A Woman of Valor, page 5
Val ran across the porch toward the sound. This time a man stood in the first-floor window, his ruddy skin flushed against the yellowed fabric of a stained white tank top. A lit cigarette dangled between snarling lips. His left arm held something—or, someone—below him. His right arm rose above his head and arced downward. Slap! Skin pounded skin. The female voice yelped, and his hand rose again. “Shut up!” he yelled, and swung again. No slap. “Stay still, you little whore, or I’ll break your goddamned neck. Worse than your fucking mother.”
No time to wait for Gil or the other backup. Val pounded the window with her fist. “Police! Let her go and get your hands up where I can see them!”
The man stopped his punch, looked around, apparently unsure of the source of this interruption. She rapped on the window again and pulled her flashlight off her belt, flicked it on and pointed it at his face. He squinted and shielded his eyes with his free hand.
“Get away from the girl!” She kept the light in his eyes. Best he didn’t see that Val was alone.
Without warning, the man lurched forward, as if pulled by something, nearly falling. “Get back here!” he yelled.
A door slammed, and moments later, a girl of eleven or twelve stumbled around the side of the house toward her, dressed only in a torn nightgown. Welts and bruises marked her arms, legs, and face, visible even in the dim light. One eye had swollen shut and blood seeped from her nose and lip. More blood dripped down both of her legs.
Val knew what that meant. She’d suffered the same injury, once.
“That bastard,” she whispered. He’d pay for this. She slipped her jacket over the girl’s thin shoulders. The girl hugged her, crying. Val held her, rocking left, right, whispering, “It’s okay now. It’ll all be okay.” But she didn’t believe it. She knew better.
She looked back down the street. Gil had tripped and fallen while trying to rush around the group of women, who helped him up, then clutched at him, chirping in high voices. He seemed unable to pull away from them. He waved at Val: Go on ahead.
Val looked back to the window. The man had disappeared. Shit! “Who is he?” she asked the girl, pointing at the house. “Is he your father?”
“His name is Mr. Harkins,” the girl said between sobs, with a slight accent. Puerto Rican, Val guessed. “He’s mama’s boyfriend. She calls him Richard. He’s drunk, and so mean...” She broke into sobs again. Val hugged her and fought back her own tears. That rotten prick could not get away with this.
“Where’s your mom?” Val shook the girl by the shoulders to regain her attention. Harder than she meant. She took a deep breath. Don’t take it out on the girl. Save it for him.
At last the girl managed an answer. “Still inside. In the bedroom.”
Gentler: “What’s your name?”
“Antoinetta.”
“Okay. Antoinetta. Is there someplace you can go right now?”
The girl shrugged, curled back into Val’s hug. Not knowing what else to do, Val walked her toward the sidewalk in front of the house. “How about the neighbor’s? Can you go there for a minute, at least, to get out of the cold?”
The girl sniffled, nodded, and pointed to the group of women down the street. “Mi tia, Camila.”
“Okay,” Val said. “Go. I’ll wait here. Oh, one more thing. Is he armed? A gun, a knife, anything?”
The girl nodded. “My mom keeps a gun by her bed. He shot the...” She broke into sobs again, throwing her body against Val’s and holding tight.
“He shot someone?” Val managed to slide down to eye level with the girl. “Antoinetta, I know this is hard, but it’s important. Did he shoot someone?”
The girl nodded. “A...a policeman...”
Shit! No time to waste. Val gave the girl a gentle push toward the cluster of women still clutching at Gil. She unclipped her radio, pressed the Talk button. “Dispatch, this is Dawes. Location, 2916 Greenfield Street. Officer down, repeat, officer down. Suspect is armed. Requesting additional backup.”
“Roger that, Dawes,” the female voice crackled. “On its way.”
She grimaced. The guy could escape long before help arrived. She waved at Gil, but he remained focused on the girl running toward him. Frustrated, she peered into a bedroom window on the far end of the porch. No sign of the man, the mother, or the downed cop.
Gil broke free of the women and hustled over to her. “Did I hear ‘officer down’?” he asked, out of breath.
“And he has a hostage inside, the girl’s mother,” Val said. “We’ve got to get in there.”
