Jess Decker stomped the box flat with one hiking boot and tossed the cardboard into the corner. It landed on the four foot stack, hovered for a moment, then slid off. She waved a weary hand at it and decided to have a beer. After unpacking her entire apartment, she was ready to unwind. She kicked off her boots and opened the fridge.

The long-necked bottle was cold and she pressed it against the back of her neck as she went back to the living room-stubbing her toe on the rebellious flattened box. She muttered a curse and flopped down on the sofa, a recent thrift store find that squeaked loudly beneath her.

The Credence CD ended and after a pause, ZZ Top emerged from the speakers, singing about rumors and a home on the range. Her feet, as tired as they were, couldn't resist the beat and bobbed along to the rhythm. Jess twisted off the top of the beer and drank.

Rumors at home, she thought. Even the greats knew about that. Though she'd grown up on a picture book ranch south of Madison, Wisconsin, it hadn't been paradise. Her parents, her friends, even her sister, all had expectations of Jessica Ruby Decker. They wanted her to go to college, become a doctor, a lawyer, an executive, anything except the artist she already was.

And let's not forget Brian. The quarterback hero of her high school career and the one man that Daddy clapped on the back when he arrived for Sunday dinner. Brian of the blue eyes, blonde hair, and all American good looks. Half of her wondered why she couldn't love him back, the other half wondered why she even wanted to.

From the moment they'd met, Brian had forced her into one cookie-cutter representation after another. First, he'd urged her to become a cheerleader so she could travel with him from game to game, and she had, much to her annoyance. Never a part of the popular crowd, she'd despised those years spent nodding and smiling as if there weren't a brain in her head or a screaming urge to be something more.

But that hadn't been the end of it. After he'd graduated and gone to college, she'd spent her senior year as the girlfriend of a college boy. Not Jess Decker, aspiring artist and illustrator, but a hopeful young sweetheart who wore his ring on a chain around her neck.

How he'd whined when she'd given him that ring back and told him it was over. She cringed inside, sat up, and took another pull of the beer. Never a drinker, she felt the effects of the alcohol immediately and set it on the scarred surface of her new coffee table. She'd bought the beer as a testament to her new found independence, but had an idea that the five remaining bottles would sit in there until she had company who might enjoy them.

The stereo played on as she pressed her palms into her burning eyes. Okay, maybe Brian wasn't that bad, and maybe she'd ran from him the way she'd run from her family, but she was twenty-three years old now, and it was her choice, it was her life.

The phone rang, a startling sound in the emptiness of her finally furnished flat. Grateful for the distraction from her thoughts, she rose, switched off ZZ Top in mid-croon and ceased the electronic caterwauling of the cordless.

"Hello?"

"Hi sweetheart."

Her mother. Oh, Jesus, she was in no mood for this now. "Hey Ma, how's it going?"

"We're fine darling. Just fine. And you?" The forced cheeriness in Gail Decker's voice was not lost on Jess.

"Wonderful. I just finished unpacking and was relaxing with a . . ." she stopped and eyed the beer bottle, "good book."

"That's nice," the expected pause finally came and Jess braced herself as her mother resumed. "Do you have all the doors and windows locked? Did you remember to write down the number of the police department and the fire station closest to you? And you didn't forget to buy food, did you dear? If you've run out of money, I could come down to the city tomorrow and take you for groceries."

"No, Mom, I'm fine. I have everything I need." Jess grabbed the beer bottle and strode into the kitchen. At the sink, she tipped it upside down, resting the mouth in the drainer and ran water. The alcohol and anger made her yearn for a more thirst-quenching liquid. "Stop worrying about me. I'm an adult now, remember? I can take care of myself."

"Don't get so upset, dear." Gail chuckled strangely, as if the sound were forced through steel bars in her throat. Most likely the same prison bars that she enforced around her youngest child. "It's my job to worry about you. I only wanted to make sure you're eating right. They don't call artists starving for no reason. Of all the careers you could have had, I don't see why you didn't choose one that would be more stable. You simply can't support yourself on that sort of money."

