Max wanted to hug her, to pat her back and tell her it would be okay, but as he pictured the woman’s life spread out before her, he knew even if her child came home it would never be okay.
“I have a photo on my motorcycle. It’s a sketch of a possible abductor.” Care to come down and take a peek? You might recognize him.
It was a lie. He didn’t have any such photo in his bag and he didn’t have a plan for what he’d do with Joan if he got her out of the apartment, but he couldn’t just walk away.
Joan sniffled and wiped her face on a dish towel.
Denny shook his head, no.
“Just for a second, Denny. I’ll come right back,” she pleaded.
Joan followed Max to the door.
He stepped into the hallway and started to turn back, but in a flash, Denny was up and hurling himself across the room. He grabbed Joan by her hair and dragged her back into the apartment, wrenching the door closed.
Max swore as his foot, which he’d stuffed into the opening not a moment too soon, was pinched between the frame and the door.
Denny grunted and opened the door further. Max knew if he managed to slam the door a second time, his toes would be broken if not severed.
Max slipped one of the tonfa from his pants and shoved it into the opening, pulling his foot free. The door crashed against the stick, but didn’t close. Max pulled out the second tonfa and kicked the door as hard as he could.
As the door crashed in, it hit Denny with a sickening crunch of bone.
Denny howled.
Max plunged into the apartment, observing everything as if through a fish-eye lens.
Denny clutched his nose, which spurted blood down his gray t-shirt, which featured a rifle and the silhouette of a buck. Joan backed into the corner, blood-shot eyes wide, and her arms crossed protectively over her chest.
“Come on,” Max said, holding out his hand.
“Over my dead body,” Deny exploded, flinging a handful of blood to the floor with a splatter.
Joan stepped away from the counter, and Denny’s fist shot out, catching her in the back of the head and sending her sprawling to the kitchen floor. Max watched her hands slide through Denny’s blood.
Denny’s other fist darted toward Max and Max jumped back, hitting a kitchen chair that skidded into the wall. He lifted both tonfa up, the short end of the sticks pointing toward Denny, the length of the tonfa pressed against Max’s forearms.
Denny stared at him, and his mouth broke into a smile as if he’d bested his opponent before the fight had even begun. Denny lunged forward and swung. Max ducked and jabbed the tonfa beneath Denny’s rib cage.
The man shrieked and brought his knee up. It narrowly missed Max’s nose, but found his eye. The pain struck Max dumb. His eye felt as if it had exploded in his head, but he didn’t pause, instead gritting his teeth and throwing himself sideways before Denny could bring two meaty hands down onto his back. Max went down on one knee, another explosion of pain in his kneecap. Denny ran at him and Max jabbed both sticks hard into Denny’s crotch. One caught on the man’s jeans but the other drove home, connecting with the soft yielding space between the man’s legs.
Denny’s eyes shot wide, and he released a blood-curdling sound that caused Joan to cry out in fear. Max jumped up and brought a stick down hard on the back of Denny’s neck.
The man fell forward still clutching his balls.
“Come on. Now!” Max barked, grabbing Joan’s blood-slick hand and hauling her from the floor. She was crying and trembling, her feet skidding as Max dragged her toward the door.
“No, I can’t. He’ll kill me if I leave.” She reached out and grabbed the doorframe, clutching it.
The door across the hall had opened and a man and woman, both smoking cigarettes, watched them. They looked only mildly interested, and Max wondered if he they’d called the police. He doubted it.
“He’ll kill you if you stay,” Max shouted.
When she didn’t budge, Max leaned close to her face. “What if Nicholas comes home Joan? You want Denny to raise him because that’s what’s going to happen if you walk back in there. You’re as good as dead.”
She still shook her head, but when he tugged her forward, she allowed herself to be led.
She followed him down the stairs, crying and murmuring.
“Put this on,” he told her, thrusting his helmet into her hands and swinging his leg over his motorcycle.
She lifted it, but paused, her eyes locked on the apartment building, her mouth hanging open. Denny struggled down the stairs, one hand wedged between his legs, and the other clutching a wooden baseball bat.
“Holy shit,” he muttered, wondering suddenly how in the hell he’d gone from searching for a missing kid to fleeing a bloody fight scene in less than twenty minutes.
He revved the engine and jerked Joan toward him, practically dragging her onto the bike behind him. The helmet clattered to the sidewalk.
“Hold on!” he screamed as he roared away from the curb.
For a horrifying instant, her hands didn’t clutch his back. He was sure she’d either fallen off or simply climbed off to aid her enraged and bloodied husband. And then he felt her tenuous grip clutch his waist, and he sighed, putting his head down to drive.
25
He should have taken Joan to the police station, but in his shock, he drove to his place of refuge: his parents' house.
In the nearly hour-long drive, he wondered what the woman behind him was thinking.
He didn’t stop to ask her. He couldn’t stop because his legs had begun to shake. He tried to tell himself it was the vibrating of his bike, but he knew better.
His parents' house stood like a lighthouse in a gale. If he could just get them there, everything would be okay.
When he pulled into their driveway, he spotted his mother in the side yard, digging in her garden. His father sat on the porch reading a newspaper. They both looked up at the sound of Max’s motorcycle.
Joan climbed off and Max saw gooseflesh covering her arms. Despite the warm day, motorcycle rides were chilly. He hadn’t even thought of her meager attire when they’d fled her apartment.
Her hair, messy earlier, lay in tangles on her thin shoulders. The welt beneath her eye had gone from red to blueish gray, and tiny red spiderwebs had begun to seep into her right eye. When she blinked, she cringed as if even that small gesture hurt. Dried blood coated her hands and forearms where she’d slid through Denny’s blood.
“Damn, I’m sorry,” he told her, gesturing at her arms and legs. “I didn’t think about how you were dressed.”
She gazed at him dazed, as if not comprehending.
“You’re cold,” he explained.
She looked down and let out a weak laugh.
“That’s the least of it,” she murmured, limply pressing a hand to her cheek.
“This is my parents’ house,” he explained. “Probably seems odd I’d bring you here, but it’s safe and we can talk about what to do next.”
Joan glanced toward Max’s father, who now stood and watched them inquiringly.
Max’s mother came around the house. Her gardening clothes were streaked in dirt.
His mother stopped before them, her smile fading when she saw Joan’s face before drifting to the woman’s bloodied hands.
“Oh dear, what’s happened?” she asked, searching Max’s face.
“Mom, this is Joan Watts. We’ve had a bit of trouble and…”
“What sort of trouble?” Max’s father asked, stepping from the porch and walking toward them.
“Hi,” Joan whispered, offering Max’s mother a bony hand.