Roman's Redemption: Roman: Book II (Roman's Trilogy) (9 page)

And yes, I’m being serious as a heart attack. After DSW I stash my newly acquired treasures in the Louis Vuitton bag I shoved in a box I found next to a dumpster, then make my way to Macy’s.

Two pairs of blue jeans, one sweater, three cuddle duds, four long sleeve shirts, one bra, five pair of panties, and one North Face jacket later I’m walking out from behind my trusty, albeit rusty, black dumpster with fresh, clean, new clothes all the way to my skin.

Now, as I round the corner from behind the strip mall, dressed to the nines complete with my knee high dark brown leather boots, I don’t allow the fact that my hair looks like an oil spill because it hasn’t been washed in over nine days bother me.

But the two police cars screeching to a halt before both driver doors swing open with a police officer behind them pointing a gun and shouting for me to, “Put your hands up!” Well, lets just say when that happens, to anyone on any given day, it kinda puts a damper on anything you had goin’.

Fucking. Pigs.

“Hey! I am a pig! I mean, I’m a freaking cop! Don’t say that! And I told you this was a bad, terrible idea!”

“Really? You’re a cop, Mac? Last time I checked you were an ex-cop. And are you seriously trying to talk shit? Go back to your corner and wait for your name to be called.”

I’m cuffed. Read my Miranda rights. Shoved in the back of a cop car. Then, not so gracefully, pulled from the back of a cop car. Booked and tossed in a jail cell. There aren’t even any bars, just four beige concrete walls with a beige steel door and a sliding peephole in it big enough to look in, or shove a tray through.

On day five is when Mace begins to lose herself, her sanity. She can handle any brand of torture and any array of pain, but not solitude… I, Mac, find it ironic.

Chapter 11

The piece of grilled pb&j I was chewing dislodged itself from the roof of my mouth only to become lodged again in the middle of my esophagus and therefore, blocking my airway as the meaning of Ivy’s words settle between us.

“So, did mommy die because she was old, or sick, or did an evil man kill her, daddy?”

I leap from my seat, sending my chair backwards crashing against the tile floor. My eyes scan the breakfast room as I slam my fist into my chest over and over. Eyes watering, I frantically rack my brain and start to think how ironic it is I’m choking on a piece of sandwich. When I spot the bar I try to head in its direction with full intentions to use it to perform the Heimlich maneuver on myself. I don’t know if it’s from the lack of oxygen, or if I’m really moving backwards, but the bar seems to be getting further and further away through my tunnel vision.

I hear Ivy squeal as short, stocky arms circle me from behind before yoking me up in the Heimlich.

As soon as my legs are knocked out from beneath me, the piece of pb&j shoots out and blessed air fills my lungs.

When I get my bearings, I realize I’m bent over at the waist pulling air in and out of my lungs when Andrew speaks, “You alright, Rome?”

I stand up straight, certain I am looking at Andrew, but there are literally four of him. Three of which are not his height, weight, build, nothing. “Yeah, I’m good.” I nod as my eyes scan the three other Andrews and then shake my head, confused before turning to make my way in the front sitting room.

I sit in the middle of the couch letting my head lull back and shove each of my thumbs into my eye sockets keeping the rest of my fingers linked. An exhausted sigh releases from my chest, “What’s up, Drew? What are Heather’s brothers doing her?”

“Oh. So you do know who we are. You just took it upon yourself to make sure we didn’t know who YOU were, is that it?”

Through another sigh, I answer, “Drew, answer my goddamn question fast and escort these men from my house. It’s been a bad fucking day, hell it’s been a bad fucking two weeks, and I do not have the patience.”

“There’s a girl. Authorities picked her up for shoplifting in Albany, Oregon,” I pull my head up in time to see Andrew nod in one of Heather’s brothers direction, “Your buddy at Oregon PD, he said they’ve had her for five days, right, Bobby?”

I lean over and rest my elbows on my knees before using the heel of my hand to crack both sides of my neck, then look up at Bobby before narrowing my eyes on Andrew. “What girl? What the fuck does this have to do with anything? And did anyone see where Ivy ran off to?”

I stretch my neck right then left trying to see around Andrew before standing up to use my height above everyone else trying to spot my daughter.

“Roman, I’m Cody, Mac’s oldest brother. My wife, Jen and Mac were close around the delivery and then after both of our girls were born. I sent Jen, Ivy, and my daughter, Natalie upstairs to Ivy’s room. Something has happened, and we’re here as a courtesy to you, to let you know what’s going on.” He’s approaching me like I’m a wounded animal. I mean, it’s smart of him to, I guess I’m not used to people using their intelligence.

When my eyes land on Andrew’s I feel the hair on the back of my neck rise and dread settles around me. It’s happened. I don’t know how, but one of the escorts or whores or, shit one of them… what? Lived? No. It isn’t possible. I made it my job to make sure every one of those Heathers were hacked into pieces and lit up with jet fuel before sliding their boxes down the incinerator chute.

Or was it one of the number’s thirteen to twenty.

“Who is it, Drew? Which one is it?” His eyes widen before quickly shaking his head back and forth and stepping forward.

He pats my shoulder and turns us so our backs are facing the room, an angle I am not comfortable with. But none of that, really absolutely nothing has ever or will ever matter after Drew leans close to my ear and in a hushed voice says, “It’s Mac, man. It’s Mac. Heather. They think it’s fucking her, man.”

I spin around and I’m in Bobby’s face, nose to nose, “Where?! Where’s my wife? Fucking tell me right now, or I swear on all that is holy, you will not like the consequences!”

