RUNNING CH 18


The master bedroom door was maybe six inches ajar. I gently pushed the door open and took a deep breath to steady myself. I was sorry I had as the familiar fug of stale garlic and unwashed feet floated out into the hall. The faint glow of a nightlight illuminated the room. I could see Vern curled up in the fetal position sleeping soundly and snoring.

I flipped on the overhead light and waited. Vern woke cranky. “Cut it out. Turn that fucking thing off,” he complained. He rubbed his eyes and looked around, finally focusing on me standing in the doorway. “Marty? What are you doing here?” I thought I saw a flicker of fear wash across his face as he started to get out of bed.

“Don’t move,” I warned as I gripped the stun gun in my right pocket. “I just came to see what a coward looks like,” I said. “Are you still beating up on unarmed women?”

He scooted back in the bed. I noticed the electronic monitoring bracelet on his right ankle. “Where have you been?” he asked. “I’ve been worried sick. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. You know I’m sorry for what happened.” He was trying to sound sincere. The right side of his face seemed droopy. Maybe he had had a stroke.

“Nice bracelet,” I said pointing to his right foot.

He jerked the sheet to cover it up. “That’s your doing,” he said. “Why did you testify against me?” his voice grew whiny.

“It seemed like the right thing to do,” I said.

I watched his face as he seemed to come to some decision. “What do you want?” he almost shouted at me. “What are you doing here?” He hadn’t moved, but something had changed. I moved toward him. He cringed. “Stay away from me.” His voice was louder than before. I wondered if there was someone else in the house.

Suddenly I was grabbed from behind by a beefy arm. “Help!” I yelled.

“Shut her up,” Vern ordered. I slumped backwards and fell to the floor as if I’d fainted. I could hear Vern opening the drawer in the bedside table. Damn, I thought. I’d forgotten about the gun. “Get rid of her,” Vern said.

A short scuffle behind me alerted me to the hope that Aaron had arrived. I heard a loud crash as my assailant fell to the floor beside me. I sat up and scurried out of reach. “Vern has a gun,” I warned. I turned back towards Vern as he pointed the gun at Aaron and me. I heard a rapid series of clicks as Vern pulled the trigger again and again and again.

“No bullets,” Aaron muttered concentrating on tying up the bodyguard. “Use the stun gun,” he said. I got to my knees, pulled the stun gun from my pocket ant pointed it at Vern. I pressed the button. The electrodes shot out of the stun gun and hit Vern in the right shoulder. Vern fell to the floor, muscles twitching, and his gun clattered away under the bed as he flopped around the floor.

I looked over at Aaron as I got to my feet. He had efficiently taped the arms and legs of the guy with black electrician’s tape. “Don’t take your eyes off Vern,” he warned.

I glanced back at Vern. His eyes were beginning to track and he looked horrified at the sight of Aaron who was wearing a ski mask. Aaron looked like a burglar out of central casting. “Stun gun,” Aaron said holding out his hand towards me. I gave him the stun gun.

Aaron approached Vern, flipped him onto his stomach, and, placing the stun gun on the floor beside them, taped up Vern the same efficient way he had with the other guy. Aaron reached over to the bed and pulled two pillowcases off the pillows. He then pulled one of them over Vern’s head, securing it with a strip of tape across his mouth and around his head. He did the same with the other guy who was beginning to moan.

Aaron pocketed the stun gun, and moved to the bureau where Vern’s wallet and watch were visible. He grabbed them both. “Let’s go, “ he said to me. We rushed downstairs. “You need to turn the alarm off,” he instructed. I did that and we hurried down the front steps and up the driveway back to the car.

He pulled off the ski mask and started the car pulling it forward down the alley. Suddenly he braked almost sending me through the windshield. “There’s a truck in the way. I don’t think I can get around it. He backed up and turned into the driveway of our next-door neighbor’s house. “Does this go through to the street?”

“I think so,” I said hastily securing my seatbelt. Aaron carefully drove down the driveway lights still off, inched around the bumper of a car partly in the way, and into the street where he turned the lights on and we headed south driving well within the speed limit. I thought I heard an approaching siren and found I was holding my breath until we reached Aurora Avenue.

“Did you accomplish what you set out to do?” Aaron asked.

“Probably,” I answered. “I appreciate your help. You are great at backup. But why didn’t you tell me you’d taken the bullets out of Vern’s gun?”

Suddenly Aaron pulled into the parking lot of a 7/11 mini-mart. He pushed 911 on his cell phone and in an excited voice reported a burglary and repeated the address. Taking Vern’s wallet out of his pocket he removed the cash, and tossed the wallet and the watch onto the sidewalk in front of the trashcan. He pulled into the street again heading south.

“Why did you do that?” I asked.

“I don’t want either of those guys to choke to death. And, I don’t want to risk getting caught with Vern’s watch and wallet. I’ll drop off the cash in the poor box at a church as soon as I can.”

“I didn’t think you were religious,” I said.

“It’s not a question of religion. Just common sense.”

“And integrity?” I asked.

“Something like that.” Aaron sounded uncomfortable. I knew he didn’t much like talking about himself.

Back at the motel I headed for the shower. I felt both exhilarated and weary as I crawled into bed hoping for a few hours sleep before we headed south later that morning. As Aaron emerged from the shower and headed for the other bed I asked, “Aaron, how do you feel about the idea of friends with benefits?”

“Sounds like a good idea,” he said turning towards me.

“First,” I began, “I think that…”

Aaron interrupted me with a quick kiss, and a finger to my lips. “The time for thinking is over.” He slid into bed beside me.

I awoke hours later. It was almost checkout time. Aaron was gone. I dressed quickly and collected my things. My body was happier than it had been in a very long time, but I wondered if my impulsivity had damaged our friendship.

The door opened. “I returned the rental car,” Aaron said. He took one look at my face and added, “Yes, it’s morning, and I still respect you. And, no, I will not interfere with your independence. Any other questions?” He grinned at me.

I grinned back in relief. He had been a generous and efficient lover, but I was aware that even thinking that was close to damning with faint praise.

We shared a warm hug and a friendly kiss before setting out in the RV.

RUNNING… CHAPTER 17


Aaron drove past slowly and after a mile or two pulled into the parking lot of a small public rose garden. “Wait here for me,” he said.

“How long?” My anxiety was already pretty high.

“Until I return, or a patrolman asks you to move. Probably not more than an hour,” he added. “Give me your keys, and the security alarm code if you remember it.” I handed him my keys and the security code. Aaron put a small backpack on, pulled a ball cap low on his forehead, and set off briskly walking back to the house. I noticed that he had a clipboard in one hand and could have been mistaken for a census worker.

I glanced at my watch. Ten-thirty A.M. I already felt sick from adrenaline racketing through my system. There was almost no traffic, just the occasional woman pushing a baby stroller. I wondered where the hell Aaron was. I wondered what the hell I’d been thinking to get us to this place. I wondered what the hell I would do if he didn’t show up soon. Eleven-thirty approached with glacial speed as I sat in the driver’s seat and kept looking down the street in the direction where he had disappeared. It started to rain; I was getting cold, but hesitated to start up the engine.

I was just beginning to panic when somebody opened the passenger door. I was so relieved to see it was Aaron that I verbally assaulted him. “Where the hell have you been? Why didn’t I see you coming,” I blurted.

“Just walked around the block,” he said glancing over at me. “How about you let me drive?” I guess I looked as frazzled as I felt. I moved over into the passenger seat as he got out and walked around to the driver’s side. Aaron pulled the RV smoothly out of the parking area and into the street. He chose not to drive by the house again. “You’ll have to direct me out of the neighborhood,” he said.

“Turn left at the end of the block,” I said. “So, tell me what you found out,” I said trying to conceal my impatience.

He flipped my keys over to me. They fell to the floor between my feet. I just left them there. “The keys still work, and the alarm code too. Even though you told me he was too arrogant and lazy to change them I had trouble believing it.”

“That’s it?” I asked.

“It took me a while to walk back to the house, to scout out a way to access the place without attracting attention, and to find a different way back here,” he explained.

I directed him back to Aurora Avenue and we headed south. “You still set on doing this?” Aaron asked.

“I’m ambivalent, but see no good reason not to.” Part of me was looking for Aaron to supply a good reason not to, but he had promised not to interfere and so he didn’t.

“We can’t stay at the state park tonight,” he said. ‘They lock down the park road at eleven P.M. Besides, this RV is too conspicuous. We need to rent a car, then find a motel, and rest up. Three A.M. comes early.”

“What happens at three A.M.?”

“We get up and drive back to your old neighborhood. I found a good place to park a car that won’t attract attention. Then you wait while I check to see if there’s any kind of a guard or patrol outside. Once that’s taken care of, it’s your show.”

“I need to go to Pioneer Square first and see my friend Katherine,” I said. I pointed to the off-ramp to First Avenue South and we searched for a place to park the RV. No easy task, but we finally found a spot on the street only three blocks away in front of a locksmith’s shop. “Will you come with me?” I asked.

“I’ll wait here,” he responded.

So, I fed the meter and rushed off to Katherine’s office hoping to find her in. I should have called ahead. Luckily she was just finishing up with a client and could fit me in. “What a surprise,” she said greeting me with a hug. Talking rapidly I filled her in on what had been going on and what I intended to do. I saw her face reflect increasing alarm. “Your plan seems both risky and unnecessary,” she said. She told me that she had heard that Vern was going in to work at the office as usual, that he was wearing an electronic ankle bracelet, and was on a very short leash. “What do you hope to accomplish?” she asked.

“I need to face up to my fears,” I said. “And it starts with Vern.” I explained that I had Aaron for backup, but had wanted someone to know what I planned. Just in case something went wrong. “And I want to hire you to help me get a divorce.”

