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Smoke
The house is quiet. Too fucking quiet.
I run to the bedroom, but I already know it’s empty. I dart back out and spot the plant and the doggy door, the plastic panel in the center flopping in the breeze.
I’m calm as I grab my gun and walk out the front door. I’m whistling as I round the house and spot her stumbling across the prison yard.
Game on, Hellion.
I’m a product of sin and violence. I was born with rage sizzling through my heated blood. With every crack of my knuckles, it consumes me until it is me.
I can’t be the good guy, and I don’t wanna be. Frankie Helburn is the only thing standing between me and Frank Helburn and I won’t let it all go because of pussy.
I’m the arrow. Frankie’s my target.
I never fucking miss.
&n
bsp; Chapter Twenty-Three
Beadsof sweat fall into my eyes. I wipe them away with an even sweatier palm. My limbs shake as I lift my knees as high as I can, navigating my way over the tangled vines. I stumble a few times, scraping my hands on short spikey thorns.
I cannot fail.
I will notfail.
I step over the downed sign for Broward County Correctional Facility where the ground is smooth. My breaths are labored. My chest burns.
I make a beeline for the house, running and tripping over a hose. I growl at my own clumsiness and leap up the rickety porch steps.
I hear something inside and I hold in a scream of relief.
Footsteps!
I bang on the door loudly and wildly, checking over my shoulder every few seconds. “Come on. Come on. Open the door,” I chant to myself, shaking out my hands and jumping from foot to foot.
“What’s the trouble, my dear?” A woman comes to the door, wiping her hands on her apron. She’s older, maybe in her late seventies or early eighties. I’m just about to tell her everything when I stop.
If I tell her too much or the wrong thing, I could be putting her life in danger too.
Shit.
“Uhhh…no troubles exactly. I’m just lost and a little winded from walking over all the twisted weeds,” I tell her. “I’m staying with my…boyfriend in a cottage around here, but I went for a walk, and now I can’t find my way back.”
“Oh my. Well, come on in, dear. I’m Zelda, it’s very nice to meet you.” She stands aside to usher me in.
“Thank you,” I say, entering the house. It’s just as small as the warden’s house, but it’s much cozier. Everything is yellow. Curtains, wallpaper, placemats on the table. Every wall has a high plant shelf running across the length of that wall and connecting to the next. Except there aren’t plants on the shelves, instead they’re lined with wooden statues. Mostly of animals, and most of those animals are some variation of dog. Some are crude little things that look as if a child made them with a dull knife and some are so smooth it’s obvious they were sculpted by the hand of a skilled artist.
“Lovely, aren’t they?” Zelda asks pointing up to the wooden statues on the shelves.
“Yes, very,” I respond.
“Are you staying at the warden’s cottage?” she asks, taking me off guard.
I don’t want to lie and the truth might get her in trouble so I do what I think is the next best thing. “Is that what it’s called?”
“It’s the only house around here besides this one. No one’s been there in quite a bit.” Zelda says, shuffling her feet into the kitchen.
“We’re just visiting. We won’t be staying long,” I explain. I’m trying not to jump to my point and worry her. It takes every ounce of restraint I have not to ransack the house in search of a computer.
“Have a seat, my dear.” Zelda points to a yellow chair at an equally yellow kitchen. “Do you need to use the phone?” she asks.
“I’d actually like to use your computer if you have one. I dropped my phone and don’t have my boyfriend’s number memorized so I’d like to send him a message online that I’m alright before I try and head back.” I glance out the corner of my eye toward the window. A chill runs up my spine, and it’s as if I can feel his anger from across the field.
I don’t have much time.
Zelda nods. “Would you like some tea?”
“Sure, I’d love some.” I twiddle my thumbs on my lap and tap the toe of my shoe against the table leg.
Zelda puts an old yellow kettle on the burner. “I got one of them fancy lap-stops,” she says, speaking slower and slower as the moments pass. “Friend of mine gave it to me for Christmas. He set up the internets and all, but I have no idea how to use it. Grandkids use the WeeFee when they visit, but they bring their own lap-stops. Let me just go fetch it for you.”
Zelda pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose and slowly shuffles from the kitchen. When she comes back, she’s holding a laptop, but it’s at least four inches thick and dark blue in color.
It wasn’t a laptop, it was the firstlaptop.
“You got this for Christmas, you said?” I open the ancient computer praying to every god I can think of that the internet connections works. My fingers fly over the keyboard. I ask Zelda for a password, but only to be polite. I’ve already hacked the connection.
I’m on.
“Password is Christmas1993.” Zelda says proudly, setting a cup of tea next to me.
“Is that the year you got the computer?” I ask.
“Yup! That’s the one!” she holds up her own teacup and takes a sip.
“Thank you so much,” I say, taking a quick sip. I set the teacup down and go back to the computer.
“You’re awfully banged up. You get in a fight with some livestock and lose?”
“Oh, this,” I say, touching my fingers to the corner of my lip. I forgot about my bruises and scabs. “Car accident.”
Zelda twists her lips. She’s not buying it.
“With a truck,” I add. “I uh. I mean, a truck hit my car.” Shit.
Zelda nods, but I can tell she’s not sold on the story, and I don’t blame her.
I wouldn’t believe me either.
I’m in the deep web. Here, I’m not a clumsy young woman who’s never experienced even a fraction of what life has to offer. No, here I’m at home. I’m comfortable navigating barriers and obstacles put in place to keep people like me out with practiced ease.
I could use my time to put out an SOS call instead of locating the file that needs to be transferred, but I decide not to. Not just because I can’t spare the time, but because I can’t put Zelda at risk. Lord knows what he’d do to her if he thought she aided my escape in some way.
After a long series of replacing bank code with my own, the money is there and the transfer is finally happening.
It’s sloppy and not my best work, there are some other channels I would’ve liked to delete along the way, some ends I would’ve liked to tie up to cover my tracks, but there’s no time for painting scenery today. This is abstract art. A few splashes on paint on the canvas, and I’m done. I’m so tempted to send an SOS message. It would only take a few minutes more. I look to Zelda.
There just isn’t enough time, and it’s too much of a risk.
I sigh in both relief and disappointment, then wipe Zelda’s computer, making sure any trace I was ever here is erased from the memory before shutting it down and sliding it across the table.
