’ll get my car and take you to the hospital.”

She shook her head. He couldn’t miss noticing her deep brown eyes.

“You probably have a concussion or even worse.”

The wind increased, forcing the rain through his jacket until it met his flesh. He shivered and kneeled to look into the girl’s eyes.

She looked away. “I’m fine!”

“Look. I can’t just leave you here. Let’s get you cleaned up at least.”

“Just leave me alone, okay?” She glared at him, with her eyes wide and intense, and then she stood and turned from him. And walked away.

James watched her slight limp as she continued along the sidewalk. She would be freezing in her skin-tight jeans and sweatshirt. He had to do something, but what? He couldn’t force her to go to the hospital.

He replayed the scene he had just witnessed in his mind and cringed when he thought about what it meant. He had never felt so much concern and anxiety for a complete stranger in his life.

He presumed she was a prostitute and addicted to God knows what and a runaway from a nightmarish home life that he couldn’t imagine.

“Shit!” James fumbled in his wallet for a twenty and folded his business card around the bill. He jogged after the girl and stopped her.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing. If you, a—if you change your mind, call me.”

She grabbed the twenty from James, turned without looking at him, and disappeared into the street crowd.

James stood there trying to catch a glimpse of her and feeling nothing but apprehension for her future. He wanted to believe that the incident in the street was somehow an accident. He knew different; he knew she was in trouble. No one falls from a moving vehicle, and is left behind without some horrible reality behind it.

He wanted to pick her up again and take her home. To clean and bandage her wounds, to feed her, clothe her, and soothe her fear. He wanted to protect her from the man in the Cadillac and to give her the chance that so far, life had kept from her. Most of all he wanted to show her that someone cared.

Perhaps she didn’t want or need any of his help. Perhaps she wasn’t as bad off as she appeared.

But what if she was?

James skipped his cup of Columbian dark and headed home. As hard as he tried, he could not force the memories of the Cadillac and the young woman and her body rolling violently on the icy wet hardtop.

Those eyes, he thought, betrayed her tough words. She wanted his assistance; only she didn’t know or trust him enough. James paced his living room, walked up, and down the stairs from the second floor of his home and checked and rechecked the phones to make sure they were in working order.

“Jesus, Goodal,” he said to himself, “Shelly was right, you are a drama king.” He shook his head. Shelly, his estranged wife, had often called him a champion for the lost and forgotten. Years earlier, when he and Shelly were first together, she had accused him of needing to be needed. “You’d bring home the whole damn world and their dogs if you could,” Shelly yelled at him one night when he had acquired another homeless pet. Was she correct? Had he graduated to people from stray animals?

James nibbled on potato chips, sipped Chardonnay, and continued his nervous patrol of his home. He always felt that the house was insanely large for one person, with four bedrooms, three bathrooms, a family room, and two kitchens.

It was Shelly’s dream house, back when she dreamed of a life with him with kids and visiting in-laws and all that bullshit. Now it was a 3,800-square-foot reminder that he had failed as a husband.

The phone rang, and he just stood there frozen. Before he could find the handset, the machine kicked in and a friend of Shelly’s babbled an extensive message for her. Shelly had left almost six months earlier, and she had not informed all of her acquaintances that she no longer lived at the address nor was she even in the country. Sometimes he believed that Shelly left friends in the dark so they would call and he would have to admit that she was gone.

Thoughts of the girl pushed memories of his soon-to-be ex from his mind. He decided that he would think of her and call her Blue Jean. Not very creative, and he hoped that David Bowie would forgive the plagiarism.

“I just met a girl in blue jeans,” he sang in a whisper.

In his bedroom, he stripped down to his shorts and fell back onto the bed. Blue Jean was never far from his thoughts. Those eyes. Pain and suffering was in them.

Where was she from? Were her parents insane with worry for her? He imagined a mother crying hysterically on the six o’clock news, begging for her daughter’s safe return and her father, unshaven, haggard, and lost in a guilt-ridden haze. Had his strict discipline driven her to run away?

He shook his head in a feeble attempt to stave off a memory of his own mother, hysterical with worry for his older brother when he ran away from home so many years ago.

“Enough!” he said aloud.

He had to settle his thoughts or he would not sleep that night. He poured a glass of scotch, set the thermostat to high, and lit the fireplace; however, he continued to feel cold.