She agreed to represent me, but made me promise to call her the following day to tell her how things had gone with Vern. I made my way back to the RV and Aaron and I headed to the airport where we found a dreary looking small car at “Rent-A-Dent.” Then we found a nearby motel where Aaron rented a unit with plenty of parking and twin beds. The room reeked of stale smoke and the fruity aerosol spray meant to disguise the smell. Its décor harkened back to the seventies. Everything was shabby and had originally been either brown or orange. Terminal ugly.

After dinner Aaron assembled gear for his backpack on one of the beds. “Do you have a jacket with deep pockets?” he asked. I showed him my only jacket. “I guess this will have to do,” he said. He set out two cell phones. “You will carry one of these and I will have the other. I expect you to keep the phone on and transmitting when we’re not together. That way you can let me know if you need help.” He showed me how they worked. “The phone will go in your left pocket,” he said handing it to me. “Do you still have that flashlight to hang around your neck?” I nodded. “Bring it along.” I went out to the RV to retrieve it.

When I got back he pulled something small and black out of his pack. “I’m not comfortable with a gun,” I protested.

“It’s just a stun gun,” he explained. “It’s lightweight, and you can carry it in your right pocket. Emergencies only. Let me show you how to operate it.” As he gave me further instructions I felt overwhelmed. When did my desire to confront Vern become so complicated? “Chances are you won’t have to use it.” His attempt to reassure me was too late.

“I can understand why Fern says, ‘I’m done,’ I said. “I think I need a nap.” I curled up on the other bed thinking I’d just rest a while. Suddenly someone shook my shoulder. I jumped up.

“It’s three A.M.,” Aaron said handing me a hot cup of coffee. “You’re lucky you could sleep a while.” Within ten minutes we were driving in the dark heading north on the almost deserted highway. “Don’t worry,” Aaron said. “Everything will be all right.”

“You don’t know that,” I challenged.

“But I’m well-prepared for whatever does happen.” I could see his grin in the strobe light of the streetlights as we passed.

“This is just a big adventure for you,” I said.

“Maybe so. But I’m deadly serious about backing you up. And,” he concluded, “if there’s one thing I’m good at it’s backup. Why don’t you tell me again about the layout of the house.” I realized he was trying to keep me busy so I wouldn’t worry, so I chattered on about the house and the property for a while.

Without much traffic it didn’t take us very long to return to the neighborhood. Aaron drove past the house again. “Let me know if you see anything,” he said. I looked up the driveway as we passed. The porch light was on, but everything else was dark. Nothing was moving. Aaron turned around at the rose garden, passed by the house one more time, then turned left at the next corner. He cut the lights and slowly drove a long half block to the alleyway in the middle of the block. I’d forgotten the alley was there.

He turned left heading south and drove almost to where our driveway intersected with the alley. He pulled over and parked beside a tall laurel hedge. “I’m going to leave the car keys under the front seat just in case you need to leave in a hurry. If so, don’t wait for me; just head back to the motel. Trust me to look after myself; I’ll know where to find you. All right?” He waited until I nodded. “Wait here – just a few minutes. I’ll let you know by phone when it’s okay to move. When you get out do not slam the car door,” he cautioned, and left the car making no noise whatsoever.

He disappeared down the driveway. I waited. “All is clear. Time to go.” Aaron’s voice was not loud, but it seemed to reverberate in the car. I quietly left the car and crept down the driveway. It was so dark out I could hardly see a foot ahead of me. The air was chilly and heavy with moisture; it smelled of decaying leaves. I clutched the house keys in my right hand. I decided to go in the front door since I knew Aaron had tested it with my key. I was surprised to see that the front porch light was out. Aaron’s doing no doubt. I tried very hard to make no noise as I felt around to insert the key properly.

The key worked fine and suddenly there I was inside the front door. I could see the faint glow of a nightlight in the upstairs hall as I pulled the door closed behind me and locked it. I quickly moved to the alarm box that was flashing red inside the coat closet. My heartbeat thundered in my ears. I punched in the security code. The light switched to green. The house was quiet except for the faint sound of snoring upstairs. That sound was somehow reassuring. I found I remembered the layout of the house, and even which of the steps used to creak. I quietly moved up the stairs. By the time I reached the second floor I felt calm and Morgan was back in charge.

RUNNING… CHAPTER 16


“So, are you two sleeping together?” Fern asked, looking at Aaron. We had just begun eating dinner. Aaron almost choked on his first bite of spaghetti. He looked stricken.

“What do you think about the spaghetti sauce. Too spicy for you?” I asked, trying to skewer Fern with a glance. Like a five-year-old she had no boundaries. But I’d come to suspect that she was bluffing at least half of the time, and knew perfectly well what she was doing. She enjoyed stirring things up. She didn’t seem to be malicious, just overcurious.

“The sauce is fine,” she said with annoyance, and I could see that she was gearing up for another go at Aaron.

“How did you come to settle down here in Gorseport,” I asked. I’d found that sometimes she could be distracted conversationally.

“I followed Jerry here ten years ago. By the time he left town I’d bought this house and didn’t feel like moving. It’s a good place to live. I can do my work anywhere.” She went on to explain what she did and said that after the first two years ninety percent of her clients were referrals.

“Tell me what’s been going on in Murietta since I left?” I asked Aaron. He eagerly tackled the question with uncharacteristic chattiness. I found out things in the space of three minutes that I hadn’t heard in all the time I’d lived there. Who said you couldn’t herd cats?

Fern’s eyes were beginning to glaze over; talk of Murietta didn’t interest her. “I’m done,” she said, and disappeared. Aaron helped me to do the dishes, and left for his motel room. I felt exhausted, but had trouble sleeping. My head was in high gear.

I felt good about the decision to check things out in Seattle, and to take Aaron along as backup. But, despite the fact that I tried never to second-guess myself, doubt kept rearing its ugly head. One way I kept from freaking out was to remind myself that I no longer was Marina who was afraid to rock the boat, but a whole new persona named Morgan, and that Morgan could be fearless more often than not.

I finally fell asleep making to-do lists in my head. Over the weekend Aaron and I provisioned up the RV. He stowed his sleeping bag and air mattress in one of the outside compartments. We read through the campground directory for likely places to spend the night near Seattle, and studied the map. I figured out Seattle was only an eight-hour drive from Gorseport.

Monday morning we talked to the mechanic at the garage and asked him to look the RV over before we left. We didn’t get away until almost noon. We traded off on driving and stayed at Saltwater State Park just south of Seattle for the night. “What’s your plan?” Aaron asked after a quick dinner.

“I’m going to go to the house and see Vern tomorrow.”

“Questions,” Aaron said. “One: do you know if he still lives there? Two: does he have either a personal bodyguard, or a police guard – servants maybe? Three: what time are you planning to see him?” Aaron waited.

“I just assumed he’d still live there. I have no idea about a bodyguard; he always had guys around him – mostly at work. And, I thought I’d catch him around nine P.M.”

“Why?” Aaron asked. I just shrugged. The truth was I hadn’t exactly thought things through yet. “Would you like some suggestions?” he asked. I bristled defensively. “No-strings advice,” Aaron said holding his hands palms out facing me. “I’m here to help you – not to interfere.”

“Okay,” I said, “suggest away.”

“First. We could call and see if he still lives there – not identifying ourselves, of course. Second, we could drive over there and see if there’s somewhere we, or I, could observe who comes and goes. Third, four A.M. would be the best time to catch him alone and most vulnerable. I’d be glad to provide perimeter control while you talk to him. I won’t come in unless you want me to. And, tomorrow I need to visit McLendons Hardware, and a Radio Shack. We need some disposable phones.”

“Is that all?” I was aiming for an ironic tone, but he gave me a literal answer.

“That’s all for now. What do you think?” I could see he was excited by the task but trying not to crowd me. “By the way, does Vern carry a gun?”

“No, but there’s one in the bedside table.”

“Gotta do something about that.” He sounded like he was talking to himself.

After a restless night with Aaron sleeping outside on the picnic table we made quick work of breakfast and made sure everything was stowed properly. Aaron suggested that we first drive through my old neighborhood and past Vern’s house. My house too, technically speaking. I still had keys.

It took the better part of an hour to get through downtown Seattle traffic and over to the neighborhood where I’d lived for just two years. The house looked the same – white columns in front, a circular drive, well-maintained grounds.

RUNNING SCARED – CHAPTER 15


I spent the next ten days getting to know Fern better; “Just call me Fern, she’d said. ‘Aunt Fern’ sounds like someone who keeps company with cats.” When she was working with her computers I practiced driving the RV around the area. I parked near the jetty and watched the waves crashing against it. My life was up for review once again. I was tending to identify with the jetty when I realized that having the RV for a couple of months would widen my options. I needed to sort out what to do next.

I made a decision not to go back to Madrona so I let both Steve and Sarge know. I found a poker game in Coos Bay and began to increase my stash of money for gas. I tried to pay my way at Fern’s by doing minor repairs around the house and restocking her pantry. I had no timetable for leaving. Actually I had no timetable for anything anymore. But I felt safer at Fern’s than I had for a long time.

Fern and I settled into a routine. We ate most meals together and I learned that, despite rumors to the contrary, she had led a full life. Turned out she had been married briefly. “Not really suited for marriage,” she admitted. “Couldn’t stand having someone underfoot every day,” she said.

When I asked she talked openly about having Asberger’s Syndrome. She said that she had been in her forties before that label had been attached to her. When she was growing up and in her early life all she knew was that she experienced things differently from others in her life; she had difficulty understanding them. She learned to cope with things being different in her own way. She’d always known she was book-smart, and found that it was easier for her to work for herself than to do someone else’s nine-to-five. “I can’t stand being told what to do and how to do it.” She was non-materialistic; hence her offering me her RV so casually.

