Beverly Barton - Grace Under Fire

"Have you been a good girl while I was away?"

"Aren't I always?"

His fierce grip on her face loosened. He slid his hand down her neck and tightened his fingers around her throat. "I got business to take care of this evening, but once that's done, I'll be free to spend some time with my loving wife. How does that sound to you?"

She knew how Booth loved to intimidate people, how he got his jollies from frightening others, but even more so from inflicting pain. Her husband was a sick-a very sick-bastard. A monster with the power of a god.

When he eased his ferocious grip on her throat, Charmaine gasped in air. She wasn't afraid he'd kill her, at least not quickly; slow torture was Booth's trademark.

As she sat on his lap, showing no sign of fear or pain, he ran his hands over her breasts. "These are mine." His palm skimmed her belly and moved downward to cup her mound. "This is mine." She managed to keep the shudder of revulsion inside her. "Every damn ounce of this luscious hundred and ten pounds is all mine. Isn't that right?"

"Yes, that's right."

He laughed. She waited. He shoved her off his lap, sending her toppling. Her left hip hit the floor with a hard thud; pain radiated through her hip and down her leg. She clamped her mouth shut to stop herself from crying out. He would ignore her now, as if she were a piece of trash he'd tossed aside. He'd forget she even existed… until later. Until he needed his daily fix of sadism. He was as hooked on cruelty as he was on the cocaine.

Charmaine went up on her knees, then grasped the edge of the desk for leverage so she could stand. Despite the pain in her hip, she didn't favor her left side as she walked across the room, straight and tall, showing no sign that his actions had injured her. She had to make it to her room without limping, without crying, in case Ronnie or Jaron saw her. She had been able to control Jaron's outrage over the years, reminding him that if he confronted Booth, it could cost both him and her their lives. But Ronnie wasn't like Jaron. She had no idea whether or not he would actually try to defend her against her husband; but her feminine instincts told her that he might. No matter what it cost her, she couldn't let Ronnie ever realize the extent of Booth's inhumane abuse.

Tonight when her husband brutalized and humiliated her, she would think of Ronnie and the joy of being in his arms. She would shut out what was happening to her, withdraw into herself, as she always did. To a safe place. But tonight would be different. She wouldn't be alone in that safe place. Ronnie would be there, holding her, comforting her.

Elsa parked her white Honda Civic in front of the first warehouse on the long row of warehouses along the riverfront. Looking the building over as she stood on the cracked sidewalk, she noticed faded lettering above the huge double doors facing the street. Garland Industries. She'd come to the right place. Ordinarily she would never come to this part of town. One, because she'd have no reason to be here; and two, although the crime rate in St. Camille was relatively low, everyone knew East Fifth Street wasn't really safe after dark. But it isn't dark, she reminded herself. It's barely six-thirty. She'd stopped by to see Milly after work, as she did almost every day. The staff at St. Camille Haven often told Elsa how much Milly looked forward to her big sister's daily visits, so no matter how difficult her day had been or how bone-tired she might be, Elsa did her best to not miss their evening visit. Today, she had needed to see Milly for her own sake. She needed to believe in her heart that she'd done something right in caring for her siblings. Sherrie didn't live close by, not close enough to drop in on at a moment's notice. How was it, she asked herself, that she had succeeded so well in mothering her two sisters and had failed so miserably with Troy? He'd been the sweetest little boy; but sometime around puberty, he'd changed, become rebellious and angry. What he'd needed then-and now-was a father. When a boy was coming of age, he needed a man's strong, steady influence. A father's firm hand and loving guidance.

When Jed Tyree had spoken to her today and confirmed her worst fears, she'd been able to think of little else. Troy was working in a warehouse owned by Garland Industries, which was nothing more than a front for one aspect of Booth Fortier's illegal activities. Mr. Tyree had told her to do whatever she had to do to terminate her brother's employment.

"Booth Fortier doesn't give a damn about the guys who work for him," Jed Tyree had said. "He has sacrificed people all his life to protect himself, to punish others or just on an illogical whim. If your brother continues working at the warehouse, he'll wind up either doing time in prison or six feet under."

God, help me , Elsa prayed as she straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath and marched toward the small office door at the side of the warehouse. Usually she was logical and levelheaded, never a risk-taker. But desperate times called for desperate measures. She intended to speak to Troy 's boss, this Curt Poarch he'd mentioned. And if the man was uncooperative, she'd wait and talk to Troy. She had to make him understand the danger he was in, the horrible chances he was taking by working for Booth Fortier-for the Louisiana branch of the Southern Mafia.

Halfway to the door, Elsa paused, opened her shoulder bag and glanced down at the small can of Mace she carried. She didn't own a gun, was in fact uneasy around them. And she didn't usually carry Mace because in a town like St. Camille she really didn't need it. But on the way here this evening, she'd made a stop to purchase a can of Mace and a whistle.

She chuckled silently, laughing at herself and her silly precautions. All the safety paraphernalia in the world wouldn't make her an equal match for a real criminal. After closing her purse, she headed straight toward the warehouse. When she reached the door, she didn't hesitate to knock, loudly and repeatedly. She waited several minutes for a response, but received none. The door remained locked. She tried again, knocking again and again, until her knuckles tingled with pain. Still no response. After that, she tried knocking on the huge double doors. Nothing.

Maybe there's another entry, around back, she thought. But in order to reach the back of the building, she'd have to go down the alleyway. Okay, just do it, she told herself. After all, it's still daylight. There aren't any boogey men waiting to jump out in the dark. But what if something did go wrong? These warehouses and the area around them seemed unusually quiet, not a single soul stirring. If she screamed, would anyone hear her?

Don't chicken out now, an inner voice goaded her into action. She walked up the street, rounded the building on the end and found the alley that ran between the warehouses and the river. Pausing briefly, she garnered her courage and headed down the alley. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a couple of guys sprang out at her. Gasping, she jumped back and began trying to unlatch her shoulder bag. She made eye contact with first one man and then the other; and realized they weren't much more than boys. A couple of kids about Troy 's age. One black. One white. Both scruffy-looking. Both smiling fiendishly.

"What's a fine thing like you doing down here on the wharf?" the black teenager asked, his ebony eyes raking over her insultingly.

"She's come to see me, haven't you, baby doll?"

The redheaded, freckle-faced white boy came toward Elsa. She backed away… slowly… as her fingers circled the can of Mace in her purse.

"Go away and leave me alone," she warned them.

"You got a gun in that purse?" the redhead asked.

Just as Elsa jerked the Mace from her purse, the black teen pounced, knocking the can out of her hand. When he snatched her purse away, she managed to clasp the whistle and close it up in her hand before he shoved her to the sidewalk. Hitting the sidewalk on her knees, she winced in pain. Oh, God, what a fine mess she'd gotten herself into this time. While she struggled to stand, the two boys emptied her purse, dumping the contents on the sidewalk.