A moment later, he stripped off his damp clothes and climbed into the shower. He didn’t wash himself; he just stood, breathing in the steam and staring at shampoo bottles. The effort did nothing to keep the girl from his mind. He stepped from the stall and stood dripping in front of the fogged mirror.

Slowly the glass cleared and he quickly looked away before his face came into view. He couldn’t stand to look at his own pathetic image. He was confused, anxious, and appalled by the wild thoughts that escaped when he thought of Blue Jean.

Collapsing into bed, he sighed and pulled a blanket over his still-wet body. He set the clock radio to play for an hour and then automatically shut off. Soft jazz filled the quiet of the midnight still.

As his eyes became adjusted to the darkness, he never felt more aware of his own loneliness. A queen-sized bed often felt inadequate for two; however, it swallowed a lone sleeper in its immensity.

The radio stopped playing, and he knew without looking that it was almost one in the morning. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, determined to get some sleep. Soon, the weekend would be over and his wailing alarm would signal the beginning of another workweek. He began to drift off, caught for a while in that place between true sleep and awake.

A loud ringing jolted him and caused his heart rate to gallop. He reached for the alarm off button and fingered it once—twice, and still the ringing rang out.

The phone.

After quickly lifting the receiver and noticing the display read Pay Phone, he said a mumbled, “Hello?”

A moment of silence and then, “Hello, James?”

“Yeah.”

“This is Ash—ley.”

James was speechless. His breath caught in his throat.

“You still there?”

“Yeah.” He sat up on the edge of the bed.

“Um . . . I . . . ah, don’t know if you can help me, but . . .”

“What do you need?”

“I don’t know where I am—it’s Vancouver, I guess—downtown.”

Her voice had lost the fearless tone that he had not believed in the street that afternoon. She was on the verge of tears.

“Okay—”

“These two guys picked me up and wanted me to—I’m just so tired.”

“It’s okay.” His heart pounded.

“I’m so scared.” Her voice cracked with emotion.

“You have no idea where you are?”

“No, there are some nightclubs . . . but I’m not sure . . .” She began to sob.

“Okay. I’ll come and get you but you need to figure out where you are.”

“How do I do that?” She sighed. Then she said, “Oh, just forget it!”

“Ash! Ashley, don’t hang up. I’ll find you.”

Silence, then, “Okay.”

“Now, you are going to have to ask someone where you are and then call me right back. Okay? Do you have enough change?”

“Okay, I see some people walking this way.” To the pedestrians she said, “Hey, where am I?”

James heard a drunken male voice say, “On earth. But you can be right here, baby!”

“Fuck off!” Ashley yelled.

“Anytime, anyplace, bitch!”

“Ashley, try and find someone who looks sober.”

“Okay.” Then the line went to dial tone.

He hung up and stared at the handset. One minute passed, then two and three. James began to curse himself for letting her get off the line.

The phone rang and he snatched up the receiver and fumbled to hit the talk button.

“Ashley?”

“Yes, it’s me.” She continued to speak with a tearful voice that upset James in a way that he had never felt before.

“This lady said that I’m on Richards Street by Dick’s on Dicks?” she paused and asked if he knew where that was.

“Yeah, I know it. It will take me about half an hour. Will you be okay?”

“Yes. I think so. If you could—could get me a cheap room or something I’ll pay you back when I can—as soon as I can.”

James thought about it for a few seconds. “Look, I have a huge house. If you want, you can crash on the couch until you know your next move.”

Ashley paused. “Why would you do that?”

“You need a place to sleep and I have room.”

“And what do you want in return?”

“Nothing.”

“Everybody wants something.”

Did he want something more than to help? Perhaps, she could fill the emptiness of his home, his life.

“Look, if you want help, you got it. I’m heading for my car. If you want to continue this conversation, then call my cell number.”

“Okay, I’ll see you then?”

“Yes. I drive a silver Chrysler 300. If you don’t see me in thirty minutes, then call my cell because I couldn’t find you.”

James continued to question his own motives for what he was doing, driving downtown at two in the morning to find a teenage girl who was running from an unimaginable life. Doubt that he would even find her crept in on him. The streets would be crowded and Ashley could be lost in the mob of nightlife soldiers. He cast aside his moment of uncertainty and continued his journey.

