Page 33 of I'm Watching You

Nicole had known, as she’d stared at the roses, that if she didn’t get out, he would eventually beat her to death. The next flowers she’d receive would be placed on her grave.

Her body still aching, she’d packed what clothes could fit in a large purse. She couldn’t leave their home without his driver, Jimmy, who was always there watching. Donning dark sunglasses, she had asked Jimmy to take her across town and drop her near the waterfront. She had vanished into a restaurant bathroom and climbed out the window.

Near the restaurant was Claire Carmichael’s small New Age bookstore. She’d raced to Claire’s and told her she needed to be hidden. Claire had remembered her andoffered her a bed at the local shelter. Nicole had known she had to get farther away from San Francisco than a local shelter. So, Claire had given Nicole $200 cash and the keys to a beat-up Honda. In gratitude, she had given Claire her wedding bands and told her to hawk them.

Grateful and terrified, she’d headed east, not sure at first where she was going. In Denver, she had bought a hat and tucked her hair up inside it. She also had calmed enough to sit and think where she’d go next. She had remembered Lindsay. They had been roommates at the University of Southern California but had lost touch over the years. Nicole had remembered a notation in theUSCalumni magazine. Lindsay had returned to her native Virginia. She worked with battered women.

So, Nicole had called information from a pay phone and gotten the number of the abuse hotline in Lindsay’s area. She’d begged the counselor to find Lindsay and have her call Nicole at the pay phone. The counselor hadn’t made any promises, but five minutes later the pay phone had rung. It was Lindsay.

Lindsay hadn’t hesitated. She’d given Nicole directions to her house, and when she’d arrived two days later, Lindsay had opened up her home to Nicole.

Sunlight peeked around the edges of the shaded kitchen window. Nicole set her soda can on the counter and opened the blinds. Afternoon light made her squint, but the sun warmed her face. The rain had stopped.

Men like Richard didn’t have the right to walk this earth. They stole dreams and lives. They nurtured humiliation and fear. They all deserved to die.

Somewhere along the way, she’d lost herself. But she’d corrected the mistake. She was in control now.

San Francisco, 1:00P.M.PST (4:00P.M.EST)

Jimmy Quinn had endured a lot of pain during his career in the boxing ring, weathering split lips, broken bones, and bruised knots the size of goose eggs. Long after a damaged right hand had forced him from the ring, the boys on the street respectfully called him Iron Jim, because he could take a licking better than anyone. He was the toughest of the tough.

However, never during his sixty-four years had he ever,ever, hurt so bad that he wanted to die.

Now, the pain ravaging his body made him wish he were dead.

Someone splashed ice water on his face and his head snapped up. But he couldn’t see so well. Both his eyes were swollen shut.

‘One last time, Jimmy. Where is Christina Braxton?’ The calm, even voice came from the shadows. Jimmy couldn’t see the speaker’s face anymore, but he knew it was Vincent Malone.

‘I don’t know,’ Jimmy whispered.

He tried to flex his swollen fingers, now numb from the too-tight ropes that secured his hands behind his back. Blood caked his well-lined face and stained the white button-down shirt he’d pressed himself this morning. Or was it yesterday? The beatings had robbed him of any sense of time.

His last clear memory was of entering the waterfront warehouse to meet his former boss, Richard Braxton. Only, Mr Braxton hadn’t been there. His right-hand man, Vincent, and a couple of his goons had been waiting for him. There’d been no conversation as the goons had strapped him to a chair. To set the tone, Vincent had taken a billy club and smacked it hard against Jimmy’s knuckles. And then the questions about Mrs Braxton had started.

‘Don’t make me hurt you, Jimmy. I don’t like hurting you,’ Vincent had said.

‘I don’t know where she is. I ain’t seen her in two weeks.’ Pain had burned every muscle in Jimmy’s body.

Jimmy didn’t want to give Vincent Mrs B. He had liked her from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her. Pretty didn’t come near to describing her. She was a stunner. And Mrs B. was a kind soul. She’d treated him with respect from the get-go, always calling him ‘Mr’ Quinn. No one had called him ‘Mr’ anything in his entire life.

This past year Mrs B. had been his responsibility. It was his job to drive her where she wanted to go, wait for her until she finished whatever it was she was doing, and then take her home. And it was his job to report to Mr Braxton every move she made. The boss wanted to know everything his wife did, who she saw and even what she read.

Jimmy hadn’t been proud of the work but he’d done his job, figuring it didn’t hurt anybody. Who was he to say what went on between a man and his wife?

Two months ago, everything had changed. Mrs B had gotten into the black Lexus wearing a vicious shiner. She’d said it was an accident. He’d accepted the excuse, becausehe liked the pay his job brought in and didn’t want any trouble. But more bruises followed. He wasn’t so punch drunk or stupid not to see what was happening. Braxton had started to beat his wife.

Jimmy had begun to hate Mr Braxton.

Through it all, Mrs B. had been nice to him, always calling him Mr Quinn. But he could see the light in her eyes was fading, bit by bit. He’d have quit the job, but Mrs B. needed him and he needed the money.

‘Remember the last time you saw her, Jimmy? You dropped her off somewhere. Where was it?’ Vincent now leaned close to his ear. ‘Tell me, Jimmy, and I’ll make the pain stop. She isn’t worth this kind of trouble. She’s a lying whore.’

Rough hands shoved his head back against the chair. A sharp blade pressed against his cheek. It cut into the tender flesh under his eye.

Jimmy screamed. Blood streamed down his face.

‘Next come the eyes, Jimmy.’

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