Fern said she had always been immune to the social niceties even after she learned what they were. She had limited interest in people. She never gossiped about others and my talk of family doings bored her. I noticed that she was lucid and interested as long as the subject matter fell into areas she was obsessive about. Her current obsessions seemed to be war stories of her struggles and adventures, Gorseport history, and anything to do with computers.

So I tried to be sensitive to her need for space and for privacy. Her manner still was abrupt, and her questions bordering on rudeness, but I learned not to take them personally. “I’m done,” she would say after a long conversation, and leave for her computer cave. Although she seemed to bounce between lucid and confused, she was always more lucid after one of her self-administered time-outs.

I also learned that since that early marriage she had had a series of long-term lovers none of whom had lived with her. “Things work out better for me if the man doesn’t actually live in Gorseport,” she said, “and if he prefers not to sleep over.”

I found out Gorseport was named that because the town was a vital port for the lumber trade to the Far East, and because gorse, a local fast-growing shrub was abundant. Gorse, Fern said, was an evil cousin of Scotch broom; it evidently resembled Scotch Broom when it bloomed, but had wicked thorns, was highly flammable, and had been responsible for several devastating fires that nearly wiped out the town early in the twentieth century. Since then it was illegal for property owners in the town to harbor the shrub.

“Gorse was inflicted on this area by a homesick ship owner who brought the first sprigs from Scotland,” Fern said, handing me a pair of heavy gardening gloves as we walked around her backyard. She pointed out the gorse-lets that I needed to weed out and that we carefully burned in the burn barrel. “I could get fined for letting them grow on my property,” she said. “This damned stuff spreads like the wildfires it fuels when it gets the chance.” I pointed out that the constant winds off the Pacific didn’t help.

I kept in touch with Katherine who said she still wasn’t able to find out anything more about Vern’s condition. I called Aaron and filled him in on what I’d been doing. Told him I thought the only way I’d be able to find out what was going on with Vern might be just to drive up to Seattle and check things out for myself. “Are you sure that’s a good idea considering everything that has happened?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I just know I’m tired of running.” I was beginning to differentiate between running away and traveling. Traveling appealed to me. Regarding running, I felt like Fern needing to say to myself, “I’m done, I’m done, I am so done.”

That evening I told Fern all about what had been going on with Vern the last few years. How I’d been so badly hurt, then on the run, hiding out the best I could. I said that I was tired of feeling afraid – tired of being victimized. That somehow I needed to free myself from Vern and his threats. How could I do that without acting foolish – without putting myself back in harm’s way? I told her I was thinking of going to Seattle to confront Vern, or at least to see what was true.

“If you do that you’ll need backup. If I were a little younger I’d offer to go along,” she said. “But you’re smart enough to figure out what’s right for you.”

“Maybe I just need to be more patient,” I said. “But I’m tired of waiting for things to get resolved by the prosecution of Vern.”

“Are you in danger from others besides Vern?” she asked. “I suspect you’re probably strong enough to handle him. He sounds like a common bully. But if your testimony gets others in trouble as well, that would complicate the issue of your safety.”

One afternoon I was sitting in the kitchen when I heard a knock on the front door. I didn’t know where Fern was or what she was doing, but was reluctant to answer the door on my own. Someone knocked again as I had when I arrived. Finally I heard Fern’s footsteps. “Hold your horses, I’m coming,” she said as she unlocked the door. “Why are you bothering me?” she added. I noticed her greet-the-stranger routine was identical to what I’d experienced.

“Are you Fern Albright?” a familiar voice asked. I stood up.

“Who wants to know?” Fern asked.

“I’m looking for Morgan,” Aaron said as I emerged from the kitchen.

“What are you doing here?” I asked from the kitchen door.

“May I come in?” he asked with a nod to Fern.

I noticed that Fern was taking a lively interest in what was going on between us. “Come on in,” she said. “Would you like some tea?” She headed to the kitchen. “Come along, the two of you. Sit.”

Aaron came in. I managed awkward introductions. And we sat.

“This the guy who built the boat in the tree?” Fern asked setting out mugs and tea bags.

“Guilty,” Aaron said with a shy smile.

“So, what are you doing here?” Fern said pouring hot water in the mugs, and staring intently at Aaron.

“Visiting a friend?” Aaron offered tentatively with a sidelong glance in my direction.

“How did you find your way here?” I asked.

“The same way you did. I stopped at the library and asked.” He smiled.

I found myself smiling back. We sat making small talk for a few minutes; none of us were very good at it. “You leave when Morgan says so,” Fern said to Aaron. “I’m done,” she announced, and was quickly gone as usual.

Aaron looked startled. “It’s not about you,” I reassured him. “She’ll return, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and asking rude questions, before too long.” I sighed. “So, what are you doing here?”

“Visiting a friend?” he asked again. “I thought I might be of some help. You have pointed out that I have skills that you don’t.”

“I have no need of your skills to deal with Fern,” I said.

“I heard you say you were of thinking about going to Seattle and confronting Vern.”

“And, you thought I might need your help dealing with the body?” I asked with a touch of asperity.

“If necessary,” Aaron said with a smile “Besides, there’s this hardware store in Seattle I need to visit.”

“I’ve heard that story before,” I said, wondering why I wasn’t happier to see him. “Besides I haven’t said I was going for sure,” I protested.

“I don’t want to get in your way,” he said. “I’ll leave any time you say.”

“There’s no place for you to stay here,” I said.

“I already have a room for the night at the motel out front,” Aaron said. “All I ask is that you think about what I’ve said.” He paused. “Maybe I should go for now.”

“Why don’t you come and see the RV,” I offered. “And, you’d better stay for dinner. “Fern needs another crack at you.”

“How could I not look forward to that?” Aaron’s sarcasm was delivered with a shrug, and peace was restored between us for the moment.

I showed him the RV and we talked about the pros and cons of borrowing the RV at all. He pointed out that I would need to have it checked out mechanically to see if it was roadworthy, and he offered to help me check out the electrical and water connections as well as the propane furnace and stove. He asked if it was insured. I said I didn’t know.

I drove him around town and down to the jetty. We sat there and watched the waves. “Did I ever tell you how I learned to play poker?” I asked. Aaron looked bewildered at the change of subject. “It’s the only thing I have to thank Vern for. He and his friends used to play poker every Saturday night. I got drafted to sit in one night when a regular didn’t show up. I got lucky and in my great ignorance I was the big winner of the evening. Playing poker has excited me ever since.”

“I understand you win more often than not.”

I’ve learned a lot playing poker. Luck is a factor not controlled by the players, although a positive frame of mind can help, but beyond that it’s a game of patience, and well-timed aggression. Much of the time it’s boring waiting for the right time to make a move. Being able to read the other players is an advantage, but mostly it’s patience and aggression. Being able to never give away an advantage by broadcasting your hand and your intent is useful; the proverbial poker face.”

Aaron exercised his patience by just listening, and using his poker face.

“Since I left Seattle over two years ago,” I began, “ I’ve been running scared and trying to be patient, hoping things with Vern would get resolved and I wouldn’t have to deal with anything directly except testifying at his trial. My patience has run out. I think it’s time for me to deal – to be aggressive. I’ve decided that Vern is probably less of a threat than I’d thought; he’s mostly a bully. I’ve decided to return to Seattle and try and see him for starters.”

Aaron started to say something. I settled him down with a look, and continued.

“I do want your help. Fern was telling me I needed backup and I agree. I do need help checking out the systems on this rig later today, and I could eventually use your help with driving, but although I may ask for your advice I need you to respect my decisions.”

“I think I’ve done a fair job of doing just that since I first met you,” Aaron said.

“I agree. It’s the only reason I’d consider you coming along at all.” I said. “And, just to be clear, when I use the word aggressive I simply mean to take action instead of waiting to react.”

We stopped at the grocery store for food for dinner then returned to the house where Aaron patiently coached as I did some hands-on learning of how to connect, disconnect, turn on and turn off the many separate housekeeping systems in the RV.

Over dinner I found out that the RV was insured and that Fern intended to keep the policy in effect for the next two months. Past that it would be up to me to get insurance in my own name. Fern brought out a file folder of maintenance records and warranties for the RV. She gave me the name and phone number of her mechanic in case I had questions.

Aaron and I decided to head north on Monday.

CHAPTER # 14


“Hold your horses, I’m coming,” a husky voice announced. I heard at least three locks clicking open. Then the door opened a crack. “Why are you bothering me?”

“I’m your niece Morgan, you know me as Marty or Martina.” I paused. “They call me Morgan these days.” She didn’t say anything. “You sent a message to me in Seattle,” I said.

“Why didn’t you say so?” she growled. “Come on in.” And she opened the door just wide enough for me to slip through. I listened to her relocking the door. “Sit,” she said, and disappeared into the next room.

I sat in the chair closest to the door, and looked the living room over. The furniture was old fashioned. Actually everything looked more like thrift store rejects than anything that had been planned. And there was something wrong; it took me maybe five minutes to see what it was. Every piece of furniture was tilted. A few, including the chair I was in, had been more or less leveled with some sort of shim. The rest looked as if they were on a downward slide. If I had dropped a marble it would have quickly rolled to the southwest corner

Aunt Fern wandered back into the room. She seemed to be a little surprised to see me sitting there. “So, what do you want?”

“I thought you had wanted to see me,” I said.

“What about?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “My friend Katherine in Seattle said you called her and asked to talk to me.”

“Maybe I wrote it down somewhere,” she said, and wandered out of the room again. I wondered how old she was – maybe somewhere between 75 and 85. Her face was lined, her clothes mismatched; she had a man’s flannel shirt on over a long flowered skirt. She looked like an unrepentant hippie; vanity obviously wasn’t her problem. I wondered if senility was. Or was she just a garden-variety example of Asberger’s Syndrome?