A hot burning anger shoveled up words from her subconscious and Jess snapped her teeth closed over them to keep from irreparably damaging her mother. She filled a plastic glass-a cheery number with daisies and a rainbow that her mother would have thought childish-and drank heartily before replying. "I'll be just fine, Ma. The Preston account will hold me through the end of the year and if anything comes up, there's always sign painting. One nice thing about relying on talent is that there's always an option to see you through."

Silence on the end of the line. This was an old argument, and if her mother wanted to bring up the past with her reference to stability and starving, then Jess would fire back with her own tried and true points.

Gail sighed. "Listen, honey. I didn't call to argue with you. I just want you to know, that if you change your mind, your father and I have kept your room just as it was. You're welcome to come home at any time."

Jess highly doubted that. Once you disappointed the great Dan Decker, there wasn't any easy way to come back home, not unless one enjoyed groveling and wearing hair shirts. She shouldn't have agreed to live there during junior college in the first place. "Thanks, I'll remember that."

"Would you like to come for Sunday dinner?"

"Will Brian be there?" Jess winced. If she could reel back in the words, she would have done so, then shoved them deep inside her and duct taped them permanently inside. Brian was another touchy subject and she didn't have the energy to deal with it.

"Of course, he's as much part of this family as you are." Gail sounded wounded.

Jess decided it was time to end the call. "I'll think about it. I gotta go Ma. I'm bushed and need to shower. Call you soon, okay?"

"Anytime dear, day or night. I love you, sweetie."

The last came across so hopeful, so damned needy. The urge to crumble, to give in and make everyone happy again almost overwhelmed her. But aside from blonde hair and brown eyes, she'd also inherited her father's steel. "Love you too, Ma."

Ten minutes later, she was enjoying her first hot shower in her new apartment, or at least trying to. Visions of Janet Leigh at the Bate's Motel wouldn't leave her vivid imagination. She quickly dried off, unable to keep from glancing to the window again and again, as if someone could see her through the frosted glass and scallop-edged curtains she'd hung there yesterday.

Comfort clothes, she thought, and hot chocolate. That's what she needed. Dressed in flannel pajamas, fuzzy yellow duck slippers and wearing her favorite terry robe, she padded into the kitchen, running her fingers through her damp hair.

Dip bowls and glasses shone brightly in the rack. Earlier, she'd had Carol, her best friend since they were kids, over for a pre-house warming party. She was actually the reason Jess chose to move to Chicago.

As she filled the tea kettle for cocoa, the phone rang again. Jess rolled her eyes, huffed a breath of exasperated air and set the kettle on the stove. Her mother had probably forgotten to tell her something awful about Chicago-something she just heard on the news. For a millisecond she debated not answering, just allowing her recently purchased answering machine to take the call, but her mother would either call the police to check on her, or worse-send her father out in the middle of the night on a hour long journey for nothing.

One ring before the machine could pick it up, Jess answered. "Hello?"

"Hey Jess, what's up? I almost hung up," Carol said. "Wait, let me guess. Your mom's been calling."

"Yeah, sorry." Jess smiled with relief. "What's up?"

"I left my purse there. I think it's behind that retro chair by your table."

Jess asked her to hold on while she checked. She flipped the lamp on over her drafting table, and there, on the floor, was Carol's purse. "It's here, do you want me to put it up until tomorrow?"

"No, I need it for work in the morning. Can I swing by right now? Are you gonna be up for a bit?"

"Sure. I'll leave the porch light on for you."

"Great, thanks Jess. I'll be right over."

* * *

Nick cursed and glanced in the rearview mirror. They were gaining on him and he was almost out of road. The lakefront loomed black and dark ahead of him, but to turn toward downtown would spell disaster, and to turn south, toward the one way streets and often under construction roadways would cause him to lose the slight advantage he had. Nowhere left to go. There wasn't any way out of this in a car, even the souped up Chrysler he now drove.

The back window exploded without warning. Safety glass rained down the collar of his leather coat and he hunched lower. No echoing boom of gunfire meant they were using a silencer. He cursed again and stomped on the accelerator. The engine hummed, in love with the speed. He couldn't glance down to see how fast he was going; he needed to keep his eyes on the icy and sporadically lit road.

