The Perils of Panacea

Chapter 3

3

Ben was standing next to the open, front passenger door. I yelled to him as we stumbled across the gravel, Renee leaning heavily on me. “Get the back open. And start the car!”

The sight of her son confused Renee. “Aren’t we going to the beach?”

We’d reached the car, and Ben raised his eyebrows at her question. I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, we’re going to the beach. Just get in the damned car.”

Renee got in headfirst and crawled slowly, ass in the air, with Ben hurrying her along from behind. As she stretched, so did the little white shorts, until they no longer covered all the flesh of her derriere. Ben turned his head away as he pushed. “I’m seriously gonna need so much therapy.”

I winced as I got in the car, the aches from my tumble and the kick to the head already setting in and the adrenaline wearing off. My shorts were damp from the fall on the wet floor, and I cringed for poor Cecil’s upholstery. Unfortunately, I was the least of the dangers he faced. Renee lay crunched up on her side now, looking as if she couldn’t decide whether to pass out or throw up. I was hoping for the former. The car shifted as Ben dropped into the passenger seat.

“No kidding. If your mom pukes in my car, you’re gonna need therapy all right. You’re gonna be in traction.”

I left ruts in the deep gravel of the parking lot when we sped away, but I didn’t see anyone chasing us. After a few minutes of compulsively checking the rearview mirror, I decided we hadn’t been followed. Either the men hadn’t bothered, settling for licking their wounds and bad-mouthing us in the parking lot, or they hadn’t seen us leave and were chasing after the first innocent Miata they came across. Poor soul.

I wasn’t so sure our luck would hold when it came to keeping my backseat clean. We were driving through a stretch of canopy road where the branches of live oaks met at an invisible center line above us. Streetlights were few and far between. I couldn’t see Renee, but I kept turning to look anyway as her occasional groans became more frequent and insistent.

“Hang in there, Renee,” I said loudly in her direction. She seemed oblivious, but I lowered my voice anyway when I spoke to Ben. “Keep an eye on her. Let me know if she’s going to be sick and I’ll pull over.”

“Where?” Ben asked.

It was a sensible question. Development is tightly controlled on canopy roads, right down to the inch or two between pavement and ditch that constitutes the shoulder.

“Just let me worry about that.”

My brain was humming with pain and adrenaline and I craved quiet. Ben usually excels at reading my moods—a rare gift in any male, particularly a teenaged one. It’s one of the reasons we get along so well, our ability and willingness to respect each other’s space. Tonight, however, the presence of his drunk mother in the backseat must have been so loud in his own mind that silence was unbearable.

“So what happened back there? What took you so long?”

“I told you it would take a while because I didn’t want to make a scene.”

“Were you successful?”

By his tone of voice, he obviously thought that unlikely. And I hadn’t been, not totally, but under the circumstances I thought I had done pretty well.

“Let’s just say your mother has poor taste in men.”

Ben snorted. “You’re telling me. She dated this guy for a while―a real loser―who drove a snot-green AMC Pacer and thought it was okay to drink milk out of the carton. He stopped that real quick when I forgot to tell him one morning that the milk had gone bad. ‘Course, the sonofabitch didn’t bother to clean it up after he spit it all over the kitchen, either.”

He barely stopped for breath. “Then there was the asshole who tried to bum a pair of boxers off me. He said they probably wouldn’t fit—even though I was some kind of big boy, I wouldn’t have a man’s equipment yet—but seeing as how it was my mom that had ripped his off him the night before …”

Ben was babbling like a kid on a Halloween sugar rush. I’d never heard such bitterness in his voice before. I hated his mother for what she’d done, and I hated myself for what I’d failed to see. At least now he was talking about it, though not for long. His mother emitted another pathetic moan, and whatever emotions the sound evoked in Ben (anger? pity? shame? disgust?) made him quiet again.

Less than a mile from home, I started to get the feeling that the headlights in my rearview mirror had been there too long. They were the height of a car, not a pickup, but I couldn’t make out more than that on the dark street. I’d guess the guys from the bar drove pickups, but people never act true to stereotype when you need them to. They could be decked out in a shag carpet-lined, jacked-up Caddy for all I knew. The lights bothered my eyes, but I felt superstitious about flipping my rearview mirror or acknowledging the car’s presence in any way.

“Is it the guys from the bar?” Ben asked.

“Is what what guys?”

“The car behind us, the one following us. Is that the guys that gave you the shiner?”

