Isabel's Run (2 page)

It was quiet for a few moments. Then Isabel said, “It’s my stepfather.”

Crystal nodded.

“For more than four years now.”

“Bastard. I’m so sorry, sweetie.”

Isabel nodded.

“I hate how these fuckers think they can do this to us and get away with it.”

Isabel nodded. “You really went through the same thing?” She could hardly believe that this beautiful woman had once experienced a horror similar to her own.

Crystal nodded. “Really. I showed you the scars, didn’t I?” She paused. “At least the scars that show. Most of ’em don’t, you know.”

Isabel looked at her for a second and then said, “What about now? What do you do now?”

Crystal smiled and flipped her long hair back over her shoulder. “I got lucky,” she said. “I met a really great guy. Now, I work with him in his company; we do entertainment scheduling.”

“You are lucky. You’re really beautiful.”

Crystal smiled. “Thank you. But you should know—you’re as pretty as I am, sweetie. Maybe even prettier.”

“Me?” Isabel said. She found this hard to believe.

Crystal laughed as she pretended to look around; then she returned her focus to Isabel. “Who else is here, girl? Yeah, you. A little makeup, some nice clothes,” she waved her hand at Isabel, “you’d have guys falling all over you. And I mean good guys. Guys who have lots of money and who’ll treat you right.” Crystal seemed absolutely bubbly.

Isabel rolled her eyes. Given her situation at home, she didn’t think about boys very often. This was more than she could even imagine.

“Isabel,” Crystal said, leaning forward again and speaking softly. “Listen to me. You seem like a sweet girl. And I know where you’re coming from because I was in the exact same boat.”

Isabel nodded.

Crystal continued. “Donnie—he’s my boyfriend—Donnie and I have a spare bedroom. If you want, I can ask him if it’d be okay if you stay with us for a little while—until you’re on your feet, I mean. You’d have a safe place to stay, plenty to eat. I’ll even take you shopping for some nice clothes.”

Isabel hesitated. “Why would you do that?” she asked. It had been a long time since anyone other than her friend Kelli had been nice to her. She couldn’t help being suspicious.

Crystal smiled. “Because I guess I see a little bit of me in you, that’s why. And I sure wish someone would have helped me out when I was in your situation.”

This resonated with Isabel. Things were moving fast, but at least they seemed to be moving in the right direction. Still, she hadn’t planned things out this far, and she was struggling to keep up.

“By the way,” Crystal said, “if you left yesterday, where’d you stay last night?”

Isabel looked down. “Under a tree,” she said.

“Oh, sweetie,” Crystal said, smiling, “you gotta stay with us. You don’t want to do that again, do you?”

That reminder, plus the realization that she had no other real options, pushed Isabel over the edge. “I don’t suppose it would hurt to stay with you guys for a while,” she said. “I don’t have any money to pay you, though.”

Crystal smiled. “I didn’t ask you for any money, did I?”

Isabel shook her head.

Crystal reached for her purse. “Let me call Donnie and ask him, alright?”

Isabel nodded. “Okay. Thanks.”

* * * *

Twenty minutes later, Isabel and Crystal stood at the curb near the valet parking stand. Isabel wore her backpack and carried her purse. Soon, a white BMW 750i pulled up. All of the windows were darkened, so it was impossible to see inside. “Here he is,” Crystal said.

Isabel didn’t know much about cars, but she recognized the BMW logo and was impressed. The car was very shiny—even the wheels were sparkling chrome. The driver parked the car alongside the curb and got out. He was a tall, very good-looking, young black man with his hair cut short. He wore black slacks and a tight-fitting, short-sleeved black Under Armour shirt, covered with a loose-fitting burgundy linen jacket. A large, expensive-looking gold watch was just visible on his left wrist, peeking out from under the sleeve of his jacket.

As the driver walked around the front of the car to the curb, the passenger door opened, and another young man stepped out. He was shorter—average height and his skin was paler than the driver’s.. His hair was straightened, gelled, and brushed back. He, too, was nicely dressed—a sharp young man. Both men made an impression on Isabel. They were as good-looking in their own right as Crystal was in hers. To Isabel, they all looked like wealthy fashion models.

