Part 14 (1/2)

I stand at the side of the Golam brothers' trailer. I've been told to stay put, to wait, but I know that's not the right decision. If I go in first, if I go in now, I've got the brothers dead-bang. They think they know me. I've worked this case three months. I know what I'm doing. I know I'm right. I know the Golam brothers are already twitching. I know I want this bust and deserve it. I know Lieutenant Sikes is here for the show, to put a feather in his cap. He wants to look good when the news vans arrive. He wants to make the public think they should vote for him in the next election for sheriff.

He's stuck me on the side of the trailer and told me to wait. He doesn't know his a.s.s. He didn't listen to me when I told him the side door is the door the brothers use most. While Sikes and Ramirez are watching the front, the brothers are dumping their money into duffel bags and getting ready to bolt out the side. Billy Golam's four-by-four is parked ten feet away, covered in mud. If they run, they'll take the truck, not the Corvette parked in front. The truck can go off-road.

Sikes is wasting precious time. The Golam brothers have two girls in the trailer with them. This could easily turn into a hostage situation. But if I go in now . . . They think they know me.

I key the b.u.t.ton on my radio. ”This is stupid. They're going to break for the truck. I'm going in.”

”G.o.ddammit, Estes-”

I drop the radio into the weeds growing beside the trailer. It's my case. It's my bust. I know what I 'm doing.

I draw my weapon and hold it behind my back. I go to the side door and knock the way all the Golam brothers' customers knock: two knocks, one knock, two knocks. ”Hey, Billy, it's Elle! I need some.”

Billy Golam jerks open the door, wild-eyed, high on his own home cooking-crystal meth. He's breathing hard. He's got a gun in his hand.

s.h.i.+t.

The front door explodes inward.

One of the girls screams.

Buddy Golam shouts: ”Cops!”

Billy Golam swings the .357 up in my face. I suck in my last breath.

He turns abruptly and fires. The sound is deafening. The bullet hits Hector Ramirez in the face and

blows out the back of his head, blood and brain matter spraying Sikes behind him.

I go for my weapon as Billy bolts out the door and knocks me off the stoop.

He's running for the truck as I scramble to get my feet under me.

The engine roars to life.

”Billy!” I scream, running for the truck.

”f.u.c.k! f.u.c.k! f.u.c.k!” The cords in his neck stand out as he screams. He throws the truck into

reverse and hits the gas.

I throw myself at the driver's door, grab hold of the side mirror and the window frame, and get

one foot on the running board. I don't think what I'm doing. I just act.

I'm screaming. He's screaming.

He brings the gun up and points it in my face.

I hit the gun, hit his face.

He cranks the wheel around as the truck runs backward. One of my feet slips off the running

board. He throws the truck into drive and gravel spews out behind it.

I struggle to keep from falling. I try to grab the wheel.

The truck catches hold of pavement. Golam cranks the wheel hard left. His face is a contorted

mask, mouth wide, eyes wild. I try to grab for him. He shoves the door open as the truck spinsaround in the road.I'm hanging in s.p.a.ce.I'm falling.The road slams against my back.My left cheekbone shatters like an egg.Then the black shadow of Billy Golam's four-by-four sweeps over me, and I die.

And I wake.

Five-thirty A.M. After two hours of fitful dozing, waiting for a rib fragment to deflate one or both of my lungs, I oozed over the side of my bed and forced myself to attempt stretching.

I went into the bathroom, stood naked in front of the mirror, and looked at my body. Too thin. Rectangular marks on both thighs where the skin grafts were taken. Gouges into the meat of the left leg.

I turned and tried to look over my shoulder at my back in the mirror. I looked at what I had shown Landry, and called myself stupid.

The one useful thing my father had ever taught me: never show a weakness, never appear vulnerable.

The bruises from my beating were dark maroon stripes. It hurt when I breathed.

At 6:15-after I'd fed the horses-I drove myself to the ER. The X rays showed no broken bones. A bleary-eyed resident, who'd had even less sleep than I, questioned me, clearly not believing my story of having fallen down a flight of stairs. All the staff looked at me askance with jaded eyes. Twice I was asked if I wanted to talk to a cop. I thanked them and declined. No one forced the issue, which led me to wonder how many battered women were allowed to simply walk out of the place and back into their own private h.e.l.l.

The resident vomited up a big load of medical terms, trying to intimidate me with his expensive education.

I looked at him, unimpressed, and said, ”I have bruised ribs.”

”You have bruised ribs. I'll give you a prescription for painkillers. Go home and rest. No significant physical activity for forty-eight hours.”