The bastard smirks and before I can wrap my hands around his throat and relieve him of his life, Andrew is ushering all three brothers through the front door and locking it behind them.

I’m spinning on my heel, yanking my coat on, and yelling, “Winter Ivy Payne, downstairs this instant, young lady!” I shove my wallet inside the pocket of my coat, grab my keys from the foyer table. I stop where I stand at the threshold between the front sitting room and foyer as my little angel descends, stair by stair holding on to the railing. When she gets to the bottom step she looks up at me and smiles like she’s looking at her most favorite person in the whole wide world.

“Daddy!” She leaps from the bottom step, “I’m here dis incent! You cof up dat samich? Feelin’ better?”

I look from her to Jen holding I assume, Natalie, Ivy’s cousin, then look back down at my daughter. “Umm—Yes, sweetheart. Much better. Look, Daddy has to go somewhere—“ Ivy’s navy blue eyes well with tears and her black ringlets bounce as she shakes her head back and forth.

“No. No, Daddy. Not you too. I won’t wet you go. When people weave me, day don’t eber come back. So no, you is not goin’ anywheres.” When her tears spill over her ink black eyelashes, any argument on the tip of my tongue is completely squashed.

I begin to calculate as I look back and forth between Ivy at the foot of the stairs and Jen frozen on the last step standing behind Ivy.

“You’re absolutely right, angel, I’m indeed not going anywhere without you.” I smile and kiss the tip of her nose before scooping up Ivy. Her little arms are only able to halfway circle my neck, so she rests her right hand around my neck and her left at the base of my throat and wraps her legs around me so she’s perched on my hip.

Her ink black curls brush against my face as she leans in and whispers in my ear, “Tank you, Daddy. Tank you so much.” When I hear my baby girl’s voice crack at the end, it takes absolutely every-fucking-thing in me to calmly smile and kiss her soft chubby cheek before looking up and pinning my gaze on Jen.

“Jen, I’m fairly certain Andrew just shoved and locked your husband outside of my house. Send him a text telling him you’ll be done in about ten minutes, then go upstairs and pack Ivy a suitcase. The essentials. Clothes, toiletries, her iPad and charger.”

I feel Ivy rest her head on my shoulder as I look over at Andrew to give him his instructions. “Andrew, make sure Ivy’s car seat is moved to the Escalade, also, make sure her favorite movies are stowed in the console, as well as her favorite books.”

Jen is already at the top of the stairs when I turn back to tell her, “Also, Jen, make sure to pack Heather’s gray cashmere blanket, the one Ivy needs to sleep at bedtime. I want to be on the road in less than twenty minutes.

After packing a bag for myself, I change into a pair of slacks and a black v-neck t-shirt and head downstairs.

“I set up your Nav up in the Escalade, should take you about four hours.” Andrew moves to grab my bag, but my grasp on the strap tightens causing him to look up at me, “You want me to take your bag to the car, Rome?”

I release my hold on the bag and say in a low tone, “Drew, you’re going. Someone has to sit in the back with Ivy. What if she needs something?”

He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Okay, Umm… Do you want me to drive or sit in the back with Ivy?”

Bopping down the grand staircase that descends into the front sitting room clutching Heather’s gray cashmere blanket looped around an arm and clutching her stuffed Fievel mouse to her chest with the other, she, like her curls, bounce from step to step as she sings, “Ring around da rosies, pocket pull da posies…”

With pride puffing my chest out like a proud poppa, I glance at Andrew, more than certain he sees the amusement on my face, I say, “I’ll be in the back seat with my angel, making sure she’s taken care of. Are we all ready?”

Chapter 12

“…Thanks, Carol. Mistaken Identity is the only explanation police have in a bizarre turn of events that’s left not only Oregon State Police, but also Washington State Police with more questions than answers. The reserved, some would even say reclusive, Dr. Roman Payne has identified the Jane Doe who was taken into custody by Oregon authorities for loitering and suspected shoplifting as his believed to be dead wife, Heather Mackenzie Payne. In a public statement to the press after having paying his wife’s bail, he told reporters, “My only concern is my wife’s physical and mental well-being, nothing else matters to me or our daughter, thank you for respecting our privacy.” Mrs. Payne appeared severely malnourished, confused, as well as anxious while police escorted her to the family’s Escalade…”

“I doubt she’s even made it a mile. Don’t blow this out of proportion. That’s what you said, Mother, that’s what you told me, isn’t it?” Ripping my hand through my hair for the millionth time I spin around to continue pacing as the Fox News reporter mocks me with every word before replaying the video of Mac tucked into Roman fucking Payne’s side as a gaggle of cops escort them to a dark SUV. And I swear to God and everything sacred and holy that little bitch is smirking, laughing at me when she looks over her shoulder and into the camera for one second before the news clip ends.

“Child, you told me you’d gone at her with a curling iron for almost an hour. How am I to know she had it in her? All’s I ever saw was her hunkerin’ down and flinchin’ around Roman, I didn’t know when she bore his children she’d go from Fievel the mouse to Joan of Arc. None of this is in any way my fault, so you can quit glaring at me every time you turn your face in my direction.” Mother turns towards the parlor, “Lizbeth, did you start the tea yet, dear?”

As mother conveniently leaves to check if Lizbeth has started the goddamn tea, my rage finally ceases control as the lamp is thrown at the seventy two inch screen with Mac smirking back over her shoulder at me as Roman, the dutiful husband helps his beloved wife into the SUV with a helping hand at the small of her back and the other holding her elbow.

It’s been a week since Mac left. I refuse to move forward, and I can’t move back, so instead I linger in stasis. Building my anger and despair, as well as my self-hatred. Yes, you read correctly, my self-hatred.