“Hey, baby,” the driver said as he walked up to Crystal and hugged her. “You all done?”

“Think so,” Crystal said.

“Good,” the man said. “We are, too.” After a few moments, he glanced over at Isabel. He let Crystal go and said, “Is this your friend?”

“Uh-huh,” Crystal said. “Donnie Martin—this is Isabel—” she turned and looked at Isabel, “—Isabel, I don’t know your last name.”

“Delgado,” Isabel said.

“Isabel Delgado,” Crystal said.

Donnie walked over to her. He towered above her by more than a foot. “Isabel,” he said, reaching for her small hand. “What a beautiful name.” His voice was smooth and deep.

Isabel blushed. “Thanks,” she said. “It’s good to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Donnie said. His smile revealed a gleaming set of perfectly capped white teeth. He nodded toward the other man. “This ugly dude over here is my homeboy DeMichael. His friends—we—all call him Mikey.”

DeMichael stepped over and shook Isabel’s hand. Isabel thought his hands were very soft—softer even than hers. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Isabel,” he said. “Does everyone call you Isabel, or do you have a nickname? Something like Belle or Bella—like that girl in
Twilight
?”

Isabel blushed slightly. “Some of my friends call me Izzy,” she said.

“Izzy,” he said. “That’s even better. I like that. If you’re straight with it, I’m gonna call you Izzy.”

Isabel smiled. “Okay,” she said, nodding.

DeMichael gazed admiringly at Isabel’s hair. “Girl, you have beautiful hair,” he said. “Long and thick and pure black.” He paused and then added, “Like mine!”

Crystal laughed. “Yeah, you wish. Except Izzy doesn’t have to spend a hundred dollars and two hours getting hers straightened every two weeks.”

DeMichael reached for Isabel’s hair then stopped. “Do you mind?” he asked.

“No,” Isabel said.

DeMichael ran his hand slowly through Isabel’s hair. “That’s dope,” he said, seemingly in awe. “And you don’t have to do anything to get this?”

“No,” Isabel said. “That’s just how it is.”

“Damn,” he said.

“Imagine if we hooked her up with Janeka,” Crystal said. “She can throw some conditioner on that, and Isabel’s hair will shine like a black diamond.”

“Say, look,” Donnie interrupted from the sidewalk at the front of the car. “Y’all can share hair-styling secrets later. Right now, I need to talk to Isabel for a second, and then we got to scoot.” He turned to Isabel. “Crystal tells me you having some problems on the home front.”

Isabel looked him in the eye. “I don’t have a home,” she said. “Not anymore.”

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Donnie said. “Bottom line—you’re temporarily out on the streets. Right?”

“I guess.”

Donnie smiled. “Don’t have to be that way, baby—this is your lucky day. Crystal told you we got a spare bedroom.”

Isabel nodded.

“Good. You’re welcome to come stay with us for a while. Till you get yourself established. That sound okay?”

“It does,” Isabel said. “Thank you.”

Donnie smiled again. “Good. We gonna do some great things.” He looked at her backpack. “That all your stuff?”

Isabel nodded. “That’s it.”

“Y’all travelin’ light.”

“I know.”

He shrugged. “That’ll change. Crystal’ll probably hook you up with some of her stuff for now. Use it as an excuse to go shoppin’.”

“Hell with that,” Crystal said. “I don’t need no excuse. Me and my homey Izzy—we’re going shoppin’ anyway. Tomorrow. Right, Iz?”

Isabel hesitated, then started to speak, but Crystal interrupted her. “I know,” she said. “You don’t have any money for shopping.” She smiled. “Good thing for you, I do. You can owe me. We’re going to get you all done up. Your hair, too. You’ll be so dope, people’ll have to wear sunglasses around you just to knock back the shine!”

Isabel smiled as DeMichael opened the back door.

“I’m riding shotgun,” Crystal suddenly called out.