“Is your father still alive?” she suddenly asked having popped back into the room. “Martin was an alcoholic, you know.”

“I know,” I said, “and he died three years ago.”

“Good riddance,” she said. Then, as if noticing the shocked look on my face, she added, “My father was an alcoholic too, you know. And when he died I missed him anyway.” I guess that was her way of saying she understood the ambivalence of living with an alcoholic. She certainly was one strange bird. I wondered why I had come, and wondered how quickly I could get out of there.

“What do you want for lunch?” she asked, and before I could answer, she asked more questions. “Do you drive? Could you go to the grocery store for me?”

“Anything except tuna fish is okay for lunch, but I like eggs best. Yes, I drive, and I could go to the store for you.” I figured maybe if I did that I could politely leave afterwards. Her abrupt manner and dictatorial attitude exhausted me. I never knew what she was going to say or do next. She seemed to have the attention span of a five-year-old. I wondered what kind of consulting she could possible have done.

“I’ve got a shopping list started in the kitchen,” she said, moving towards the back of the house. “Come along,” she ordered. The kitchen was old and shabby, but not untidy. She grabbed a list off the refrigerator and sat down at the scarred wooden kitchen table. “Sit,” she said.

And I sat. I watched her add eggs and bread and ice cream to her list. “You can buy anything else you want.” She pulled a fifty-dollar bill out of a shirt pocket and handed it to me along with the list and a ring of keys. “My R V is right out back,” she gestured towards the kitchen door. “Do you know where the food market is?”

I shook my head and she gave me clear directions. I opened the door, crossed a small back porch, and went down the steps into the backyard. Sure enough, there was a small R V, like a pickup truck with a wide cabin attached. I hoped it wouldn’t be too hard to drive. Away from her I felt like I could breathe again.

Driving the R V, which had an automatic shift, proved to be no problem. It was wider and longer than anything else I’d ever driven, but I was able to take it easy and traffic was light. On the way back I saw a flashing red light behind me. Damn! My heart rate increased as I pulled over to the side of the highway. A deputy sheriff got out of his car and came up to my window. “Isn’t this Miz Albright’s rig?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I’m her niece visiting from Seattle. I’ve just been doing some shopping for her.” I pointed to the sacks of groceries on the passenger seat.

“Very good,” he said. “Drive safely.” I wondered why he hadn’t asked for my driver’s license, but was glad he didn’t since it was a California license. Why had I said I was from Seattle? Truth was I wasn’t sure where I was from anymore.

Back at Aunt Fern’s place I parked carefully and carried the groceries inside. I sat and watched as she efficiently put some eggs on to boil, stowed things away, and made some tasty egg salad sandwiches.

“Thank you,” I said after I had helped her clean up. “Before I leave I just wanted you to know how much I appreciated the books you sent me every year when I was young.”

“I was working in a bookstore back then and I enjoyed choosing them for you guys,” she said. “But why are you leaving? You just got here. We’ve hardly had a chance to get acquainted.”

“I thought I’d go back to the hostel downtown where I stayed last night,” I began.

“Nonsense, you can stay here with me if you don’t mind sleeping in the R V out back.” Once again she caught me off guard and I found myself feeling trapped. We stayed in the kitchen and she fixed some tea. As she sat down across from me she said, “Tell me about yourself.” And so, I gave her the Cliff’s Notes version of my marriage and my children and a little about Vern. I said it hadn’t worked out so I’d been doing some traveling.

“Now I’d like to hear about your life,” I said.

“Don’t ask me anything you don’t really want to know,” she said with a sly smile. “What do you think of my R V?” she asked. I said I thought it seemed like it would be a comfortable way to travel. “Would you like to have it?” she asked.

I thought for a moment. “Maybe. I’d have to think about it,” I said.

Then, abruptly, she said, “I’m done. I need a nap. There are sheets for the R V in the linen closet. I’ll see you at four.” And she was suddenly gone again.

I noticed she hadn’t told me anything about herself. I thought about the idea of living in an R V while I made up the bed that was on a wide shelf over the driver’s area. Not all that easy to do. I could see that it might be too difficult for her to crawl around to accomplish. I checked the rig out: a small table with padded benches, a complete kitchen, and even a bathroom. Very cramped quarters, but spacious and positively luxurious compared to the tent I’d once lived in.

At four o’clock I was sitting at the kitchen table reading through the half dozen manuals on the many systems of the R V when she popped into the room as promised.
“What do you think?” she asked.

“I’m still thinking,” I answered. “Why would you want to give me your R V?”

“It’s too much for me to handle these days. And it seemed as if you could put it to good use now that you’re traveling. I used to enjoy traveling, but not any more.” I asked what she would do for transportation. “I have a small car in the garage out back.”

“What would it cost me,” I asked.
“Just for gas and maintenance. But it only gets twelve miles per gallon if I’m lucky. There are lots of places you can stay overnight for free. Not as many as there used to be, however. There’s a campground directory in the vehicle.”

I wasn’t ready to commit myself. Aunt Fern seemed to sense this. “How about I let you borrow it for a couple of months, see how you like it, and if you do, then you could pay me a dollar and transfer registration?”

“That might work,” I said. “By the way did you ever remember why you called me?”

“Yes,” she said, “You were on my list of nieces to catch up with. And the hardest to locate,” she added. “I talked with your cousins weeks ago.”

“What did you want with me and my cousins?” I asked.

“Maybe I was looking for someone who might want my R V.” Her tone of voice suggested she might be toying with me.

I decided a change of topic was in order. “I’ve been wondering what kind of work you do,” I said.

“Computer forensics,” she said, her face lighting up. “Bring me a computer and I can tell you where it’s been, what it’s done, and who it’s done it with.” Then she smiled sweetly and added, “Computers are so much easier for me to deal with than so-called real people.”

I smiled back. “I can understand that,” I said.

“Come and see my workroom,” she invited. I followed her into the room off the living room. There was an array of at least seven computers lined up against a wall. Several boxes seemed to contain spare parts: cords and keyboards and extra gizmos. What seemed to be her main computer sat by itself at the far end of the room. A stack of cardboard boxes completed the tableau.

“Wow,” I said. “I’m impressed.”

“Hard to believe I could get data out of some of these, right?” she challenged.

“I use computers, but know very little otherwise. You must be some kind of a geek-wizard,” I said.


“Thank you for noticing. “I’ve been doing it for a long time now.”

RUNNING SCARED # 13


I’d never met my Aunt Fern, my mother’s oldest sister, but I had good memories of her because she had sent me a book every birthday up until I turned eighteen. According to the family grapevine she had Asberger’s Syndrome – a high-functioning form of autism. She was supposed to be intellectually brilliant, but lacking in social skills which kept her reclusive. She had never married, but managed to support herself doing some kind of consulting work from her home in Gorseport on the southern Oregon coast.

She never attended family functions, and was rumored to discourage drop-in visitors. Nevertheless, I thought I’d try to do just that. I had no idea how much of what I’d heard was true, but she had always interested me. What drove my current interest was the fact that Vern knew nothing about her so it seemed like a safe thing to do.

I got back to Murietta in time for the Wednesday night poker game. Winning more than usual put me in a good mood. I hung around afterwards trying to wangle a ride the few blocks home. Then I overheard one of the regular poker players talking about going to visit a brother in Coos Bay, Oregon, but complaining about the price of gas. I asked him for a ride home, then impulsively asked him if he did drive north if I could ride along to Gorseport just south of Coos Bay. I promised to help pay for gas.

“Sure, no problem,” he said. “It’s my money anyway,” he said, reminding me that he’d been the biggest loser of the night. “If I do go I plan to leave a week from Friday and drive straight through. Got a valid driver’s license?” he asked. I just nodded. He didn’t need to know anything more about my driver’s license than that I had one.

I worried about what seemed to be my compulsive restlessness. Always wanting to be somewhere different than I was these days. I wondered if I’d ever again be interested in settling down. I seemed to be searching for answers to questions I didn’t yet have words for.

Friday after my morning shift at the diner I began walking back to my room. It was a beautiful warm day and I was enjoying just being alive. I heard a car approaching from behind me. Suddenly Ryder’s pickup truck swerved to a stop in front of me. I started backing away getting ready to run. He jumped out of the driver’s seat and stopped maybe ten feet away. He was carrying a shotgun. “You just stop right there,” he said. “I could blow your head off, you know.”

I wondered how much he had had to drink. My response might defuse things or send him over the edge depending on how drunk he was. “Where’s Myra?” I asked, trying for a matter-of-fact tone of voice.

“None of your damn business. Damn busybody! Damn woman busybody! None of your damn business.” He was so furious he was vibrating. He was clearly irrational, but I’d never seen him any other way.

“Yes,” I said. “You could blow my head off. But Sarge told me to remind you what would happen to you if anything happened to me.” I put my hands on my hips and just stared at him. I knew I needed not to show the fear that threatened to overwhelm me. I took a step in his direction.

He backed up two steps. “I ain’t afraid of that old man,” he blustered. “You tell him I said so,” he yelled as he ran back to his truck and screeched away. Gravel, like buckshot, stung my face and arms.

I was so shaken that I had to sit down on a low wall for a while to calm down. I hated feeling afraid. I wondered if it were possible to not feel afraid ever again. The whole next week I scurried around feeling afraid -- always looking to see if Ryder or his truck was anywhere around.

On Thursday I told both Steve and Sarge that I would be gone for at least a week. “Family emergency,” I lied. “My elderly aunt,” I said. I found I was getting better at lying, but it was increasingly difficult to remember which lie I had told which person. I thought I might find it useful to write those things down for future reference.