He turned onto Richards Street and drove at a speed that would allow him to check phone booths, bus stops, and every dark corner. He glanced at his cell and noticed that the display showed a strong signal and full charge. After he finished the second and third pass of the area, worry and full-blown frustration flooded his senses. He saw homeless people, prostitutes of every gender and persuasion, and countless bar-and-club patrons walking in small groups moving in every direction.

No Ashley.

“Where are you?” he said out loud.

James made a quick right turn down a street unknown to him and then a left up a lane. Out of the darkness, he saw a female form moving quickly in his direction. His headlights finally lit her face, and she stared at him for a few seconds and then she turned to glance at the three young men following her. James drove ahead until Ashley was next to his passenger window. He stared at the largest of the men, young and drunk and looking for a fight. A tinge of fear rolled through him as he leaned over and opened the door and yelled at her to get in.

Ashley hesitated until she heard one of the pursuing trio calling out to her. She swung her slim body inside and sat next to James. He pulled the gear selector into R and reversed as fast as he could drive backward without losing control.

“Friends of yours?” he said to break the silence and then cringed at the stupidity of the comment.

“No,” she whispered.

James searched his brain for more appropriate conversation topics and could come up with nothing.

“Mind if I smoke?” she said in a tiny voice.

“No. Go ahead.”

She pulled the cigarette from a crumpled pack and then sighed when she realized she didn’t have a match.

He pressed the in-dash cigarette lighter and waited for the device to heat and then pop out from the socket. When it did, he handed it to the trembling child sitting next to him.

The car filled with smoke and he inched down the front windows. Finally he spoke. “I’m James Goodal,” he said.

“I know. It’s on your card.” She looked him up and down as if she needed one more sign that she could trust him before revealing her full name. “I’m Ashley Metcalf.”

“Morning, Ashley.” He smiled. She didn’t return his grin; however, she did thank him for picking her up.

“Those guys—they . . . um . . .?” he stammered.

“They wanted to party with me . . . but something freaked me out so I just got the fuck out of their limo. They started to chase me—so that’s when I called you.”

“Okay.”

“Where are you taking me? I mean, I’m not picky. I’ll pay you back when I can or, I could . . . um . . .”

“You can crash on my couch for a couple of nights—until you decide what to do.”

“You said that on the phone but—” She rubbed her hands and he knew she was uncomfortable. “Don’t you know what I am?” She cleared her throat. “Wives and girlfriends tend not to like people like me.”

“That doesn’t matter,” he spoke without thinking, and he wondered where his words were coming from. “If you’re honest with me, about your situation, then I’ll get you help—for drug addiction, booze, abuse, whatever . . .”

“Why? Why would you help me? What do you want?”

“Ashley, I don’t know your story but I know that you’re really just a kid. I know that something shitty has got you doing what you do. I can help—if you let me.”

“You’re sure you want to do this?”

“Yeah,” he paused. “Do you use drugs?”

“No. Well, maybe a little weed sometimes.”

James drove in silence for a few minutes until he stopped at the curb less than a block from a cheap hotel. He looked over at the woman-child beside him. A yellow glow from the sodium vapor streetlights lit her face and he shuddered at how young she looked.

Ashley tossed her cigarette butt out the window and glanced at him.

He continued driving and then pulled his Chrysler over and stopped in the parking lot of a motor hotel. It wasn’t the Ritz; however, he knew that it wasn’t a dump either.

“So, I can get you a week here—or you can try the couch at my place.”

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“You’re safe with me, Ashley. I promise. I know that doesn’t mean shit. But that’s all I can offer you.” He slowly reached a hand and wiped a tear from her cheek.

She whispered something unintelligible.

“Take a chance. Spend a night on my couch. Have breakfast in the morning, we’ll sit down, we’ll talk. If I scare you or whatever, then you can leave.”

“Okay,” she said quietly.

The last ten minutes of the drive home were silent. Ashley gazed out the window like she was looking for someone and half wanting to find that person and at the same time fearing the reunion.

James turned from his street and parked at the top of the driveway and decided not to put the Chrysler in the garage.

When Ashley didn’t speak or move, he said, “This is it.”