For a moment I forgot about “the guys” and leaned toward the mirror, knocking my hat askew. There was definitely something there, a little dark, a little swollen, but with just the dim dashboard lighting I couldn’t tell if there was any blood. The spot was on my left side near my temple, away from him, so Ben must have seen it when he was trying not to look at his mother’s ass.

“Hunh,” I said, settling back into my seat and adjusting my hat yet again. The car had drifted a bit, and I jerked it back to the center a little too quickly.

“So is it them?”

I’d forgotten about his question. Oh yeah, the guys. Car following. “Don’t turn around and look,” I said.

“God, Syd, I’m not stupid.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, you watch TV.” I didn’t want to admit that he’d exhibited more common sense than I had by leaning into the mirror. “I don’t know, Ben. I don’t know who it is.”

I felt uneasy about leading our possible pursuer back to the house. (It took effort to think in the singular rather than in the nameless and somehow more menacing plural “them.”) As it was, we were already close to our neighborhood. If he’d gotten a good look at my car or the license plate, it wouldn’t take much driving to spot it. I could back into the carport to hide the plates. Of course, backing in was moot if I led him straight to my driveway. It was time for evasive maneuvers.

“Seat belt?” I asked Ben. His mom was on her own.

“The way you’re driving, you better believe it.”

We were coming to the edge of a labyrinthine neighborhood that I was hoping I knew better than our pursuer. It was dark and heavily wooded, and I figured if worse came to worst I could turn off my headlights and pray no insomniac dog-walkers got in my way.

“Hang on,” I said, and made a sudden hard right turn without signaling. The first block was a short one, and I’d already hung another quick right at the four-way stop when I saw the unexpected: flashing red and blue cruiser lights. This was followed by one very short burst from the siren. Considerate of him, Mr. Officer, not to wake the neighbors with his noise.

“s**t,” I said. “s**t, s**t, s**t, shit.”

Ben’s voice had the high, open sing-song tone children’s voices get when they talk about being in Trouble, and he was trying not to laugh. “Oh yeah, you’re in a lot of s**t all right.”

“If I get a ticket, your mom’s paying for it.”

I sat, breathing slowly, trying to get my anger at the drunk woman in the backseat under control before taking it out on a man with a gun and—just as scary—the ability to make my car insurance skyrocket. My windows were already rolled down, so I removed my wallet from my back pocket, placed my hands on the steering wheel, and waited.

The police officer’s uniform was an indeterminate dark shade, and moonlight glinted off bits of metal and highlighted his bright arm patch. I felt, as I always do with law enforcement officers, that he should be wearing a Stetson. As is usually the case, I was disappointed on that count. He leaned slightly toward the open window, his face in shadow. His voice, though, was as deep as I had expected. Maybe it was a prerequisite for the job.

“License and registration.”

I removed my driver’s license from my wallet and handed it to him. “My registration is in the glove compartment. I’m reaching for it now,” I said, stretching slowly across Ben to get it.

I’ve heard enough stories from ex-cops about how quickly late-night traffic stops can go wrong to want to reassure this cop that tonight wouldn’t be one of those times. Miraculously, I managed to find my registration and insurance card on the first try and handed them both to the officer. He looked them over, looked me over, looked at my license again. Then he shone his flashlight into the car, blinding a wide-eyed Ben. His mother didn’t stir.

“Just the two passengers?”

“Yes, sir.”

He leaned in with his flashlight, and I tilted my head so the brim of my hat caught the worst of the light. “How old are you, son?”

I assumed he was talking to Ben. I was wearing a baseball cap, but he should be able to tell my gender from my license, if not the escaping poofy hair. It took Ben a bit longer to respond than I would have liked, but when he did, he was respectful. Thank God for small favors.

“Fifteen, sir. Almost sixteen.” Then it occurred to him that it might not look appropriate for me to be driving him around this time of night. “That’s my mom in the backseat.”

“Would you mind stepping out of the car?”

This time the cop was talking to me. I suppressed a sigh, remembering I could have been—should have been—at home sleeping right now. Being a hermit is underrated.

The click of my seat belt releasing was obnoxiously loud, the car door slamming after me even more so. I imagined curtains rustling as sleepy citizens peeked out with disapproval. I’m generally not a passive person with law enforcement, but considering that I’d broken several traffic laws at 2 a.m. right in front of a cop, and that he could possibly smell the third of a beer I’d consumed, I thought passivity couldn’t hurt. I turned and “assumed the position,” spreading my legs slightly and placing my hands on the top of the car’s doorframe.