The twisting and turning pavement elbowed sharply to the right and he threw his foot on the clutch, downshifting rather than using the brake. An explosive pop drilled through the car seconds before it shuddered and the steering wheel yanked hard in his hand. They'd blown the back tire as he'd entered the turn and now the rubber burned as he spun. Horrified, he watched as the concrete support for the railroad trestle whipped past the windshield again and again, coming closer with each revolution.

For a moment, the bright lights of the on-coming car washed the inside of the Chrysler with an eerie, ghostly light and then it too was gone. He braced himself and shouted as the nose of the car glanced off a cement truck. The shock jetted the car forward and the nose crumpled against the support beam. His head shot forward, connected with the steering wheel, and the world went dim as pain exploded in his skull. His knee drove into the underside of the dash. The windshield burst with enough force a shard of safety glass gashed his cheek.

The headlights of the other car sped past him, unable to stop as abruptly as he had without bearing the same fate. His stomach rolled as he blinked. Blood trickled into one eye like warm honey on his chilled flesh. He commanded his body to move, but it responded with lethargic, frustrating slowness. The door opened and the electronic beep of the key sensor rang into the suddenly quiet night.

Red tail lights illuminated through the passenger side window-a window that was now glassless. He fell from the car, landing on his hip with a bone jarring thud that made him cry out. His knee was ablaze with pain and when he looked down, his jeans were torn and dark with blood. Above all this, was the brain numbing scent of gasoline fumes. Not the tank, but the cannister he stored in the passenger floor well for emergencies. Stealing cars didn't automatically guarantee a full tank.

Tires screeched, the sound bouncing off lake Michigan's retainment wall. He fumbled clumsily, his hands felt fat and unresponsive, but he managed to pull his Zippo free. It took three flicks of his thumb to get the damned thing to light. He stared at the orange flicker while the sound of the approaching vehicle grew closer. Nick tossed the lighter inside and back pedaled to the opposite shoulder.

Ochre and gold, underscored by bright violet flames ignited with a whoompf that first obliterated the car from sight, then illuminated it like a homing beacon. He crawled backward, further into the shadows. Each movement came easier as the night breeze cleared the crash induced filter from his brain. With alertness came more pain, which he welcomed to keep him from succumbing to exhaustion and the urge to sit down and let them have their way with him.

Nick stumbled to his feet, bracing his weight first against the ground, then the curb of a sidewalk that lead to nowhere. He half ran, half lumbered beneath the underpass. He cut onto the grassy embankment on the other side. The growl of an engine switched to a muted grumble and he envisioned its occupants parking, drawing their weapons, and searching the Chrysler for him.

No such luck, this time, you bastard, he thought. Ringo and his boys had turned on him and he didn't know why. Everything had been going according to plan, even with Jerry, Ringo's right hand man, breathing suspiciously down his neck. His head hurt too much to puzzle it out at the moment, however, and he pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind. First, he had to find someplace to hole up and tend his wounds. Someplace out of the first really frigid frost of the year.

He crossed the railroad tracks, sticking to the shadows as best he could . It wouldn't take them long to discover he wasn't in the car, even with the flames obscuring their view. The little time he'd bought himself needed to be used wisely. Doubt played tricks on his reserves and he concentrated on forcing one foot in front of the other.

Walter's house was his best bet. He prayed his old friend from college was home. He had ten, maybe twelve blocks more before he'd find out. A couple, very young-just teenagers really--passed him and he wondered what they thought of his haggard advance. He hoped they mistook him as a vagrant, the blood on his clothes nothing more than splotches of mud and whiskey.

There hadn't been any need to worry, the couple didn't spare him a glance. The benefit of inner-city rules of obscurity. His breath rushed in broken gasps of white air and he worried about shock. His mind spun in all directions and he focused on the sidewalk and away from the men after him.

"First things first," he muttered and glanced up. Houses lined the streets now and he didn't recall the transition from urban underdeveloped concrete slabs and faded, broken factories. He shook his head to clear it but the pain stopped him in his tracks. His ears buzzed-not a good sign.

Dimly the sound of a racing engine far back on empty streets rejuvenated his determination. He shuffled forward at a faster pace. Three blocks left and he'd finally get his exposed back behind a door. Most of the houses were dark at this hour. A few televisions flickered blue light onto the quiet streets. White frost had started to form on the grass and before long, snow would fall.