She turned toward him and forced a smile. How young she was and the pain in her eyes again shocked James. She opened the door and waited for him to lead the way to the front door to his home. A sudden flash of apprehension over what he was about to do washed over him. This girl could kill him in his sleep and clean out his belongings and invite her friends over for a house wrecker party. He pushed the thoughts from his mind and unlocked the door.

“Oh my god, you’re rich!” Ashley said when she stepped into the entranceway.

“Rich, no. I do okay but I’m nowhere near rich.”

“Well, you look loaded to me.”

Everywhere Ashley looked she appeared to be surprised by what she saw. He began to understand the level of poverty that she must be accustomed to. He wasn’t wealthy, living well above his means, surviving largely on credit.

“You want to take a shower or can I get you something to eat or drink?”

“A shower would be awesome, but I’m so tired.” She continued to wander around his living room. “I’d kill for a glass of water.”

“One water coming up.”

A minute later, he handed her a bottle of spring water. She uncapped it, took a long swallow, and wiped her face with the back of her hand. She hesitated then sat on the couch. Her eyes had dark circles of fatigue and her ripped clothes gave her an appearance of defeat.

“Tylenol?” he asked.

“Um . . . sure.” She took three and downed them with gulps of water.

“I could make you a turkey sandwich or warm up some soup?”

“Ah, you wouldn’t have any of those frozen waffles?”

“Yeah, I do. Two with syrup?”

She nodded, and he headed for the kitchen and in minutes had the waffles and a glass of OJ ready. With cutlery in hand, he returned to find her asleep.

“Night, Ashley.” He removed her shoes and covered her with a blanket.

Chapter III

THE DOOCH

Anthony Verducci stood over the double bed where Jo-Anne Metcalf slept soundly. She hadn’t aged well in the thirteen years since he first met her, but then who had? However, despite her loss in the looks department, he still thought she was the best lay he had ever experienced. He smiled.

“Vacuum lips,” he whispered and smiled again. “Jo!” He began to get irritated and kicked the bed.

“Get lost, Tony,” she moaned. “It’s almost three.”

“Get up, bitch. We need to talk.” He kicked the bed again.

“’Bout what?” She reached without opening her eyes for a pack of cigarettes.

Verducci snatched the pack away before Jo-Anne could reach it. “Chan-fucking-Lee is back in town and wasn’t too happy to learn that we put most of his product up our own freaking noses.”

“Did you tell him about our plan to get him that new girl?” Metcalf sat at the edge of the mattress and held out her hand for a cigarette.

“He don’t want any fucking girls that ain’t along on their own free will.”

“I’m sure you could convince that kid to play nice for Lee.”

“Lee is out of the slave trade, Jo.” Verducci took Metcalf’s face and jerked her head to look him in the eyes. “So you got to ease up on the junk or Lee will grease us both.”

“Chan Lee needs us. Calm down, baby.” She reached for his crotch.

“What the fuck does he need us for? You stupid bitch, huh?” He brushed her hands away from his jeans. “You don’t hook no more and he doesn’t want any more girls for export.”

“We can—”

“Can what? All Lee wants is two things, loyalty and for his people to earn for him.”

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

“I do, Jo. We’re fucked. We don’t earn and we are into the blow for three grand.”

“Three? That’s bullshit! It can’t be that much. We made a killing bootlegging that truck load of booze.” Metcalf pushed away from Verducci and stood.

“Flogging whiskey to kids ain’t gonna add up to what you snort.”

“So . . . so what is Lee going to do?”

“Well. When Mitch tells him that you and I are down, he’s gonna be pissed and then he is gonna want his money real quick.”

“I can stall him, baby.”

“You sucking his dick ain’t gonna work no more! You know what we need to do, Jo.”

She frowned as if she didn’t understand and then it registered in her drugged brain.

“No fucking way!”

“Then what?”

“Told you not to send Ashley to the coast, you asshole!”

“Sending her out there saved our asses.”

“Didn’t your fat-ass cousin pay Lee when he got Ashley?”

“Yeah. But we’re still down.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Mitch says that Lee will need at least three and Lenny didn’t give them that much for Ash.”

“We should have kept her here and put her out full time. She still has the look that could get some large cash quick.”

Verducci knew that worried look that Metcalf had on her face. He also knew that she was stupid and stubborn.

