Page 33 of Fighting for Valor
My hand jerks, and the coffee splatters over the counter and soaks the napkin. I glance around, making sure Barry’s still back in the kitchen trying to micro-manage Louie. “But…I only have two-hundred.”
“Then you’re only getting ten days’ worth.”
“Please.” My voice cracks as I wipe up the spill, then use both hands to hold the coffee pot steady enough to pour. “I can barely afford them as it is.”
“I’ll give you the full order today, but you’ll owe me the extra eighty. And if you don’t pay up in two weeks, it’s fifty percent interest. That’s the best deal I can offer. Take it or leave it.” He starts to slide off the swivel-mounted chair, and I rush to pull out my order pad.
“I’ll…take it.” Scribbling his coffee order on the top sheet, I tuck it into one of the leather envelopes we use to deliver the bills, then drop my hands to keep my next moves hidden behind the counter. The two hundred-dollar bills in the pocket of my apron slide into the side pocket of the bill sleeve before I pass it over to him.
Once he pulls the folder into his lap, he offers me a self-satisfied smile. “I knew we’d see eye-to-eye. See you in two weeks, sweets.”
I can’t grab the leather folio fast enough when he sets it back down, and the small plastic bags with my daily meds—all the pills that make it possible for me to function like a normal human being—fall into my palm.
Clutching them tightly as my dealer—I don’t even know the asshole’s name, just his email address—saunters out of the diner, I rush into the break room and open my locker. A small, hidden compartment in the bottom of my small messenger bag hides the pills from anyone not specifically looking for them, and I sink down onto the bench.
When I left Fort Bragg, Leland helped me convert fifty thousand dollars of the inheritance from my grandmother into cash. But when I had to leave Tulsa with a broken arm and a gunshot wound to my thigh, I blew through three grand. After I got to Seattle, another two thousand covered the deposit on my crappy apartment.
And now…I’ll have to dig into my stash every time I need meds. Before long, I won’t be able to keep up. I have to find a better job—but every time I give someone my stolen social security number could be my last.
If I didn’t depend on such highly regulated drugs to survive, I could find a health clinic, get myself a legitimate prescription. But my very unique needs—Adderall, a beta blocker to keep my heart rate under control, Zoloft, and clonazepam—are what led Jessup to me in Tulsa. Pharmacies computerize records, and Jessup and Parr run searches for anyone filling all these prescriptions at once. Even going to Mr. Pills-On-Demand is risky, but I’ve been using him for over a year now and so far…I’ve been safe.
Mentally calculating how long I can go without something going my way, I play with the lapis pendant hanging just below the hollow of my throat. It spins within a silvery cage, calming the racing thoughts telling me I’m screwed, that I’m useless. That I might as well give up.
I’ll find a way. I have to.
Ripper
The sign over Safe Haven Animal Shelter proclaims, “Every Animal Deserves a Home.” Set on almost half an acre of land in Woodinville—about an hour from Seattle—it offers sanctuary for dogs, cats, horses, birds, and more. My shrink put his foot down after six weeks and told me I had to find something to do with my time besides walking and sitting by the lake staring out over the water, replaying the few crimes I could remember over and over again.
“Hey, Rick. Good to see you.” The shelter’s owner, an older woman named Melissa, greets me with a smile. “Come with me, and I’ll show you around.”
My shoulders tighten at her use of my fake name, but it’s not her fault. It’s the only one I can give her, so I blow out a breath and follow.
She leads me through the main building, showing me the volunteer break room, the intake and adoption forms, the filing system, and finally takes me out the back door where two other buildings bookend a large, fenced patch of grass maybe a hundred feet across. “On the left we have our cat condos. At any one time, we shelter fifty to a hundred cats from six weeks to twenty years old. You’ll find detailed notes on each individual condo that list which cats can be out in the main play area together, which are in quarantine until their medical tests come back, and which are best when they’re the only cat in the room. You’ll primarily be working with the dogs, but feel free to visit the kitties at any time and give them some love.”
Melissa turns right and opens the door to the kennels. The loud yips, barks, and whines, along with the sight of the metal cages, hit me like a punch to the solar plexus, and I stagger back.
“Rick? You okay?” Melissa asks.
I force myself to lock eyes with the closest dog, a big German Shepherd with only one good ear standing at his kennel door, not making a sound. “Yeah. Sorry.” I can’t move, and I think the dog is the only thing keeping me sane.
Melissa’s gaze softens, and she takes a step closer. “I’ve seen a fair number of veterans come through here, you know. Volunteering or just looking for some non-judgmental companionship. Charlie there…he’s a peach. He’d probably like to meet you.”
“What…uh…happened to him?” I drop to one knee, and Charlie lowers his head and sniffs when I bring my hand closer to the door.
“We don’t know. He came to us like that. He’s about the nicest, sweetest dog in this entire place, but no one wants him because he looks…a little different.” Sadness laces Melissa’s tone, and she sighs as she checks her watch. “I have to run back up front cover for Sandra while she’s on lunch. Why don’t you spend some time getting to know the dogs. Leashes are hanging on the wall. Feel free to take one or two of them out into the exercise pen. When I’m done up front, I’ll show you what we do to clean out the kennels.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say as I drop down to my ass in front of Charlie’s kennel. He’s lying down now, his head on his paws.
After a few minutes, the noise starts to die down. Charlie hasn’t taken his eyes off of me.
“You’re kind of like me, aren’t you? A little broken.” As if he understands, he gives the door a little nudge with his nose. Glancing up at the laminated card tacked to his cage, I read his history, along with the date he was brought in.
Found wandering on a busy street. No chip or tags. Right ear missing and bloody. Charlie is a neutered two-year-old male (approximate age) with good teeth and no other health conditions. He has only shown aggression when playing tug-of-war. All other forms of play are allowed, and he can be exercised on or off leash.
“You’ve been here a year? No wonder you look so sad. Want to get out of there for a few minutes?”
As soon as I approach with a leash, Charlie sits up with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. My hand shakes as I reach for the latch, but once I get it open, some of the memories threatening fade away.