“That’s not necessary, Ms. Brennan. If you’ll just come with me.”

The officer had his hand near my elbow, not touching it but close enough that I felt propelled by its proximity toward his car. Now alarm bells started going off in my head. Was I being arrested? Was it time to get assertive with my rights? Before I could decide, he stopped walking and turned to face me. We weren’t quite to his car yet, but out of earshot of my own.

“I’m Officer Driscoll.” I wasn’t sure what kind of response such an introduction required, so I didn’t give one. He went on. “Would you take off your hat, please?”

“Why, are you a Yankees fan?” And here I thought I could keep my smartass mouth under wraps.

“Just remove your hat, please, ma’am.”

I took off my hat and held it self-consciously in both hands near my waist. He turned his flashlight on again, but this time he shone it far enough above my head to illuminate my face without blinding me. “Turn your head to the right, please.”

I complied.

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” he asked.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Why were you driving so erratically?”

“Well, I didn’t know you were a cop.” Good one, Sydney. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“Why don’t you start with the bruises?”

Great. If he could see plural bruises in the dark, I wasn’t going to look pretty tomorrow. I popped the plastic snaps in and out of the headband of my hat, trying to decide what to tell him. I must really be exhausted because, for once, I settled on the truth.

“Well, I went to pick up a friend who’d had a little too much to drink. The woman in the backseat.”

“Where?”

“Cooper’s.”

“Go on.”

“A few … gentlemen … had been talking with her, and when we tried to leave they became very possessive.” How very diplomatic of me.

“Do you want to press charges?”

“No. There was no real harm done—not to us anyway—but when I saw your headlights behind us, I thought we may have been followed.”

“You were. I was following you because you were driving erratically. Have you been drinking?”

“I had one beer, most of which ended up on the floor during our exit. I probably was all over the road though, because I was afraid my friend was going to be sick.”

He approached with the flashlight again and stepped close to me. I could smell something pleasantly masculine and clean, not strong enough to be aftershave or cologne. Maybe it was his shaving cream. My eyes closed involuntarily to help my brain sift through the subtle layers of scent. It must be organic, something with a bunch of yummy-smelling expensive plants that grew on high Tibetan mountains and only bloomed once a decade. My eyes flew open and my face grew warm when he spoke again.

“Look up please, toward the light.” He had me do some visual aerobics, and I bounced my eyes around in all directions to follow light and fingers.

“Any dizziness? Nausea?”

“No.”

“Have you had a head injury before?”

“No,” I replied automatically. Quickly. Lying. In fact, I’d had a serious head injury a couple of months ago, courtesy of the crazy ex-cop and a posse of his best friends in ski masks. Being able to squat or bend over without my vision going black or my skull imploding was a recent development. I don’t know why I lied, and it was the wondering why I lied rather than the lie itself that made me flush this time. I thought he looked dubious, but it was dark and I was paranoid.

“Do you wish to seek medical attention?”

“No, thanks. It’s just a little bump. I’ll be fine.”

“Was your friend injured?” he asked.

“No.” Though I had been tempted, and the night wasn’t over yet.

“I’d like to see her for myself.”

“Certainly.” We walked back to the car, this time to the passenger side, and I opened the rear door. Renee was still lying down, head hanging over the seat nearly to the floor. She hadn’t moved since I’d left the car. Ben watched us, wide-eyed and wary, and I gave him a nod that I hoped he recognized as reassurance.

“Ma’am, would you please get out of the car?”

She didn’t move.

“What’s her name?” Driscoll asked.

“Renee,” I said.

“Renee,” he called. Still no response. He didn’t touch her, but the next time he spoke more loudly and seemed to pitch his voice a little differently. It must be something they teach at the academy—the physics of sound penetrating an alcoholic haze. “Renee, I need you to get out of the car.”

She finally stirred, raising her head to stare through strands of long, dark hair.

“’Kay,” she mumbled. Stray bits of hair caught in her mouth, but she didn’t try to remove them. “Jes’ a minute.”

Renee raised herself on her elbows to scoot her body forward, rocking side to side, centimeter by centimeter. When her head cleared the doorway, she stopped. I thought she was trying to figure out how to get the rest of her body out without tumbling onto her head. I was wrong.

Renee puked on Officer Driscoll's shoes.