From the murky brume of unconsciousness, I become aware of a man’s voice.
“Yeah, that’s my thought too. Um-hm. I don’t think she should take any chances; this guy’s playing for keeps. Yeah, I will. Thanks. You too, Bart.”
I try raising my head, but judders of pain torpedo through my body. My hand goes instinctively to my face; fingers tenderly probe a jagged, zipper like wound just under my right eye. It stings to the touch and I can also tell that the skin surrounding the wound is swollen by the acute pangs my fingers are causing. My entire torso is racked with a gut-splitting agony; drawing in air inflicts little bayonets of pain.
Though the room is dark, I can make out the coffee table, my purse and travel bag, tossed on top of the easy chair across from the couch, where I am lying. Pickles lies next to me. When she feels me stir she begins purring. I am home. The hallway is framed with light which means the voice I heard was coming from the kitchen. It is Freddie’s voice. I try to sit up, but my body revolts. I yelp out a sharp groan.
Footsteps. Freddie emerges from the shadows with an icepack in his hand.
“You’re awake,” he says.
The darkness and Freddie’s presence in my house make my brain oscillate with confusion.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“A little after three in the morning. Here, put this on your cheek. It’ll reduce the swelling.”
He proffers the icepack and sits on the couch next to me, elbows on knees, hands clasped together, staring down at me. He reaches out and draws back my hair that has fallen on my face.
“I came back to the van but you weren’t there.”
The terrifying incident with BLU BOY is suddenly front and center in my memory.
“I found you in the alley. You got beat up pretty bad.”
“It was Peña,” I whisper, as if even in the safety of my own home BLU BOY could hear me.
“We should call the cops,” Freddie says.
“No!” I bellow out, and then immediately shrink back into the cushion of the couch in pain.
Freddie grabs my shoulder.
“Easy there.”
“He said he’d kill Robyn if I went to the police.”
“We don’t even know for sure if Robyn is with him. At least getting law enforcement involved covers our bases.”
I twist my body facing Freddie and give him a look.
“No cops. Period. I know Robyn’s with him; I feel it. Besides, he’s on notice now. He knows I’m not about to back down.”
“Don’t be foolish. Peña’ means business. He could put a bullet through your head with no compunction whatsoever.”
“Yeah? Well all I need is a gun and I’d be happy to return the favor.”
Freddie’s jaw line tightens. He gives me a stern look.
“You’re playing with fire, Margot. This guy is the real deal. He’s not going to be frightened by some mother on a mission.”
“And I’m not frightened by some punk on the streets who victimizes children!” I spit out.
And then my strong veneer cracks. The pain of just breathing, the thudding in my head from being pistol whipped and the ache in my heart knowing that Robyn is again out there somewhere becomes a tidal wave of despondency. A tear breaks from my eye, runs down my cheek and into my open wound. Its sting produces more tears.
I am unable to speak. Freddie holds me and lets me cry.
“I know,” he whispers. “I know.”
The warmth of his body is a blanket of comfort and he smells of crisp autumn leaves and a comforting woodsy tinder.
“I want you to have this,” he says, pulling back from me.
From a hidden breast pocket in his black vest he produces a gun. It is small, a silver barrel with black grips. I recoil.
“No,” I shake my head. “I couldn’t.”
“It may not come down to what you could or could not do,” he says. “It may turn into what you have to do.” He presses the weapon into the palm of my hand.
“It’s a Colt. Double action.38 special. It’s small enough to conceal, but it’ll do the job if you get into an impossible situation.”
I stare at the metal object in my hand and curls of a surreal sensation drift through me.
I look at Freddie. “I wouldn’t know how to use it if I had to.”
“I’ll teach you,” he says. His voice is calm, dispassionate.
I find myself amazed that he can be so composed. His thumb traces an imaginary line down my cheek as his other hand closes my fingers round the Colt, now warm from my skin.
I close my eyes and as I allow myself to absorb Freddie’s quiet poise, a trickle of something akin to peace wends its way through me. I feel his lips kiss my forehead and the caress detonates a memory of something precious I lost a very long time ago.
As Freddie leans in to kiss me again, the rattling of a key in the front door invades the silence between us.
Rob’s imposing presence blots out the front porch light.
“Rob!” I say.
“Margot?”
“Mr. Skinner,” Freddie says, rising from the couch, holding his hand out in greeting.
“Well,” says Rob, “now that we’ve got everybody’s name, maybe somebody can tell me what in the hell is going on.”
Rob gazes from me to Freddie and then back to me again.
“Your wife has been injured. But she’s okay,” Freddie says.
“What the hell is going on?” Rob responds.
“Calm down, Rob,” I say. “We were in the City looking for Robyn. I was walking into a convenience store to buy a bottle of water when I was attacked by some hoodlums. I’m fine. No harm was done.” Freddie and I exchange glances.
I have already decided that the best course for now is to lie to Rob about BLU BOY. Rob has proven to me that he’s a loose cannon and the last thing I need is for him to storm into San Francisco, proverbial guns blazing, especially since I know he’d go straight to the SFPD.
“Yeah,” Freddie says following my lead. “Couple of street punks but I chased them away.
Rob seems satisfied by this explanation. He moves to my side, sitting precisely where Freddie was and wraps me in his arms.
“Oh God, baby, are you okay?” his voice is muffled as he presses me close.
His grip sends wracks of misery through my body. I grimace silently.
“I’ll be going,” Freddie says, letting himself out the door.
I watch the front door close.
Rob releases his grip around me, takes me by the hands and peers into my face.
“I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I know I need help. Please, please.”
He releases my hands, grasps me by the upper arms and looks me straight in the eye.
“I’m an alcoholic. I need help; I know that. I will do whatever it takes to make this work.”
Sister Margaret’s words run through my head: ‘If your husband had cancer or diabetes, would you just abandon him?’
“Oh Rob, I don’t know. Maybe-”
“Shhh, don’t say anything. Just rest.”
“I don’t want ‘us’ to get in the way of rescuing Robyn,” I say, in protest.
“I get that,” he says. “Don’t worry; it won’t,” he grins. “I’ve got nine days sobriety. Nine days,” he says proudly.