“You know that we can’t get that anymore. She’s too old.”

“I’m not gonna give you the brooch. No way.” She turned away from him.

“The fuck you’re not.” He spun her toward him and grabbed her by the shoulders.

“Don’t you get it? Lee will kill us.”

“Not if you kill him first!”

Verducci laughed. “Kill Chan Lee Ping? Sure, Jo. I’ll get right on that.” He shook his head and flung her aside.

“Well, then think of something else to clear things with him. ’Cause that brooch is all I have and I’m not giving it up to Lee.”

Verducci clenched his fists. He couldn’t reason with her when she got this way. Metcalf would risk death rather than give up her grandmother’s diamond brooch.

A pawnbroker once told Verducci that it was worth over a hundred grand and he would gladly give him twenty for it any time. That twenty would clear things with Lee and then Verducci would leave Metcalf behind. He no longer had any use for the junky whore. Better still, Verducci knew how Lee wanted the brooch for himself. The center stone of the piece held some significance for the gang leader. Lee called the stone the Dragon’s Eye. When Lee looked on it, he went into a strange trance. That stone was a “get out of shit free” card for Verducci and he intended to use it straight away.

“You’re not pawning it, Tony. No fucking way!” Metcalf yelled and then coughed a long phlegm-filled hack.

“Yeah, we’ll see.” He was deep in thought about pacifying Lee with the brooch and then getting out of town for good. He would set something else up, in Hamilton or Toronto. He would be fine.

“Get the door,” Metcalf said. “I need to piss.”

He wasn’t listening. He had to get the brooch and the sooner the better. Metcalf thought it was secure in the bank vault; however, he knew better. He heard the second knock on the door.

“Get the damn door,” Metcalf yelled from the toilet.

Verducci crossed the apartment and peered through the peephole in the door. Before he could react to get his revolver, the door busted in, knocking him off his feet. A seven-foot-tall bald man stood over him. It was Chan Lee’s muscle, a Burmese giant known as Mr. Ho.

Mr. Ho didn’t speak. Verducci didn’t know if the man was truly mute or if it was all part of his persona. He also knew that if Ho was here then so was Mitch O’Malley.

“Dooch, you piece of shit,” O’Malley said. “How the fuck are you?”

Mr. Ho grabbed Verducci by a fistful of shirt and a number of chest hairs and jerked him to his feet. Mr. Ho had his usual rancid fish breath and expressionless face.

Metcalf was screaming and charged from the bathroom like she was going to rescue Verducci from Lee’s people. She ran straight into Ho, and he halted her progress by grabbing a handful of hair and twisting her head back at an uncomfortable angle.

“Easy, Mr. Ho,” O’Malley ordered. “We can’t do it here, mate.”

“Do what?” Metcalf stammered.

“Kill us . . . you stupid cunt!”

“I like the way you think, mate. Let’s go, and quietly.” O’Malley had a sick smile on his ghostly white face. His red hair was slicked back with grease.

“You tell Chan Lee that I want to talk to him, Mitch,” Metcalf said, finding an ounce of bravado.

“Sure, no problem, lass.”

Mr. Ho had no difficulty guiding his captives through the door. Verducci had always been amazed at the man’s strength. Now Tony was experiencing that power firsthand.

“O’Malley. Tell Mr. Lee that I have the eye and it’s all his if I can disappear.”

“What eye? What the hell are you talking about?” Metcalf said.

“It’s too late for that now. Lee wants this cleaned up and that’s just what I aim to do.”

“Lee wants the eye, Mitch. I know he talks about it. He needs it.”

Mr. Ho didn’t even slow his march through the filthy hallway and then he jammed Verducci and Metcalf into the stairwell.

“Lee would be pretty indebted to you both for bringing him that eye.”

“What is this fucking eye?”

O’Malley slapped Metcalf, sending her feet out from under her. Mr. Ho yanked on her dirty blond mane to keep the woman standing.

“You still have it, mate? You’re not just stalling me?”

“I can get it.”

“Bullshit, Dooch. You hawked it years ago.”

“You’re talking about my brooch. No fucking way.”

“You stupid woman. You think they’re taking us for fucking breakfast?”

O’Malley had his cell phone out and turned away from Verducci. “Yeah, boss. Mr. Ho has them now. No, there is no problem.”