Wes and I set out early Friday morning for Oregon. Wes was a mill worker who had been temporarily laid off and had been at loose ends while he looked for a better job. His father in Coos Bay had been begging him to visit, and Wes had run out of excuses. By dusk we were in Gorseport. I’d done some research and found that there was a youth hostel in the town. So I asked Wes to drop me off there.

On Saturday morning I had some breakfast at a nearby café while I figured out how I was going to go about finding my aunt. I decided to start at the library. It was a short walk from the hostel. I was waiting outside when it opened. The library was quite small befitting a town with a population of 937 inhabitants. I figured if anybody knew where she lived in town it would be the library. “I came to visit my aunt, Fern Albright, and I don’t remember where her house is. Can you help me?”

The young woman at the desk gave me a strange look, but said, “I don’t know the address, but it’s just three blocks south of here on the right -- behind the motel. It’s an old beach shack, a faded turquoise blue. There’s a great old Monterey cypress tree beside it. You can’t miss it.”

That was the easy part, and the irony of my looking for her the way that detective had been looking for me did not escape me. There was no point delaying any longer. I trudged the three blocks to the dumpy cabin that looked as if no one lived there at all. The shades were all down on the windows. I knocked. Then knocked again more loudly.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears as I waited.

RUNNING SCARED # 12


I woke up the next morning and wondered what was wrong. Things felt different somehow. It took me until noon to figure out that the difference was I no longer had that constant feeling of dread in my stomach. I felt positively energized for the first time in months. Anxiety and dread fueled by adrenaline had kept me on the move or hiding out or catatonic ever since I left the hospital in Seattle almost two years earlier. And, for the moment, that had changed.

I’d been through several major transitions in those two years. First the months of shock while my face was healing where I got through each day minute by minute, no ability to plan for more than a day at a time, drifting south, finally settling in the tent in the redwoods near Murietta where I slept a lot and prayed primitive “Please God…” prayers. I was unable to figure anything out past taking care of elemental food and shelter needs -- functionally a homeless person with post-traumatic stress issues. Not that I was aware of it at the time.

All I knew was that for the first time in my life reading was more of a chore than a pleasure. I’d find myself having to reread sentences three or four times to squeeze out some meaning; my attention span was almost non-existent.

Then came involvement in the Saturday night poker game, and encountering Aaron, and moving to town where I sort of settled into small town life. Returning to Seattle to appear before the grand jury necessitated more of a thinking-and-planning stage. I still was running scared, but could cope better. Now I felt almost whole again.

However, I reminded myself that my momentary euphoria needed to be tempered by caution from the real threat of casual violence embodied in Ryder or the kids who had attacked me at The Tav, or, less likely at that moment it seemed to me, from Vern.

By the time I set out to visit Abigail the following week, and to check my e-mail, nothing more had happened to spook me. At the library the e-mail message from Katherine just said, “Big news. Call me.” I didn’t know whether to be alarmed or relieved, but my heart rate zoomed up. I called Katherine’s office, but she wasn’t in.

I decided I needed a phone again, so bought one, and put in another call to her leaving my new number with her office for a call back. I thought I might as well wait to phone Aaron until I knew what was going on. I had an appointment to meet Abigail at a nearby McDonald’s for lunch.

She greeted me with a shy smile as I walked in the door. She looked rested and happy. Over burgers she told me about the shelter she was living in and that she was studying to get her GED. She was planning to attend the community college in the fall. In the meantime she had been working part-time at an espresso cafe and saving her money to get a place of her own.

“What are you planning to study in college?” I asked.

“I.T.” she said. “Information Technology – computer skills. I’m already pretty good, but I need more practice.” She sounded excited. “Maybe I’ll become a private detective someday – specializing in computer forensics.”

“Sounds good,” I said. I asked her if she missed going to regular high school.

“Not really,” she said. “Most of the kids there were pretty lame most of the time.” I thought how she had been forced to grow up earlier than her peers. I found myself impressed with her goals and her maturity. I told her so, and promised to keep in touch.

Katherine called me an hour later. “Vern was indicted on Wednesday on charges of corruption,” she blurted. And before I could say anything she added,” And on Thursday, according to a statement to the press from the district attorney’s office, he had a small stroke. He’s supposedly been under a doctor’s care ever since.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him to fake being ill,” I said. She admitted she didn’t know the real truth of the matter, just the reports in the news. “If it’s true,” I said, “I should be in less danger, but I can’t afford complacency.” She agreed and said she’d phone me if she learned anything more. I asked about the kids. She said that they seemed to be doing fine in college, and that neither of them said anything about Vern having been in contact with them.

“Oh yeah,” she said, “I got a phone call from a Fern Albright wanting to know how to get a hold of you. She hadn’t heard you were missing. I just played dumb and didn’t tell her much.”

“She’s my reclusive aunt. Lives in Oregon. I’ll call her.”

“She didn’t leave a phone number,” Katherine said.

“I’ll manage,” I said before hanging up. As it turned out I couldn’t find any trace of a phone number for her. On my way back to Madrona I thought about paying my aunt a visit.

RUNNING SCARED # 11


I was brushing myself off, trying to screw up my courage for the walk home, when Steve came out of the door and almost ran into me. “Hey,” she said. “I thought you left a while ago.”

“I tripped and fell,” I said.

She insisted on taking me back inside to check for injuries. I didn’t protest too much. Steve was a force of nature and I was out of resistance for the moment. She cleaned my split lip and closed the gash with a tiny butterfly bandage. “I hope this holds,” she said. “Now, tell me what really happened.”

“Just clumsy, I guess,” I began.

“Try again. I really hate it when people lie to me,” she said. So I told her exactly what happened and that I didn’t want the police involved. “I can understand that,” she said. “I’ll drive you home tonight. Next time you get someone else to take you home. Otherwise you will not be allowed to work here after dark.”

She locked up, and handed me her spare helmet before we got on her motorcycle. I felt awash in shame as she drove me the four blocks. “Thanks,” I said, my voice thick with unshed tears.” I unbuckled the helmet and stowed it on the back.

Steve touched my arm. “You’ve gotta be one tough lady to have made it this far.” She sighed deeply. “And the journey’s not over. It’s not a crime to accept help, nor to have a good cry. See you on Friday.” She roared off. Her reassurance and advice sounded like the kind of thing I’d often said to my children.

I stumbled to my room, thankful my keys had been in my pocket, and had that good cry. I woke up at dawn stiff and sore and still wearing my grubby jeans. A hot shower sorted me out, and I dressed for my shift at the café. I couldn’t afford not to show up for work, but I could tell this was going to be a licking-my-wounds kind of day.

As it turned out Sarge put me to work filling in for the waitress who had called in sick. I protested and pointed to my split lip; he wasn’t interested. So, I was waiting for breakfasts to come up to be served, and looking out the front window, when a pickup truck squealed to a stop in the tiny parking lot. A teenage girl bolted from the passenger seat followed by the man who had been driving. He grabbed her arm and swung her around, then backhanded her across the face. She crumpled.

Without thinking I was out the front door. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I yelled.

The man left her lying on the ground and turned to face me. “Butt out, lady,” he growled, and turned back to the girl who was struggling to her feet.

I grabbed the push broom from beside the front door, and whacked him on the shoulder. “You leave her alone,” I yelled, hitting him again and again and again. All of a sudden the broom was plucked from my hands.

“Enough,” Sarge said, “enough.” He put his arm around the girl protectively. “Get out of here, Ryder.” The man looked belligerent and raised his fists. “Git, or I’ll give the broom back to the little lady.’ The café customers, out on the porch by this time, all laughed. Ryder slammed himself back in the pickup and screeched away.

I was both proud of myself and horrified. Never had I raised a hand to anyone, much less a broom.

“Take care of her,” Sarge said handing the girl to me. “I’ve got food cooking,” and he sprinted back inside.

“Way to go, lady,” someone said as I guided the girl into the restroom.

The girl was still shaking and I sat her down on a straight chair. “I’m Morgan,” I said. “Please tell me your name, and tell me where it hurts.”

“Gail,” she said, “Abigail, and it don’t really hurt that bad anymore.” I dampened a paper towel and began to clean her tear-streaked face. She said that he was her aunt’s boyfriend and she had been living with him and her aunt for two weeks. “Then he got all weird, you know. So I ran away. He followed me and made me get in the truck.”

I found out her dad wasn’t in the picture and her mother would be in jail for two more months – drug possession. She had been placed with her aunt. “How old are you?” I asked, sickened by the bruise on her right cheekbone.

“Just turned eighteen,” she said, straightening her back. She looked to be all of fourteen. It remained to be seen how old she really was.

“Any other relatives you could stay with?” I asked. She shook her head “no,” and shrugged one shoulder. “Hungry?” I asked.

She shrugged again. “Don’t got no money, anyway.”

“Come on back to the kitchen,” I said, figuring Sarge knew what was going on. He seemed to know the boyfriend by name. I told Sarge I’d let her have one of my breakfasts. He said to forget it. Once she was busy with her requested milk and cereal, I found out that she was indeed eighteen, but still in high school, and that Ryder was a violent alcoholic who liked young girls. “She can’t go back there,” I said.

“I don’t know that she’s got much choice,” Sarge said. “We’d better call her aunt.”

“Of course, she’s got choice,” I said, glaring at him.

“Like what?” he asked. I told him I didn’t know, but, by god, I’d find out. “I sure as hell won’t argue with you,” he said. I’ve seen what you can do with a broom and a mad on.” He grinned.

“Can we keep her here until my shift is over?”

“If you can get her to stay,” he said, turning back to the stove.

Two hours later, Gail was asleep on a hard bench in the warmth of the kitchen, and I began calling the women Katherine had given me the names of. Lauren, who lived just north of Madrona, said she would drive over and talk with Gail. I was finally eating my breakfast when Lauren showed up. “What happened to your lip?” she asked.