His toes were numb, his muscles stiffened with every passing moment and the moon illuminated the white work of concrete before him, leading the way to safety.

* * *

Jess dashed for the door at the sound of the bell. Carol was early, she thought and slid the last two feet on her slippers. She was looking forward to some late night companionship-a fact she refused to acknowledge as living alone jitters.

"That was fas-" she stopped in mid-greeting and stared at the bleeding giant slumped against the doorframe. "My God."

He looked at her, surprise contorting his grimace into deeper lines. "Who are you?"

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. There was a stranger-a bleeding stranger-looming in her hallway like the incarnation of Gail Decker's worst nightmare. A headline screamed through her thoughts; Woman Disobeys Mother and is Murdered. Followed by reports and statistics on inner-city crime.

"Who are you?" He asked with less volume, but more urgency.

"I live here." She regained her ability to speak and thought it an improvement. The anger she'd felt toward her mothers lack of confidence in her youngest daughter, her fathers distant disapproval, and her sisters vociferous complaints bloomed in her head like a told-you-so bouquet. No way was she gonna let this creep prove them right. "Who are you and what do you want?"

"Lady, I've just crashed my car. Where's Walter?" He straightened, using the doorframe for support, and scowled.

She heard his ragged breathing, as if he'd run a great distance. "I don't know anyone named Walter. You must have the wrong house."

He glanced at the front door, at the wallpaper in the hall-an odd striped blue and green concoction she planned on ridding herself of soon. "No. This is Walter's place. Where is he?"

"Look, " she said, as if speaking to a very small child-or a stubborn man-and gripped the doorknob, preparing to close the door. "I just moved in. Maybe this Walter used to live here, but he doesn't now."

Sirens rang outside and Jess became aware of the freezing air engulfing her bare ankles. She looked past him. Fire engines rushed down the street, followed closely by a police car. The man rushed toward her and she gasped in surprise. He pushed her inside, leaving a bloody streak on the white of her robe.

"Hey!" She shouted. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Let me use your phone," he pleaded and turned intense green eyes on her. How could she not notice that intriguing color? He was nearly nose to nose with her; his grasp tight on her shoulders. "Let me make a phone call and I'll leave. I promise."

She stared. His eyes reflected real pain, but no malice. And Carol would arrive at any moment to rescue her if he planned any bodily harm-though he appeared too weak to try. "A-all right."

He paused, glanced at his grip on her shoulder and released her. "Thank you."

"Phone's over there," she pointed toward the wall between the kitchen and the dining room. She crossed her arms over her chest. Whatever happened next, she thought dismally, her mother could never know and that meant keeping the lady upstairs in the dark about the stranger in her house. "What's your name?"

"Nick," he said as he shuffled toward the phone. He paused again, as if greatly interested in the wine colored placemats on her dining table.

With dismay, she watched him sway and reach out as if to brace himself on the edge of the table. His reach fell short and he dropped heavily. The bang of his knees as they hit vibrated the porcelain figurine perched on top of a speaker. The rumble was minimal compared to the thunder of his body landing face-first on the wood floor.

"Damn," she whispered to the empty, and now silent, room. What was she going to do now? Should she call the police? That seemed the appropriate thing. She shuddered herself into action and gingerly tiptoed around the sleeping man. He wore black cowboy boots, Ropers. The same sort her father favored. Dan Decker had once declared you could tell more about a man from the shoes he wore and the way he shook your hand, then you could from anything he said.

Well, she hadn't shaken his hand, but if his grip was as hard as his hold had been, and if the boots were any indication of his character, then she had a real wild card-a cowboy with an attitude-bleeding unconsciously all over her floor. Either way, she couldn't make this her problem. Jess lifted the cordless phone from its charging cradle and turned it on.

"What in the hell is going on here?"

Carol's voice startled her so badly, she dropped the phone in a crash of plastic. The battery popped free and spun crazily into the kitchen. "Jesus, Carol, you scared the crap out of me."

"I scared you?" She gestured to the body on the floor. "I'm not gone but two hours and you've already got a dead body under your roof. Are you trying to drive your mother crazy? Or have you flipped your lid and decided to open your own morgue?"

© Jennifer Turner, 2005