Verducci knew his time was running short. He needed to do something and quickly. He felt Mr. Ho’s grip ease on his shirt, and he immediately pulled away from the enforcer and snatched the cell from O’Malley.

“Lee, the Dragon’s Eye. I have it!” Verducci spoke without ever hearing Chan Lee’s voice. He heard static. “You hear me, Lee? I have the eye.” He looked up to see O’Malley’s Glock pistol in his face.

The stairwell felt like it was shrinking by the second. He turned away from O’Malley, feeling confident that the man wouldn’t shoot him with Chan Lee on the other end of the phone. He smelled vomit, feces, and cannabis smoke. Had Lee disconnected?

“You have it? You’re not stalling?” Chan Lee Ping said.

“I can get it for you, Mr. Lee. I swear.”

“Put Mitch back on.”

Verducci handed the cell to O’Malley. The Irishman took the device and never lowered his pistol. He spoke quietly to Lee and then closed the line.

“Lee says he is going to St. Paul for three days. If the eye is not in his possession the second he steps off the plane on Wednesday, then, well, Mr. Ho will use you and your whore for batting practice.”

O’Malley gave Ho a signal and the behemoth slung his captives out the doorway to the hall on the second floor. Verducci sat there staring at Metcalf; his breathing slowly returned to normal and he stood and walked away. He had a key to find in his room.

Chapter IV

TOO GOOD

James Goodal awoke in his easy chair. His first thought was that the entire event with Ashley Metcalf was nothing but a bizarre dream and the fact that she was no longer on the couch added to his delusion theory. As he stood, he found the girl on the floor in front of the couch, wrapped in the blanket, curled in a fetal position.

His watch told him it was four thirty in the morning, and he felt like he hadn’t slept in days. He walked for the stairs to the second floor and his bedroom and stumbled on the first step. He turned to look at Ashley and shook his head. Somehow, he felt that by bringing this person into his home, he had opened the door to a mountain of trouble. He collapsed on his bed and after struggling for a few minutes to find a comfortable position, returned to sleep.

Later when he awoke, the first thing that he thought of was Ashley; although he couldn’t remember the details, he knew she was in his dreams that night. She was stunning. She was a child. He had carried her from the street, sat next to her in the car, covered her as she slept, and the entire time he understood that he had never before been this close to such a beautiful woman. And that was as near as he could ever get to her.

In the living room, he could find no sign of Ashley. The waffles were finished as was the juice. Then he heard the downstairs toilet flush.

When she saw him, she smiled. The first real grin he had seen on her pale face.

“Morning,” James said.

“Hello.”

“You sleep okay?”

“Yes, the best in a while.” She rubbed her eyes and pushed her hair from her face.

“Good. You didn’t have to eat those waffles. I could have toasted more or made something else.”

“They were good.”

“I’m making coffee. You want some?”

“Sure. Actually I would like to take you up on that shower.”

“Follow me then.”

At the upstairs bathroom, he handed her a towel, showed her where the shampoo, conditioner, and soap were and demonstrated the tap action. He looked her up and down and thought that she needed more clothes. He would take her shopping; however, for the time being he had some items she could use.

“This closet is full of clothes my wife left behind.” He opened the linen closet and then stepped aside. “I know wearing used stuff is weird, but it’s all clean and she isn’t coming back for any of it. I was going to send all of it to Goodwill, so help yourself.”

Ashley’s eyes lit up as though she had just won the lottery. She turned with a tear on her cheek and said thank you.

“There is no underwear, so maybe we can pick some things up later.”

“This will do fine. I can’t afford anything else.”

He sighed. “After you shower, let’s . . . um . . . talk, Ashley. I still want to help and I don’t mind getting you some personal items, you know?”

She looked in his eyes without speaking, and then she whispered softly and nodded.

“Okay, then. There’s lots of hot water so take your time.”

James returned to the kitchen and took inventory of the refrigerator. He decided that he would take her out for lunch. He was happy, more so than he had felt in months. Often, he had wished for a reprieve from the pain he felt separated from Shelly. During dark times, he even welcomed his own death.

This girl had endured a hell that he could not imagine, an existence that would emotionally cripple someone twice her age. Now, she stood in his shower, perhaps thinking about this man who had welcomed her into his home. What did she think about this situation? Did she trust him? Was she afraid? He imagined that she had survived this long by keeping an alertness, ready to fight or flee at a moment’s notice.