I told her, then woke Gail and introduced Lauren. Gail looked stricken. “You from the county?” she asked in a hard-edged voice. “I’m eighteen now. You can’t tell me what to do anymore.”

Lauren slowly shook her head “no,” said she was “a friend of Morgan’s,” and asked me for some coffee. I poured two cups of coffee. Gail wanted a coke. We all sat at a back booth in the café. Gail was still wary. I was just weary.

It took almost an hour for Lauren to quietly get some information from Gail. Then Lauren began to lay out some options. Told Gail that legally she was considered an adult now, capable of making her own decisions, that there were shelters where she could stay in the Bay area until she had a job and a place of her own. Told Gail that she didn’t have to put up with any man raising a hand to her, nor telling her what to do ever again.

I could see that these ideas were new, but interesting to Gail. “I really could get my own place?” The rest was just logistics. We brought Sarge into the discussion. He agreed to go with Gail to say goodbye to her aunt, to pick up her few belongings, and to handle Ryder if necessary. Lauren and I waited at the café and took care of the customers.

Sarge brought Gail back. As Lauren got ready to take off, Gail said, “Morgan, will you come and visit me sometime?” I glanced at Lauren; she nodded. I assured Gail I would if I could.

After they were gone Sarge said, “Myra, her aunt, was relieved to have Gail out of there. She thinks she can handle Ryder.” Sarge shook his head and advised me to watch out for Ryder, said that he had warned him off, but when Ryder got drunk all bets were off. “You shamed him and he’ll be looking to get even.”

I sighed, and dragged my weary self home where I slept the rest of the day. I felt like I was the one who had been beat up. It didn’t seem fair, but I was aware that fair had nothing to do with my current reality. I wondered if the fact that I’d started beating up others instead of being the one victimized was some kind of perverse progress.

The following night I went back to The Tav. “Hey,” Steve said, “I heard you had a black belt in broom bashing!” I winced. “Good to know,” she smiled, “by the way someone found your backpack in the parking lot,” she said, handing it to me. I checked it out and was happy to see that my old windbreaker, paperback book, and lipstick were still there. The only things missing were a worn billfold that had had a few dollars in it, a granola bar, and my flashlight. The only thing I’d miss was that Maglite on a lanyard that I could hang around my neck

The first thing I did was to ask one of the regulars to walk me home after my shift. I briefly explained why to prevent any misunderstanding. As I worked it still galled me that I hadn’t been more alert the other night. I wondered if I’d ever get to the point where hyper-vigilance wouldn’t be necessary. However, I had turned down witness protection, and had no one to blame for the choices that had brought me to this point.

I was beginning to realize how profoundly my life had changed; I couldn’t see myself returning to a so-called normal life in Seattle. When I was in Murietta I’d kidded myself that once Vern had been indicted and convicted that I could just go back. But, go back to what? I wanted to be back in touch with my kids, but they were in college and on their own. I didn’t want to be a burden to them. Maybe I could go back to Murietta.

I’d become this fictional woman named Morgan, a cash-and-barter member of the underground economy, living by my wits – a woman with possible delusions of grandeur about becoming a poker shark. Despite this, and even though I was often scared, I liked the problem-solving aspects of the life I’d cobbled together.

Nevertheless, I wouldn’t mind having at least one area of my life that was safe and stable – a home base. Maybe that was the next problem I needed to solve.

RUNNING SCARED # 10


I stopped by a shabby-looking bed and breakfast and talked with the owner. I told her I was looking for a room for a couple of weeks – just a room, no breakfast. She showed me a spacious room with a double bed and quoted a price outside my budget. “Have you got something smaller?” I asked. Finally she showed me a tiny room with a single bed and a bath down the hall. It was barely adequate but I was able to negotiate a rent I thought I could afford. I paid her for a week, got a set of keys, and dropped my heavy backpack off.

Back at the tavern I didn’t see the woman I’d spoken to before. “I’m looking for Steve,” I told the woman behind the bar. She was a Sharon Gless look-a-like from the Cagney and Lacey days – short blonde hair, turtleneck sweater and jeans on a trim figure.

“I’m Steve,” she said, “what can I do for you?” I noticed her taking in my damaged face. I mentally revised my story for a female-friendly audience, briefly explained my circumstances, and asked to trade kitchen work for meals – nothing fancy.

She laughed. “Fancy sure don’t live here,” she said, and agreed to my working there Friday and Saturday nights. “I’m mostly busy those nights. We’ll see how things work out from there.”

I readily agreed, thanked her, and decided to wait to ask about poker games. I’d have a chance to observe for myself what sort of place it was, and if there was any action where I might fit in.

As I walked around the area the next few days I found myself thinking back to my life with Paul. We had been too young, and hadn’t had it easy, but we eventually had learned to fight fair – to respect both each other’s bodies and each other’s psyches. Nothing had prepared me for Vern’s violent nature. Having married so young I had ended up short on life experience, and, once thrust into the world by widowhood, both naïve and too trusting.

Ironically, I realized that it was that same naivety that enabled me to travel around living by my wits. In many circumstances I simply didn’t know better -- didn’t understand how many things could go wrong, and if I could keep my fear in check, I could handle almost everything. And, despite the fact that I had trusted Aaron from the beginning, I no longer was quite so trusting in general.

By the time Friday came I had established a routine at the café. Sarge was both cook and owner. I found out he was a Vietnam vet, homeless at one time, now just content to eke out a small living from the business he had inherited from an uncle. He lived in the tiny apartment upstairs.

I usually worked from seven to eight-thirty, had my breakfast, and then killed time. I’d scouted out the paperback bookstore and was working on a barter approach to the guy who ran it. I was hard up for reading material. I could sometimes scrounge a newspaper or two from the café, but needed more. My spartan room didn’t even have a TV; there was one available in the parlor, but I didn’t want to answer any more questions from the gossipy proprietor.

On Thursday I took the bus to a nearby area with a library where I could e-mail Katherine. I needed to let her know I’d moved and why; I told her I’d continue to check in with her once a week. I also phoned Aaron. Lucky to catch him, he told me that someone new with a better photo of who I used to be had been asking around Murietta for me. Aaron said he was glad that I’d left when I did. Said he’d been thinking about me. I told him I’d keep in touch. I didn’t tell either of them where I was.

Back in Madrona I showed up at The Tav at five-thirty on Friday. Jenny, the main bartender, showed me where everything was and explained what was expected of me; I’d work from six to eight-thirty Friday and Saturday evenings mostly doing some prep work in the back room, then clean up as needed. I could have a sandwich and coffee four nights a week in exchange. No alcohol. Suited me fine.

I asked about the name of the place. Jenny said it was called The Tav because half of the neon sign had burned out years ago and, by the time there had been extra money the locals had adopted the shortened name and voted against fixing it.

Working that first Friday night I overheard enough to know that there was a small stakes poker game on Wednesday nights, and another larger stakes game on Saturday. I hoped I’d be able to check out the Saturday players the following night.

Steve came in around eight, and asked how I was doing. “Fine,” I said, and encouraged her to let me know any way I could improve my performance. She just smiled. “Any problem with my sitting in on the Wednesday night poker game?” I asked.

She shot me a quizzical look. “No problem if you don’t mind losing money.“

“I won’t know about that unless I try,” I said. “Right?”

“You can sit in if we have an extra place. Wednesdays are usually slow.”

When I showed up on Wednesday evening to have a sandwich and to check out the poker players, I was wondering if it was a totally different set of people; I recognized only two of those I’d seen on Saturday; four others were new to me. Only two were women.

I began by playing conservatively, but ended the evening doing as well as I usually did in Murietta – a little ahead money-wise. I stopped in the ladies room and returned my major stash of cash to my money belt before walking the four blocks back to the bed and breakfast. I zipped up my coat, pulled my hood over my head, and stepped outside.

I got only a few steps from the tavern before I was suddenly jerked off my feet. I fell to the ground hard, my face slamming into the dirt; as I lay there slightly dazed my mostly-empty daypack was grabbed off my shoulder.

“Let’s get out of here,” I heard someone say as I shakily struggled to my feet. I heard several people running away. Damn, I thought, probably kids. I couldn’t call the police, I couldn’t even tell anyone lest they call the police. I hadn’t seen enough to identify anyone anyway.

I didn’t seem to be badly injured, just a split lip. My poor face, I thought. Once again I felt how precarious my situation was. Reality triumphing over naivety. My feelings of well-being had fled. Just random violence, I told myself, but it didn’t reassure me at all. Violence of any kind still frightened me. And fear was still my most formidable enemy.

RUNNING SCARED # 9


I was feeling good Saturday night when I got home from the poker session. I’d said a proper goodbye to Rose, and I’d allowed myself to win a little more than usual. I needed a nest egg to finance my move.

When I opened my cabin door I found a note from Aaron on the floor.

“Call me anytime. I’ll come to wherever you are. And
when you come back in Spring I’ll take you flying through the redwood
canopy.” A

Sounded like he was courting me. Sounded tempting. How long had it been since I’d felt female, much less desirable? Part of me just wanted to go over to Aaron’s place, climb into his bed, and let him take care of me. From the day I met him he had had my back, but the smarter part of me knew it wasn’t the right time to get more seriously involved with anyone. I needed to get my life straightened out first. Although I longed for the comfort of loving arms, I needed to stick to my decision and get out of Dodge.

Milt picked me up the next morning after he had delivered the papers. All I could think about for the first twenty minutes was Aaron – going over what I knew about him – realizing there were too many things I didn’t know about him. Making a list of questions to ask him when I got the chance – keeping in mind his aversion to answering personal questions. Milt happily chattered away the whole time.