Another cruiser pulled up, lights flashing, and two uniformed officers jumped out. “You two cover the front!” Gil yelled to them. “We’re going around back.”
They drew their .38s and discovered an open door in the back that led to a tiny kitchen. Val entered first, crouching low, greeted by a humid stench ten degrees warmer than the air outdoors. Dirty dishes crowded a tiny Formica-topped table. Empty beer and whiskey bottles littered the counter. Pots and pans sat on the stove with food dried in the bottom, and a litter box in the corner overflowed with turds. “Police!” she yelled. “Come out with your hands up. Into the kitchen. Now!”
“Get the hell out of my house or you’ll end up like your friend here,” the man said. “Dead!”
Val’s blood went cold. The bastard killed a police officer. Based on what Gil had told her, she guessed her partner would kill Richard without asking any questions. Maybe he even deserved that. But her priority at the moment was Antoinetta’s mom. Which, she guessed, made her a Savior Type in Gil’s taxonomy. Whatever.
Sure enough, Gil crept forward, toward the arch separating the two rooms. He peered in and tapped his own badge, then grimaced and mouthed to Val: “I see him.” The downed cop, she realized. Gil signaled for her to cover him. She crouched, her shaking hands gripping her service weapon.
Gil spun into the room, weapon drawn. An arm swung down behind him holding something dark and metallic, smashing it onto Gil’s head. He went down in a heap, unconscious.
“You want some of this action, bitch?” the man yelled to her, laughing. “I mean you there in the kitchen, lady. Fucking pig!”
Val stared at Gil, lying motionless in the middle of the room. Another cop lay bleeding from a gunshot wound, and a woman remained in danger. Clearly the man didn’t fear cops and could handle himself when attacked. She needed another approach.
“Richard,” she said, forcing her voice to remain calm. “This will go a lot better if you let Antoinetta’s mother go.”
“Get lost,” the man yelled. “And take that worthless kid with you. Her mom wants to stay here with me. Don’t you, Rosa?”
A woman whimpered. At least she was alive. But Gil was down, and the other officer could still be alive and bleeding out. Time to expedite the conversation.
“Come out where I can see you,” she said. “We need to talk.” She gripped her .38’s handle with white knuckles.
“Fuck off,” he yelled back. “I haven’t done anything illegal.”
Except shooting a cop and beating a child. Asshole. “I’m not saying you did,” she said. “I just want to talk to you.”
“Bullshit. Lying pig.”
Deep breaths. Stay calm. “What happened here tonight?” Val asked. “How did Antoinetta get hurt?”
“How the fuck should I know? Stupid kid. Always getting into trouble.”
“That’s kids for ya.” Yeah, always getting bruised and beaten in their nightgowns by themselves, somehow without the knowledge of a drunk, sadistic bastard. She fought to keep the anger out of her voice. “What did she do tonight? What was she up to?” Val crept through the kitchen and pressed herself against the wall next to the doorway to the living room. “Did she misbehave?”
Derisive laughter. “Oh, yes. She was a very bad girl. Are you a bad girl, copper?”
“You rotten shit,” Val said under her breath. Her stomach turned, and she needed to spit. She took a step to the sink, gagged at the sight of crusty dishes and standing water, and discharged the ball of mucus and hot bile that had collected in her mouth. She returned to the edge of the doorway.
“I didn’t hear your answer, pig. Are you a bad girl?”
“No, dipshit, I’m not,” she said. Okay, Val, keep the nasty out of your voice. “Nor was Antoinetta. But it sounds like you might have been a bad boy tonight. Are you a bad boy, Richard?”
That awful laugh again. “Is that what she said? That lying little weasel. Fucking chingadera.” He laughed again.
Val gritted her teeth. Stop it! she wanted to shout. “Had a few drinks tonight, Richard?” Static on the radio. No news. No help yet. What the hell was taking the others so long?
“Nothing illegal about that, is there?”
“No, not at all. So long as you didn’t give any to the girl.” Where’s that backup?
Laughter again, setting Val’s teeth on edge. “As if I could stop her. You should see her with the rum. Little drunken fucking chingadera.” Loud, angry laughs, almost a cough, even more grating. “You know, when they get drunk, these little chicas, they can get pretty wild. Talk about ba-ad girls.”