DeMichael looked at Isabel. “Guess that means me and you in the back. After you, my dear,” he said gallantly. Isabel crawled into the back seat. She could hardly believe her luck. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she’d been shivering the night away hiding under a cedar tree to avoid the guards and to keep from getting rained on. An hour ago, she’d been sitting on a bench with no idea how to proceed. Now, she was sitting in a BMW, surrounded by nice people who wanted to help her out. She smiled as the car pulled away from the curb.

“CEASE FIRE! CEASE fire!” The Range Safety Officer’s voice thundered down the line just as the last shooter fired his final round of the stage. The electronic noise-canceling features in my headset were designed to muffle the sharp reports of gunshots while still allowing voice commands to come through loud and clear—not that Gunny Doug Owens needed any help getting his point across. Twenty-one years in the Marine Corps prior to joining the Seattle Police Department as head firearms instructor gave him a “command voice” that left no confusion, no ambiguity as to the meaning of his message. Like many of the tough old sergeants I’d known in the army, Gunny Owens didn’t so much speak when he was on the range; he barked. It reminded me of basic training at Fort Benning.

I lowered my Les Baer Thunder Ranch Model 1911 .45-caliber semiauto to a forty-five degree angle, finger indexed along the barrel. Keeping it pointed downrange, I turned my head quickly in each direction, automatically scanning the area around me for new threats, just as Gunny barked out, “Weapons to low ready!”

He followed this up a second later with, “Unload and make safe!” The slide on my weapon had automatically locked open when I’d fired the last round. I pressed the magazine release button, and the empty magazine dropped out and fell to the ground.

“After inspection by a Range Safety Officer, holster your safe weapon.”

The RSO on my side of the line worked his way from shooter to shooter, checking their weapons as he went and tapping them on the shoulders when he was satisfied their weapons were completely empty, signifying it was okay to holster their weapon. I waited my turn as the gentle breeze cleared the smoke from the range.

When Gunny saw that the assistant RSOs on either side of the line had completed their inspections, he barked out “Line clear on the left?” The assistant RSO on my side of the line held up his hand in acknowledgment. “Line clear on the right?” The officer on the opposite end of the line did the same.

“Good,” Gunny said. “Ladies and gentlemen, the line is clear! You may remove your hearing protection. Retrieve your magazines, and let’s check targets.”

It was a beautiful morning on June 5, 2012. The temperature was in the high sixties, and the sky was partly cloudy. My partner, Antoinette “Toni” Blair, and I had just fired the last sequence in the Washington State Basic Law Enforcement Firearm Training course at the Seattle Police Athletic Association range in Tukwila, just south of Seattle. This is the same test issued to retired law enforcement officers annually and, other than Toni and me, the thirteen guys on the line were all retired police officers. Thanks to the Law Enforcement Officers Safety Act that Congress passed in 2004, successfully passing this test gave these retired officers the right to carry concealed weapons almost anywhere in the nation. Can you say instant extended police force? At no additional cost? Clearly, this was one of Congress’s smarter moves, if you ask me. Of course, Toni and I were not law enforcement officers, so passing the test wouldn’t give us the same privileges. But the practice kept us sharp, and it helped keep our insurance premiums low. And if, God forbid, we ever had to shoot anyone, regular documented training would probably help us legally. We were fortunate that my friends at Seattle PD allowed us to train with them and use the range.

I reached down and picked up my empty magazine, dusted it off, and put it in my pocket. Toni was two shooters to my left; I saw her do the same thing. At twenty-seven years old, she’d just had a birthday two weeks ago. She was dressed in camouflage-print fatigue-style pants that had no business looking as good as they did on her, green tactical boots, and a beige long-sleeved T-shirt that had an American flag and
Made in the U.S.A.
printed on it in big, bold red letters across the chest—just in case you were having trouble noticing the way she filled out the shirt (which, I suppose, would have been pretty good proof that you were legally blind). The other guys didn’t know it, but I knew that the long sleeves covered a full-sleeve tattoo on her left arm and a delicate little Celtic-weave tat on her right. Her thick, dark hair was covered with a backward-facing baseball cap, itself covered with her ear-protection headset. She wore yellow-tinted shooter’s glasses. She looked like a Victoria’s Secret model at a gun show—she was distracting as hell, and I was glad there was space between us. When we straightened up, she caught me looking and she smiled.