(To go back to Part Seven, click here)

Susan sipped her soda, the carbonation tickling her nose. She had mixed feelings about inviting Puligi into her home. When she had first met him at the hospital more than a year ago, he came across as a desperate man cruising the emergency room chairs for a date. When she got angry, he admitted he was a student conducting research on dating. Finally, after he intervened on Ronnie’s behalf and subdued Larry Outhouse, he told her he was a federal cop watching Larry’s activities. The latter, while uncommon, seemed believable considering that Larry had lunged at Ronnie earlier that day and subsequently smashed his face nearly into oblivion.

Now, although his story that he was just now getting around to following up with her sounded a bit suspect, Susan thought the situation Puligi described sounded serious enough to enlist help. She didn’t want Ronnie getting into trouble with the mob. He was her baby, but her ability to protect him extended only so far. One single mom, no matter how tough and wise, would be little match for vicious men bent on revenge.

So, with hope and worry battling for brain time, she had dialed the number Puligi provided, and the mysterious man stood in her kitchen seemingly enjoying a soft drink. Nevertheless, she was keeping her guard up.

“You know, that C2 was good stuff. Why did Coke drop that product?” Puligi asked.

“I don’t know. I liked Pepsi Edge, myself.”

“Oh, a Pepsi woman, huh?”

“Guilty,” Susan said.

Puligi looked at the Coke Zero bottle on the counter and glanced at her with raised eyebrows.

“Oh, that? I’ve never liked Pepsi’s diet drinks.”

They both looked around the room. Susan felt nervous, and suspected the same of her guest as Puligi tapped a large pinkie ring against the side of his highball glass.

“You can always count on me for riveting conversation,” Susan said.

“Don’t discount the topic at hand, Susan. Long after today’s children are gone from the world, the Coke versus Pepsi debate will rage on.”

She blushed at his use of her first name. What the hell’s wrong with me? I’m acting like a schoolgirl.

“I suppose you’ve researched that, too, in the finest ER waiting rooms,” she said.

“Touché.”

Where are Ronnie and Daddy?

——-

Sitting, her legs dangling through the attic door, Trena peered down at the ladder. No way to fold it up from here. She knew it would instantly alert her mother, but with any luck she would sleep in until at least 10 o’clock.

She stood slowly, holding a vertical beam whose sole purpose seemed to be holding the light switch, and flipped on the light. The little bit of plywood flooring was covered, down to the square inch, by boxes. She adjusted her rucksack, took a deep breath, and raised her arms out to her sides for balance. With the agility she had developed through several years of playing soccer, Trena straddled span after span of white blown insulation. The rucksack’s added weight and the awkward strides between ceiling joists made stepping lightly a challenge. She hoped her mother didn’t hear.

The arches of her feet ached when she reached her destination. She leaned on the firewall between the duplex units, able to stand without crouching. The wall gradually got shorter as it extended toward, but stopped short of, the point where the roof met the ceiling. Although she had never crawled through it, her judgment had been right — the gap was just large enough for someone her size.

She walked, both hands against the firewall, constantly ducking lower to avoid bumping her head. She groaned; her back was not happy with that mode of travel.

Finally she squatted and got on her knees. The bare bulb in the center of the attic didn’t cast much light into the space before her. She made it to the gap and peered through into complete darkness.

She had forgot the flashlight.

Oh, shit. I can’t go back now. She had visions of a misstep bringing her crashing through Kerri’s parents’ bedroom ceiling, drywall and insulation snowing down around her. No, can’t go back. She waited for her pupils to adjust.

Minutes later, without enough light to embark on a journey across Kerri’s attic, Trena turned and sat down to relieve her knees. She glanced at her watch and pushed the Indiglo button; it read ten past midnight. If she didn’t make it that night, she might never again summon the courage. Tears welled up and only surface tension kept them from spilling over onto her cheeks.