That bastard!
Blood pulsed in the veins at Val’s temples. She shook her head, refusing to let him get under her skin. “Is that the best you can do, Richard? Underage girls, too young and small to say no to you?” Her voice quavered, and nausea stirred in her gut. She tightened her grip on her weapon, but the sweat on her palms made it slippery.
Floorboards creaked, in the next room or beyond, followed by his horrible laughter again, a little louder, a little closer. It sounded forced. Of course! He was “laughing” to cover up the noise he was making as he moved into position to escape—or, attack.
“Where are you now, Richard?”
Hoarse laughter, grating to the ear. “Let’s play tag, like me and your buddy did. You’re it, pig. Come and find me.”
“I don’t think so. You come out here and let’s talk.”
“We’re talking just fine.” Another creak.
A static-laden voice blared from her radio. Dammit! Something about a burglary in progress in Frog Hollow. No mention of her backup. She gripped her gun with both hands. Sweat collected on her upper lip, and she licked it off. Her mouth had gotten very dry. He didn’t answer. Another creak—
“Talk to me, Richard. Let me know what you’re d—”
A white blob flashed in the doorway. He came at her, his head ducked low, like a football player going in for a tackle. She swung her arms toward him, but he moved too fast. He crashed into her, knocking her backwards. Her back slammed into the cabinets, and her head thumped against the edge of the counter. She saw stars for a moment, then the floor rushed up at her face. Her forehead thumped onto the linoleum, and she collapsed face-first onto the floor. Dizzy, she tried to get up, but the world spun around her. Sharp pain jabbed her side. The bastard had kicked her! She rolled away, somehow, and sat up against the cabinet. The man stood before her, his fist arcing toward her. She dodged the punch, and a loud crack filled her ears. He howled in pain, holding his right hand in his left, swore, and dashed out the back door of the house.
Val rolled onto all fours, gasping for breath. She tried to stand, but the pain in her side made her cry out, and she leaned against the cabinets for support. He’d kicked her in the crease between her Kevlar vest and belt, a soft spot, and hard. She’d have a nasty bruise, if not internal organ damage. Shit, this hurt. On top of that, her dizziness returned, along with overwhelming nausea.
She cradled her radio to her ear. “Unit A-27...reporting. Suspect...in 10-16 on Greenfield...escaping on foot. White male, forty, six foot, two-fifty, light brown hair.”
“Roger that,” the dispatcher responded. “Backup units less than one minute from your location.”
“One minute...is too late,” Val said. Damn, this hurt.
“Checking,” Dispatch said. “Status of officer reported down on that scene?”
“Two officers. Investigating.” Val holstered her weapon and radio, then pressed her hands on the countertop and pulled herself to her feet. She ignored the pain in her side enough to walk a few steps on her own. A pair of sirens blared outside, one the unmistakable wail of the local ambulance company. She stumbled into the living room and checked Gil first. Breathing, with a steady pulse. She sighed with relief, then scanned the room and spotted the blue-uniformed man curled up in the corner in a growing pool of blood. She scrambled to him, turned his body toward her. Her own pain disappeared as adrenaline surged through her. She didn’t recognize the officer, a 30-ish white man with short, brown hair and a stocky build. His face had gone pale—he’d lost a lot of blood. She checked his breathing and pulse, found both. He was alive, but unconscious.
“Get those medics in here!” she shouted into her radio.
“What’s the situation inside the house?” Dispatch responded. “Are all suspects—”
“Clear!” she shouted back. “Get those damned medics in here!”
She spotted another officer lying face-down at the end of the hallway and rushed to him. Also unconscious from a blow to the head, but alive. R. Lopez, read his nameplate. She returned to the living room and grabbed a man’s shirt off the floor, pressing it onto the other officer’s wound to stem the bleeding. She spotted his nameplate. “Hold on, Samuels,” she said. “We’ll get you out of here.” Her head felt light, and dizziness washed over her again, but she kept the pressure on the wound. Where were those damned medics?
Moments later, footsteps pounded around her. A lanky African American man with close-cropped curls and a young dark-haired Latina, both dressed in blue scrubs, rushed into the room. The man tapped her on the shoulder. “We’ve got this, officer,” he said.