As the miles sped by a sense of relief began to flood my body and I found I could breathe again. I’d obviously been holding my breath ever since I was attacked. In Garberville I asked Milt to drop me off at the cyber café. I did a little research on the Bay area and decided to stay at the Berkeley YWCA a night or two to begin with. I had a couple of San Francisco area phone numbers Katherine had given me. I’d phone them when I got there.

I walked out to the nearest truck stop, and started searching for a ride to the Bay area. I figured that anyone trying to trace me from Murietta would find it more difficult if I hitched a ride with a truck driver. I glanced around the parking lot and through the windows of the café looking for a likely prospect -- someone friendly, but not too friendly. As individual drivers exited the café and headed for a driver-owned truck I’d approach, ask where they were headed, then ask if I could ride along.

The third driver I talked to gave me a long appraising look and said, “Sure, why not?” I assured him that I had twenty dollars I could give him for gas, and that he could drop me at any Bay area truck stop. Maybe ten minutes down the road he said, “I suppose you noticed my gun,” and patted his right hip.

I almost panicked, but as coolly as I could I said, “Not really. Are you expecting trouble?”

“Gotta be prepared,” he said.

“Anything I should be worried about?” I asked.

“No, I just thought I’d mention it so you wouldn’t worry.”

“Thoughtful of you,” I said. “I’d hate to think you were afraid of me.”

He glanced over at me. I grinned. We both laughed, and the tension was broken. By two-thirty I was in Berkeley taking a taxi to the YWCA. He turned down my attempt to give him the gas money.

When I got settled in my room I called a woman named Laurie, I told her a little about my problem, and that I needed to find a safe neighborhood to look for a room – somewhere with many cafes or small businesses where I might find a job maybe trading work for meals. “Not too yuppie,” I said. “And not near a college.”

“Why not near a college?” she asked.

“Because all the college kids have the part-time jobs,” I explained.

She laughed and made several suggestions. I thought about asking her about taverns with regular poker games, but figured I’d best scout those for myself. I tried to call the other woman, but got no answer. Maybe I’d try her later if necessary.

The next morning I got some bus schedules and directions to both areas. The first one I checked out was transitional -- going from prosperous to marginal, plenty of taverns but not feeling safe to me -- too many walls that had been tagged with graffiti or newly painted in patches. It was a long bus ride with two transfers to the other area Laurie had mentioned. I was beginning to feel discouraged, but knew I had to persevere, to keep going through the motions. If I stopped moving I could be stalled for days. I’d been through enough of that in those early weeks after I first left Seattle – a flurry of activity followed by spasms of catatonia. I was stronger now.

Madrona seemed to be a quiet place -- two streets with shops and cafes, a service station and garage, three taverns, one tiny Lutheran church. One of the shops was a paperback bookshop – bring in two books to trade for one. A blue-collar kind of neighborhood. I decided to ask around at the taverns to see if they needed a dishwasher.

If so, it would be easier to check out any poker games. I felt some trepidation about playing poker for money. I had no idea if I was really good enough, but the only way to find out was to play a couple of games. See how much game I really had. The idea of doing that really scared me – but scared me in a good way. The worst that could happen is I’d lose some money.

The first two taverns I went into didn’t seem that friendly, but the third had a female bartender who said to come back later to talk to Steve – that they had been looking for part-time help. I asked if she knew of a cheap room for rent in the area. She said to check a couple of bed-and-breakfasts nearby – that winter rates by the week were pretty reasonable.

I stopped at a nearby café for a late lunch. Business was slow and after I finished eating I told the waitress I wanted to speak to the manager or owner. “Something wrong with the food?” she asked. I reassured her and a few minutes later an older man with a stained white apron around his waist came over to my table.

“Is there a problem, Miss?”

“Sorry,” I said, “I was just wondering if you could use some help for an hour or two a day. I’m wanting to barter work for meals.”

“Off the books?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m running away from home,” I said and shrugged. I was aware of him noticing the scars on my face, and he looked like he understood. He offered me breakfast in exchange for a daily hour and a half of kitchen work, including washing dishes, for the next two weeks. “Thanks,” I said, “see you tomorrow morning at seven.” I felt happy. Things were looking up.

RUNNING SCARED # 8


I wasn’t sleeping well, had no one to talk to, and had heard nothing further about my attacker. I had to figure out what to do next. Psychologists talk about the “fear choice” versus “the growth choice.” What was true for me right then was that all my choices were fear choices. But I’d be damned if I’d continue to feel like a victim. I could stay in Murietta and live in constant fear that somehow Vern already knew where I was or that it now would be easier for him to figure it out, or I could take action. The only action I knew how to take was to leave town.

In retrospect it seemed clear that the man who died intended to frighten me only. He had every opportunity to kill me had that been his intent. But I was afraid even though he was dead. Flashbacks of being choked haunted my nightmares.

I was afraid to leave Murietta and the quiet life I’d built there, afraid to go somewhere new and have to figure everything out all over again – where to live, what kind of menial work to pursue, how to stay safe not only from Vern, but also from being a woman alone in a strange place. Maybe this was the time to check out the feasibility of making a living from playing poker. I didn’t really require that much to live on.

Once I’d determined to go, I felt a surge of energy. Then the questions settled down to where to go, when to go, and what did I need to do before I left. Packing would take me all of twenty minutes, so I began by studying the map. A big city might be best -- maybe San Francisco – not that far away. Then I began laying the foundation for my leaving by telling Rose that my brother in South Carolina was in trouble and might need my help. “ I may have to leave soon,” I said.

“We’ll miss you, Hon,” she said. I knew she would spread the word when I did go.

That night I dragged myself back to my cabin and changed into my pajamas as usual. I’d half dozed off in the big chair in front of the TV when I heard a knock on my door. I slipped my coat on and asked who it was before opening the door. “Sheriff’s Department,” a deep voice announced.

I opened the door a few inches and flipped on the porch light. “What’s the trouble, officer?” I asked, although I well knew the answer to that question.

“May I come in for a minute?” he asked.

“I’m in my pajamas,” I said.

“Sorry to bother you, missus, but I really need to speak with you,” he said. “I’ll wait on the porch.”

I hurriedly got dressed, and let him in. Deputy Sheriff Martinez spent the next fifteen minutes asking me if I knew a Duane Donovan, or had heard anything of my neighbor in cabin #1. I denied all knowledge and tried to act properly shocked when told that Donovan was dead. “You are the only other guest staying here the last week. We thought you might have seen or heard him coming or going.” I just shook my head in denial.

After the Sheriff left I had the shakes for a good half hour. I felt glad I’d already decided to go. However, I thought I’d better stay just a few more days so my leaving wouldn’t get coupled with the “accidental” death. It wouldn’t hurt to sit in on one more Saturday night poker game anyway. In the meantime I’d just be extra cautious.

I hoped Aaron would be back before I needed to say goodbye, and I was glad I’d not become romantically entangled with him despite the fact that Rose kept assuring me he was “seduceable.” The relationship between Aaron and I had been friendly not romantic. I had known that I needed no entanglements. Even my friendships with Rose and Aaron made me more vulnerable than I was comfortable with.

I decided I needed to write down my account of life with Vern and everything I knew about his underhanded dealings as well as what I’d been doing since I ran away from Seattle. I included the recent assault in my room and how that played out. It didn’t take that long once I got started, and I thought I’d walk out to the tree house and leave the pages there in case something happened to me.

Heading that direction the next morning I felt as if I were saying goodbye to an important time of my life. Nearly three months in the tent in the nearby redwoods and just over a year in the cabin in town. I figured I’d ask old Milt Wagner who delivered the Sunday papers for a ride to Garberville on Sunday. From there I could find a ride South.

On my way to the tree house I wandered through the local cemetery looking for a woman who had been born around the time I had. Maybe I could request a duplicate birth certificate and arrange for proper identification and even find a social security number. I’d known how to do it before, but had resisted taking action. I’d hoped things with Vern would get resolved before I had to resort to illegal tactics. I found a couple of possibilities and wrote them down. I’d google the names later.

I’d not been back to the tree house since that first time, but it had left quite an impression on me. Climbing up the rope ladder was as much of a challenge as before and the place was as I’d remembered it. My pages were in a waterproof folder, and I needed to find a place to hide them. I decided to leave them on the bookshelf with the bird books.

I realized I needed to leave Aaron a note about my report, and to thank him for all his help this last year. I scribbled the note and left it in plain sight, but felt reluctant to leave. I crawled into the hammock to relax for a few minutes and ended up falling asleep. By the time I awoke dusk was settling in. I quickly locked up, climbed down the ladder, and hurried back to the cabin.

There was a light on in the cabin next to mine. A few minutes after I got back there was a quiet knock on my door. I knew it was Aaron. “You’re invited for dinner at my shop in an hour and a half, he said, “you can meet my sister then.”

An hour and a half later I knocked on the door of his shop. A woman with a careworn face and a warm smile welcomed me. “I’m Gwen,” she said, “and you must be Morgan.” There were three places set at the tiny dinette table that had always been covered with piles of invoices and sketches and timesheets for desks and tables on order. The smell of roasting chicken permeated the air. The shop felt almost warm, but I was glad I was wearing a heavy sweater. Aaron, busy in the galley, waved. Gwen and I exchanged small talk – not my favorite kind of conversation.

Dinner was delicious, but awkward. Finally, Gwen said, “I know nothing about you except that you and Aaron are friends. What more can you tell me?” She looked as determined as Rose ever had to get as much information out of me as possible.

All I knew about her was that, according to Aaron, she persisted in an abusive marriage. So, I told her that I was in hiding having run away from a husband who beat me so badly I was hospitalized. Talk about a conversation stopper! I added that I was still kicking myself for the bad judgment to have become involved with him in the first place, but that every day since I left him – no matter how difficult things were – I gave myself full credit for the good judgment not to have gone back.

