Seventy-three hours and thirty minutes remaining.
What would you do?
I ESCORTED TOMIKA, MICHAEL, AND MICA to the bus stop. It would take three more exchanges to get them to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, but Tomika had an old girlfriend there, who’d set her up with job. New names, new life, new opportunity.
Tomika was crying.
“I love him,” she said, then brushed her cheeks with hands thick with finger splints and white bandages.
“He’ll kill you.”
“I know.”
“He’ll kill your children.”
“I know.”
Michael had his arm around his little sister’s shoulders. His expression, as he stared at his mother, was resigned.
“Mommy?” Mica finally spoke up.
Tomika glanced down at her daughter, sobbed harder. “I swear I won’t go back. I’ll be strong. I’ll take care of us, baby. I promise, I’ll take care of us.”
Given the state of her splinted fingers, I helped her organize the new IDs in her purse. I opened her wallet, withdrew her old driver’s license, slipped in the new one, made with the help of one of her Facebook photos and J.T.’s friend. In thirty seconds Tomika Miller became Tonya Davis. I wrapped my turquoise scarf around her neck, slipped dark sunglasses over her eyes, and added a bright hat to cover her uptucked hair.
For Michael and Mica, we had something simpler in mind. Michael gained a wig, becoming the seven-year-old sister, while Mica’s ponytail was summarily cut off, turning her into a four-year-old younger brother.
Later, at the bus stop, should Stan Miller ask questions, no one would know of a lone woman with an older son and younger daughter boarding the bus. They’d only witnessed two women and two children who climbed on together, with an older girl and younger boy. I handled all the tickets again, so Tomika could keep her bandaged hands hidden inside her coat. Another question Stan might think to ask, but no one in the bus depot would have the answer.
At the last minute, I got back off the bus, mentioning I’d forgotten something, would catch up later.
Right before exiting, I leaned down and slipped a prepaid cell, recently purchased from Wal-Mart, into Michael’s pocket. It was programmed with a single number-my own. I whispered in his ear, “Call me. Anytime. I’ll be there, Michael. I’ll be there.”
Then I was off. Five minutes later the bus pulled away, Tomika Miller and her two kids getting a fresh start in life.
Until the first time it grew too tough, and Tomika gave in to the urge to call her husband. Or broke down and told her story to a friend who’d tell a friend who’d tell a friend who’d tell Stan Miller. Or Stan himself managed to track them down.
Maybe this time, Stan would bring that ax. Maybe this time, Michael would call me, begging, pleading, screaming desperately for help.
Maybe it would be after 8 P.M. on January 21.
And my phone would ring and ring and ring. Nobody left alive to answer.
I glanced at my watch. 7:42 P.M.
Seventy-two hours and fifteen minutes left to live.
What would you do?
I headed back to Tomika’s old address. I headed for Stan Miller.
THINGS I DIDN’T KNOW about myself until the last year: I am, or used to be, deeply, deeply terrified of fighting back. First time my boxing coach tried to get me to spar in the ring, I couldn’t do it. Shadowboxing, sure. Heavy bag work, no problem. Speed bag, fun. But to hit someone, actually pull back my arm, then snap my fist forward, rolling my shoulder, rotating at the waist, stepping into the full velocity of the punch, committing to my opponent’s gut, kidney, chin, nose, right eye. Couldn’t do it.
I danced around the ring. Dodged, ducked, V-stepped, sidestepped, elbow blocked, swatted, did anything but throw a punch.
All those years of going along. All those years of being a brave little girl, a good little girl. I couldn’t retaliate.
My mother had trained me too well.
At the end of the sixth session, in sheer frustration, my boxing coach, Dick, a retired three-time world champion, nailed me in the eye. It hurt. My cheekbone exploded. My eye welled with tears. I recoiled, stared at him incredulously, as if I couldn’t believe he’d done such a thing.
He jabbed me in the other eye. Then the gut, the shoulder, the chin. My coach started wailing on me.
And I took it. I hunched over, fists in front of my face, elbows glued to my rib cage, and let him beat me.
Brave little girl. Good little girl.
Making my mother proud.
Dick gave up first. Walked away in disgust. Muttering at me for not fighting, muttering at himself for beating up a defenseless girl.
And that did it. I finally registered my own pain. I finally heard someone calling me a
I attacked my fifty-five-year-old, gristle-haired, battle-scarred boxing coach and I tried to kill him. I threw jabs, right hooks, uppercuts, left hooks, solid punches, endless kidney shots. I chased him around the ring, corner to corner, and I discovered inside myself something I’d never known was there-rage. Pure, unadulterated rage. And not the good old, I’m twenty-eight years old and I’m finally pissed off at my mother rage, but the better, harder, I’m twenty-eight years old and I’m finally pissed off at
At the end of the session, my coach had one black eye and one swollen nose. I had two black eyes and bruised ribs. And we were both exultant.
“That’s it!” he told me again and again, dripping blood all over the boxing ring. “I knew you could do it. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! Now, that’s boxing, Charlie. That’s committing to the punch!”
Turns out, I didn’t want to be Tomika Miller, running from shadows, constantly looking over her shoulder.
I wanted it to be January 21. I wanted to open that door. I wanted to look my killer in the eye.
And I wanted to beat the shit out of him, before plugging three to the chest. One for Randi. One for Jackie. And one for me.
I’d been a good girl once.
Now I didn’t plan on being a good girl ever again.
I ARRIVED BACK AT TOMIKA’S APARTMENT in the tenement housing unit at 8:26 P.M. I’d been told Stan’s shift as a security officer ended at seven. Usually, he had half a dozen drinks with the boys, then came home to terrorize his waiting family around nine.
Big guy. Six two, 280 pounds. Not fit. His security job involved sitting in a booth, checking ID at a major manufacturing plant. Basically, he made twelve bucks an hour to sit around and look intimidating. Which must have pissed him off, because then he returned home and threw his weight around.
According to Tomika, he was often packing and seemed to have an endless supply of firearms. Where they came from, she didn’t know and she didn’t ask. But he and his buddies liked to shoot beer cans off the rear fire escape at nights, and none of them had problems producing a weapon.
So I had roughly thirty minutes to prepare for a mountain of man who might or might not be packing multiple firearms.
My palms were sweating. My heart beat too hard in my chest.
I worked on breaking down my plan into short, manageable steps. First, quick buzz through the apartment, removing lightbulbs. Darkness was my friend, surprise my best advantage.
The instant Stan opened the door, he’d be back lit by the hall, a clear target. Best moment of opportunity would be those first two seconds, when he was caught unaware and completely haloed, while I’d be nothing but a faint shadow in the dark recesses of the living room.