Maybe she was waiting for him to doze off and she would pinch everything she could carry, run, and never look back. He hoped that Ashley was mature enough to recognize the opportunity that he was willing to afford her.

“Um, James?”

He startled at her voice. He turned to see her standing in a blouse and panties.

“Uh-huh?”

“The water has these cuts bleeding. Do you have a Band-Aid?”

“Sit and let me take a look.” He pointed to a chair.

He knelt before her, careful not to see anything that he shouldn’t. Both of her knees were scraped and bleeding. “Let me get the first aid kit.”

He cleaned and picked small pieces of grit from the scrapes and dabbed the wounds with alcohol. Ashley flinched; however, she didn’t cry out. She had a tolerance to pain that could only come from experience. After applying antibiotic ointment, he placed bandages and finished by rubbing her calf. He quickly pulled his hand away when he realized that his touch was more of a caress and was inappropriate.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

“Yeah, I . . . um . . .” His shyness around her embarrassed him. “I should have done that last night.”

“I was out, before you could.”

He nodded. “Did you find some clothes that fit?”

“Yes, some nice stuff. I guess your wife is a bit smaller than me?”

“Yeah, I guess.” He noticed that the top she wore fit her snugly.

“Anyway, it’s really nice of you to let me wear them.”

“No worries. You want to go out and get some lunch?”

“That would be awesome.” She looked away. “There are some nice bras in a bag in the closet you showed me. Really expensive ones.”

Yes, he thought. I spared no expense when I bought things for Shelly.

“But they’re a bit too small for me.”

He remembered Shelly’s poor body image and low self-esteem. “We’ll get you some new ones later.”

“This . . . this all seems too good to be true, James.”

“Try to trust me.”

“It’s hard. You’ve done so much already and all I’ve done is bleed on your bathrobe. I wish that I could do something for you.”

You’ve given me a reason to get up this morning. “You don’t have to do or give me anything—ever.”

A few minutes later Ashley appeared in the kitchen, this time in beige slacks and an off-white blouse. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her face was free of makeup. Just looking at her confused the male brain, for she had the face of a child and the body of a swimsuit model. He had to look away when he felt his cheeks blush and his heart rate rise.

“So, um, how are you feeling now? Any pain or anything?” James said.

“Well,” Ashley smiled. “I’m surviving the fall, I guess.”

He thought about what she said. Did it refer to the tumble from the Cadillac? No, it sounded like some old cliché.

“Oh yeah? That’s an interesting saying.”

“Huh? Oh, it’s something my grandmother Anne used to say if you asked her how she was. She would call out, ‘Just surviving the fall from grace.’”

“Did you see her a lot?”

“No, didn’t know she existed until my mom went to jail when I was a kid. Grandma looked after me until Mom got out.”

“I see.”

“She’s dead now, my grandmother.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You said something about lunch.” She smiled that intoxicating grin that he knew would always melt him.

“You sure you don’t want some cold waffles? They won’t be as stale and hard as—”

“All right, Mr. Goodal.” She giggled. “Lunch me.”

James picked a restaurant that was well-known in the neighborhood. He seldom went there himself, as it was always crowded. However, he thought that if he chose a quiet smaller establishment, Ashley might think that he didn’t wish to be seen with her.

Perhaps, he was over thinking things. He wanted her to feel comfortable, and when she looked at him across the table, he saw her smile. He took the grin as a sign she’s beginning to trust him. He also noticed a shiner growing under her right eye.

“God, I’m hungry. Everything looks so good in the pictures.”

“Order anything,” he said and then looked over her face. “Oh, you kind of look like someone smacked you around. People might look at you funny and think I did it.”

“Shit, the waitress did look at me like she was wondering.”

“Just keep it in mind.” He imagined her leaping to her feet and yelling, “Help, this man kidnapped me.”

Later after ordering, he decided to talk about more serious topics. “So, Ashley. Are your parents maybe wondering about you?”

“Huh?”

“I have a million questions.”

“Why?”

“Ashley, come on. Think about how we met. I mean, I’m worried about you.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” She attempted a smile and then paused before continuing. “What do you want to know?”

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