Aaron began clearing the table, and said he would clean up, but Gwen and I overrode him and insisted on doing it. I knew that we badly needed to be doing something together -- something with our hands -- for her to open up to me at all. “Tell me about yourself,” I asked, running hot water into the sink. Gwen gave me the bare bones resume – married fifteen years, three children, part-time job as a grocery clerk. “Are you happy?” I asked as she began drying the dishes. She slowly shook her head and tears ran down her face.

“I can’t leave – because of the children,” she began.

“If you don’t leave, you’re teaching your children that it’s okay to be abused,” I said. “Abuse doesn’t go away by itself, it just escalates.” I told her about my experience with women’s shelters and the underground network before Aaron walked us back to our cabins.

After Gwen and I said goodbye and she was in her cabin I invited Aaron inside my place. I thanked him for dinner and we talked briefly about Gwen. “But, I’m leaving on Sunday,” I finally said, and explained why I was leaving.

He was silent for a long minute. “I can tell you’ve made up your mind,” he said. “I could drive you to Garberville…” he began.

“I’ve already made arrangements,” I said, “And you’ve got Gwen here.”

He turned, opened the door, and stepped out onto the porch. Then Aaron turned back to me. “Well, I guess this is goodbye for now,” he said, and moved to hug me. We embraced as we had many times before. Unexpectedly he stepped closer, put his hands up alongside my face and gave me a kiss. A kiss both tender and thorough, a kiss unambiguous in intent, and a kiss I responded to in spite of myself.

I backed up. “What the hell was that for?” I asked, my lips still tingling.

“Food for thought,” he said, and turned away, leaving me standing alone feeling both unsettled and cherished.



RUNNING SCARED # 7


It had been a busy day at Rose’s and I had stayed later than usual to help. Now that I had one of the motel cabins to come home to I didn’t have to worry about getting caught out in the dark. The cabin was a primitive one-room studio, but luxurious compared to the tent I’d been living in. The best part was the fireplace. I’d sit in bed at night reading and enjoying both the warmth and the flickering light from the fire.

As I approached my cabin, the last one in the line of six cabins, I noticed the porch light was out. I’d need to replace that before the next night. I unlocked the door and stepped inside reaching for the light switch. Suddenly I was grabbed from behind and lifted off my feet. Between the arm around my neck and the hand over my mouth I could hardly breathe much less cry out. It was dark and I could see nothing, but I could smell stale cigarette smoke.

“You need to learn to keep your mouth shut.” His voice echoed the menace in his grip. Before I could think about it I kicked my feet back as hard as I could. He cursed and dropped me. I fell to the floor and scrabbled away. He lunged for me. I stayed low and he tripped over me landing with a loud thwack near the fireplace.

I raced to the kitchenette and grabbed the only knife I had in one hand and the cast iron frying pan in the other. I stood there both terrified and furious. I was breathing hard. I waited for further attack. I waited and waited, but could hear nothing. I tiptoed over to the kitchenette light switch.

I waited some more, but finally flipped it on. There he was stretched out on his face in front of the stone fireplace. He was completely still and was making no noise. I couldn’t even hear him breathing. I approached the body and kicked at his ankle. No response. Was he just unconscious, or could he be dead? I didn’t want to risk him grabbing me again to find out. I dug my cell phone out of my backpack, keeping my eye on him all the while. I put the frying pan down so I could punch the numbers. “Aaron,” I said, my voice shaking, “please come. I need your help.”

“Be right there,” he said.

The man still did not move. A few minutes later I knew the tap on the door was Aaron. I opened the door.

“Did you know your porch light is out? If you have a spare bulb I can fix that.”

“Later,” I said pulling him inside.

“Who the hell is that,” he said pointing to the man on the floor. “And what are you doing with that knife?” I looked down at my left hand still clutching the knife, but found myself still unwilling to put it down. I quickly filled Aaron in on what had just happened.

Aaron approached the man cautiously. I watched as he felt for a pulse in his neck. He then reached across his face to check for breathing. “He’s certainly dead,” Aaron said. I sighed deeply in relief and crossed to the kitchenette on shaky legs to return the knife to its drawer.

“What should I do?” I asked. “I can’t call the police. I have no valid I.D., and if this gets back to Vern I’m in deeper trouble. I think I’ve got to get out of town as soon as possible.”

“Wait a minute,” Aaron said as he moved to close the drapes on the front windows. “Let’s find out as much as we can about this guy.” He pulled a pair of cotton work gloves out of his jacket pocket and put them on. He moved over to the body and began emptying out his pockets. I noticed that he placed each item on the floor just beside the pocket it came from. A wallet; a cell phone; several slips of paper; a half roll of Tums; a pack of Marlboro cigarettes and a butane lighter; a book of matches; a ring of keys.

Aaron opened the wallet first. “This guy is from Seattle. Name of Duane Donovan – a licensed private detective.” My heart sank. One of Vern’s goons no doubt. I’d have to go back on the run for sure. Aaron checked the slips of paper. “Aha, he’s staying right here in cabin number one. Last night he stayed in Garberville. Looks like whoever planted the tracking device on you traced you to Garberville. This guy has evidently been checking the towns all around the area.”

Aaron unfolded a newspaper clipping with a picture of me when I’d been appointed to head up the Friends of the Library silent auction – the library board’s annual fundraiser. Back when I could afford to get a decent haircut; back when I thought I was happy with Vern; back when I lived a privileged life. “Doesn’t look much like you,” Aaron said glancing at me. “That’s a good thing.”

“He seems to have found me anyway,” I wailed. “I think I remember seeing him at Rose’s for dinner tonight.”

“Okay, okay, calm down. Let’s see what’s the best plan.” Aaron gestured towards the kitchen table and suggested I take the chair facing away from the body. He put the teakettle on to heat, and sat down. “I don’t want you to leave,” he said. By this time he was scrolling through the cell phone for more information. “The last call he made was two days ago before he got to Garberville even.” Aaron efficiently made two mugs of tea, putting three packets of sugar into one. He handed it to me. “Sip it,” he ordered.

“Ugh,” I said, “it’s way too sweet.”

“Drink it anyway,” he said. “First, I think we need to get him out of your cabin and return him to his own, but you’ll need to help. He’s too big for me to handle by myself.” I reluctantly agreed. “Or” Aaron added, “we could call 911.”

I shook my head. “No way. I like the idea of getting him out of here.”

Within just a few minutes Aaron had returned everything to the man’s pockets, except the news clipping and the cell phone. He walked over to cabin number one to open the door. Fortunately the other four cabins were vacant at the moment and the owners were gone for a few days.

The hardest part was lifting him up. I glimpsed blood on the man’s forehead and quickly looked away. We tried to support the body – each of us on one side half-dragging him along. We almost dropped him going down the steps. A car driving by on the main road froze us in place for a moment. Then we hauled him as fast as we could to the first cabin and up the steps there.

Aaron positioned the body face down by the fireplace just as he had been at my place. “Go home,” Aaron said. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” I dashed back to my cabin still shaky from the whole experience. Then I just sat like a lump in the dark until Aaron returned.

“It may be a few days before the body is discovered,” he said turning on the overhead light. Aaron grabbed a sponge from the kitchen sink and scrubbed at the area on the fireplace where the man had landed. Then he put the sponge in a plastic bag alongside the cell phone. “Will you consider not leaving?” he said.

“I suppose so, but…” I began.

“Wait here. I’ll be right back. Lock the door.” Aaron dashed outside taking the cell phone, the bagged sponge, and the newspaper clipping with him.

I locked the door thinking I should get my large backpack out and decide what I could leave behind. But I lacked the will to do anything, and where would I go anyway.. I’d ended up in Murietta by accident.

A tap on the door indicated Aaron had returned. He closed the door behind him and just stood there looking nervous. “I got you something and was waiting for the right time to give it to you. I guess there’s no better time than now.” He dug in his packet and handed me what looked like two cards. “Maybe this will make you feel more comfortable about staying here.”

I took them and looked carefully. One was a California driver’s license for Morgan Bishop. It looked perfect – even the vital statistics were accurate. The second card was for the Garberville public library. “How did you get these?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I know a guy who knows a guy,” he said. “At least you’ll be prepared with identification if anyone questions you about your neighbor’s unfortunate accident.”

“It’s wrong not to report this,” I said.

Aaron moved to the kitchenette and filled the teakettle. “You’re right about that, but it would be foolish and dangerous for you to do so. Some decisions are not always as simple as right or wrong. And we’ve already moved the body so it’s a moot point.” He busied himself with teabags and mugs. “You didn’t do anything wrong. He died accidentally as a result of his own folly. You’re lucky you didn’t get hurt more than you did.”

Over tea he told me that he had put a rumpled towel on the floor that the man could have tripped over. “By the way,” he said, “you’re going to need a scarf or something to cover the bruises on your neck.” I went to the bathroom mirror and was shocked by the darkening bruises from the man’s arm. “I’m confident you can handle talking to the authorities, and can keep your cool too.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“What’s the alternative? If you leave before the body is found, the fact that you’re gone will take on added significance and they may start looking for you.”

“I don’t know,” I repeated.

“Can you stay here alone tonight and be okay?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll stay here a while,” he said, and sat down on a kitchen chair. He turned the TV on as I curled up on the bed, exhausted – too exhausted to be scared for a change. Could I handle all this I wondered as I drifted into a restless sleep. When I woke up Aaron was gone.

The next day Rose commented on my turtleneck sweater, but all else seemed normal. I did not see nor hear from Aaron. The previous night could have been just a nightmare, but I knew it wasn’t. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop – for the “accident” to be discovered.

I could tell myself it wasn’t my fault that the man had attacked me, but I couldn’t forget the thwack of his head hitting the fireplace and the stillness of his body afterwards.