From somewhere on her right came the sound of heavy springs stretching. As she turned to look a shaft of light pierced the blackness. She heard someone folding down Kerri’s attic ladder, and then ascending footsteps.

The next morning, Trena lay perfectly still in the cargo area behind the minivan’s third row seats. Her left side felt cold, like the time she went winter camping and slept on a boulder with no sleeping pad. Otherwise she was toasty warm underneath the thick fleece blanket Kerri had thrown over her. “Mom won’t even notice,” Kerri had said. “We keep it in here in winter in case the van breaks down on a trip.”

Her escape now depended on waiting, the one thing that drove her crazy.

“Oh, I hate this light. I don’t understand why it says, ‘no right on red,’” said Kerri’s mom.

Trena knew they must be on Alexander, waiting to take a right into a strip mall near the bus station. It featured “Food Dude,” a small regional grocery chain that carried items the larger stores ignored. Trena thought of her favorite candy bar, “Coffee Crisp.”

“Go, Mom, it’s green,” Kerri said.

“Oh, I don’t know where my head is.”

The minivan swung around and then proceeded for less than a minute before a jolt sent Trena airborne. She landed back in the same spot, clenching her teeth to keep from screaming. Her back would have to wait a little longer for its much-needed respite.

“Jesus, Mom! Watch out for the speed bumps!” Kerri scolded.

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear. My mind’s on permanent lunch break today.”

Trena felt a swing to the left. The van stopped. This might be it. Get ready for it.

“You know what’s got me so flustered, honey?”

“Not right now, Mom. Please.”

“I just really think you’re too young to know whether you’re a lesbian.”

“Mom, shut up! Just go in the store!”

A lesbian? Trena couldn’t help recalling the times that Kerri had shown little interest in boys. Instead of the questions filling her mind, she concentrated on her task. She heard the van door open and close, but remained silent until she heard from Kerri.

“Okay, Tree, she’s in the store now.”

Trena threw the blanket off. “Can you please help me get up? My back’s killing me.”

After she gritted and grimaced her way back to her feet, Trena stood facing her friend. “We have a lot to talk about when I get back.”

“Yeah, I guess so. Sorry it came out like that. I really meant to tell you, but then you got caught up in this other stuff.”

As they stood there hugging, Trena couldn’t help feeling awkward.

“Good luck,” Kerri said over Trena’s shoulder.

“Thanks.”

Trena dashed as fast as she could across the parking lot to the bus station. She quickly nudged her way past the masses to get in line for a ticket. Next stop, Ronnie.

——-

David awoke to a day he hoped would end well. Following uneventful ablutions, he reported back to the police station to give a description to the sketch artist and to browse through hundreds of mugshots in tattered photo albums. As he sat there in Kevin Butcher’s cubicle poring over the pictures, none of the faces rung a bell, and he got depressed thinking of such a large number of suspected criminals wandering the world unchecked.

Butcher returned with the artist’s sketch in his hand. “You’re really going to laugh when I tell you this,” he said.

“Good, I could use it,” David said.

Butcher thrust the drawing into David’s face. “This guy? The one you call ‘Big Man?’”

“Yeah?”

“He’s one of the good guys. More specifically, he’s James Luker, and he’s in charge of the U.S. Marshall’s Witness Protection Program.”

“No way,” David said.

He set the sketch on his desk. “That’s right. The Anthony you heard him mention? That’s Anthony Puligi. Seems he was assigned to a Witness Protection Program case, and this girl is part of that family.”

“No shit?”

“None. Sometimes the Marshall’s office informs local authorities of a protected family’s placement, and after just a little digging, I found our records on it.

“This was a big case. A guy called ‘Lead-head Larry’ worked for some big-time mafioso. Apparently he met this girl’s mother during a hospital stay and married her. Not long after, he agreed to testify against his boss.”

David let it sink in. Although he had suspected that the “Big Man” was shady, until now it didn’t seem real. He almost pinched himself to make sure it wasn’t a nightmare.