She leaned against the wall, breathing hard. “I checked his vitals,” Val said. “He’s alive. Gunshot to the midsection.”
“Let’s move him out!” the male paramedic said. In seconds they’d secured him to a stretcher that appeared as if by magic, and they carried him out the front door of the house.
“You okay?” A familiar voice. Who? When had she closed her eyes? “Dawes? Are you awake?” Rough hands shook her.
She opened her eyes. Gil’s face appeared, close enough to smell his after-shave. Dried blood formed a winding river down his forehead and cheeks. Lopez stood behind him, rubbing blood off of his own face. “The guy...where is he?” She groaned and held her side. Damn, it hurt.
“We’ll catch him,” Gil said.
Val closed her eyes again. Dammit. The son of a bitch shot a cop, raped a twelve-year-old girl, kicked her in the kidneys, and then he got away.
After all of her training, all of her preparation, spending all of her life dreaming about delivering justice to creeps like that, in her first big confrontation with a real-life criminal, she’d failed. Failed the community, failed Uncle Val, failed everybody.
Most of all, she’d failed herself.
Gil was saying something, but she couldn’t hear him anymore. Her head swam, and she lay down on her back. Consciousness drained away from her, replaced by the image of the man she most despised: an untried, unpunished criminal. The man who had done to her what Richard Harkins had done to Antoinetta.
The face of “Uncle” Milt.
***
Ten Years Earlier
Bedtime. Lights-out time, to be precise. Even though she’d turn thirteen in a few weeks, Mom and Dad still enforced her curfew. She closed her book, turned off her reading lamp, and set Mulligan, the stuffed bear with the little bell around his neck, against the door. Uncle Val gave the old bear to her when she turned six, promising that Mulligan would warn her if any monsters ever tried to hurt her. She’d long ago stopped believing in monsters, but as Dad often joked, never argue with success.
Her parents’ voices rose above the rumbling of the TV downstairs, then “Uncle” Milt’s, followed by raucous laughter. Her mother said, “Milt, that’s terrible!” But she laughed along with the men.
Uncle Milt was telling his dirty jokes again. Once he’d even told a few in front of Valorie and Chad, until Mom put a stop to it. Valorie hadn’t gotten the joke, but Chad had. He was sixteen, so he knew more about such things.
After witnessing Mom’s reaction to the joke, Valorie didn’t want to know about those things. Any of it.
They called him “Uncle” Milt, but Valorie had learned months before that he wasn’t related to Mom after all. In fact, he was only about ten years older than Mom, but she’d always treated him like family, inviting him to holiday dinners and such. He’d served with Grandpa in the military or something, a long time ago. Milt had no family of his own, at least not anymore. He seemed sad to Valorie, despite his boisterous manner and bawdy humor. Maybe that’s why Mom kept inviting him over—she felt sorry for him.
Chad found Milt funny and even looked up to him. From the racket raised downstairs, Valorie guessed Chad was showing off one of his latest jiu jitsu moves again to impress the old fart.
But then came the awful crash, Chad’s yelp of pain, and Mom’s cry of “Oh, no!” and Dad’s “Chad, are you all right?” She hadn’t needed to hear the muffled answer.
Minutes later, Mom knocked on her door. “Honey, your brother’s broken his arm,” Mom said. “We’re taking him to the emergency room. Uncle Milt will stay with you while we’re gone.”
“Why can’t Milt drive him?” Valorie asked, her heart pounding. Please, please, don’t leave me alone with Milt.
“He’s had too much to drink,” Mom said in a low voice. “Anyway, we can’t leave you here alone at night.”
Downstairs, Milt said something like “I’m fine, really,” and Valorie hoped he’d convince them to let him go.
“Nothing doing,” Dad said over Milt’s protests, and Valorie knew that battle was lost.
“I’ll go with you to the hospital,” she said, sitting up in bed.
“No, it’s too late. You have school tomorrow.” She used that insistent, commanding tone that told Val two things: first, that Mom had gotten drunk too, and second, she’d better not argue. Mom’s footsteps faded down the hall, heavy and uneven.