“Damn, Kev. Why did this Luker use me instead of some government hacker?”

“That’s got me stumped. Maybe he was working outside the rules and didn’t want it traced back to him.”

David looked at the sketch on Butcher’s desk. “I’d say he struck out there.”

——-

“Would you say that your son has been pining for Trena?” Puligi asked.

“I think the word ‘pining’ is a little strong. And a little pompous,” Susan said.

She walked to the front window to watch for Ronnie’s arrival. A car she’d never seen sat where her Buick usually stayed. “That silver Audi out there, with a plate that says ‘too much for you.’ That yours?” she asked.

“No, I would never drive a foreign car. Mine’s a black Chrysler 300.”

“I prefer American cars, too.”

Susan liked Anthony Puligi. She found it hard not to like a man who, by her reckoning, had saved her son’s life. It didn’t hurt that his looks were much better than her memory of them.

A loud crash came from the entryway. Susan gasped.

“Get out of the apartment, Susan!” Puligi said as he pulled his gun from a shoulder holster.

“What’s going on?”

He squatted behind the recliner and aimed his gun at the entryway, his shooting hand resting on his opposite forearm. “Someone’s trying to break in. Just go. Go out the front patio doors.”

“I have a gun upstairs.”

“This won’t last long enough for you to need it. Now, go!”

Susan ran to the sliding glass patio doors. A man stood on the other side, holding a gun next to his grinning face. Susan screamed. That’s impossible.

Puligi turned to look.

Another loud crash came from the entryway, this time along with the sound of splitting wood.

——-

Trena ended up seated next to a stinky man with dirty, torn clothes. She had slept through most of the bus ride, and now with only a few miles to go tried to rub the sleep from her eyes.

——-

Ronnie sped down the road and zipped past the huge cottonwoods, now seemingly the only steady presence in his life. Except for his mom. Oh, God, Mom, I’m so sorry. He wanted to turn back and rush into his apartment. Is that what I should do? Is she even in trouble? All he knew was that somebody called “goob2berdy” had told him not to talk to Trena or it would mean trouble for both of them.

He headed for the nearest place with lots of people and a pay phone. He could hide in the throng and then call for help. Only one time, to see the confused man now seated next to him, had he been there.

“Ronnie, what are we doing? Why did you turn around and leave?” Grandpa asked.

“Long story, Grandpa, but I think there was someone following us this morning, and now his car is in our parking lot.”

“Why would someone follow you?”

Ronnie tried to think where to begin. “That girl who got hurt. Remember that story?”

“Yes.”

“Well, her stepdad was bad news. They were moved here by the Witness Protection Program, and after her accident he smashed up my face. While he was waiting for trial for that, somebody found him and killed him in his cell. Her and her mom had to move again. Now I think whoever’s following me has something to do with the mob.”

“I’m not sure I got all that.”

“Sorry, no time for more details. I’m trying to think what to do next.”

“Call the police. Stop now and call the police.”

“I’m going to, but somebody might be following us right now. I want to get somewhere that they can’t just grab me.”

——-

Susan couldn’t believe her eyes. Standing there on her patio, wielding what appeared to be a snub-nosed .38 caliber, was Larry Outhouse.

Outhouse looked at Susan and yelled through the glass, “Where’s your no-good, little girl-fucking son?”

He looked past her and saw Puligi. “There’s the mother cunt-fucker who sucker-punched me. I’m a lucky man!”

“New plan, Susan,” Puligi said, “let’s get upstairs before that door comes down. You say you have a gun somewhere?”

She led Puligi in a confused, terrified dash to her bedroom, where she flung open her closet doors and reached up to pull out her gun lock box. “How is that possible? We heard Outhouse was killed awaiting trial.”

“The prosecution decided he was too valuable as a witness in the mob case to let him go down for beating up Ronnie. They leaked false information about his death to help ensure nobody would look for him.”

“So what happened?”

“He slipped through our fingers.”

(to be continued)