Into The Light (Three Rivers #1)

Chapter 5

Five

BEAR

R iley gives two short blasts on his horn, alerting me that he’s there. I drain the last of my coffee, pouring more into the scratched, dented, and battered gray-green Stanley thermos I'd found at the thrift store yesterday, along with the restaurant-grade Bunn coffeemaker. Screwing the top on, I carry it to the door.

I glance back at Panzer, who is lying on the couch, watching me with his big, deep, soulful brown eyes. "Panzer, Fuss."

He stretches his forepaws on the carpet, trots forward a couple of steps, lets his hind legs down, pauses to stretch forward with one hind leg and then the other kicked out and shuddering, and then he trots to my right heel, following me out and down the steps. It’s a gray day, heavy, soggy, leaden skies promising rain later.

As I approach his truck, Riley lowers his window, frowning at me. "Bear, buddy, what in the actual motherfuck is that ?”

"Sitz," I command, and Panzer plops his big ass on the ground as I open the rear door and reorganize the back bench to make room. I pat the bench. "Komm rein." K-oh-m r-EYE-n— come in.

Panzer springs up onto the bench with a lithe athleticism belied by his monstrous size.

He's so big, he sits his butt and hind legs on the seat with his forelegs on the footwell, resting his chin on the console between the front seats. Riley twists in his seat, eyeing the dog warily.

I round the hood and get in. "That's Panzer."

"Like the German tanks from World War Two?"

I nod. "Means tank in German."

"I have questions." He puts the truck into reverse but doesn't back out.

"Okay."

"I repeat—what the actual motherfuck is that thing?"

"A dog. Cane Corso. Owner died and he got turned in by animal control. They were gonna kill him."

"And you adopted him?" Riley asks, dark brows lifting.

"Yes. He's a good dog. Doesn't deserve to die."

"Guess not, but, Bear, you can't have dogs in the apartment." He looks at Panzer, whose eyes are flicking between Riley and me. "He looks like he could take down a goddamned moose."

"Prob'ly."

"Okay, um." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "And you're planning on…what? Him coming to work with us?"

"Yes."

"Bear…"

"I tell him to lay down and stay, he'll stay put till I say otherwise. Won’t bark. Won't chase nothin'."

“He won’t attack anyone?" Riley asks, sounding skeptical.

"Long as they don't pose a threat to me."

"Bear, I'm not sure a whole fuckin' army could pose a threat to you," he says, chuckling.

"From your perspective. He's got a different one." I ruffle Panzer's ears. "He's a good dog. He won't be a problem."

Riley sighs, regarding the animal. "Will he bite me if I pet him?"

"Does it seem like it?" I ask. "Let him sniff the back of your hand."

Riley puts his hand near Panzer's snout, letting the dog sniff. After a couple of good whiffs, Panzer gives Riley's hand a little lick and then nudges his hand with his snout.

"Wants you to scratch his ears," I say.

Riley gives Panzer's ears a good scratching, earning a funny little groan from my new friend. "Alright. We can give it a go. But if the manager catches wind that you've got a dog up there, you'll have to figure something else out."

"Worst case, he sleeps at the yard," I say. "Rather he stays with me, though. He…he helps me."

Riley nods, clapping me on the shoulder. "I get that. Transitioning to freedom after that long on the inside isn't easy. It’d be good for you to have a companion.” Another ruffle of Panzer's ears, and then he backs out of the spot and heads for Tompkins Road. "Long as he behaves, I'm cool with it."

The job site is less than ten minutes away—we swing through McDonald's on the way for breakfast; I order a couple extra sausage patties for Panzer, who wolfs them down happily, his wet black nose twitching hopefully as we eat ours.

We're working in a cul-de-sac off Manitou near Division; the homes on the street are all mid-century ranches in varying states of disrepair. Of the sixteen homes on the street, Felix and Riley own eight, the rest either abandoned and falling apart or empty and for sale—only two are occupied, and according to Riley, they're close to selling. We're in the process of demo’ing the properties owned by the brothers. We've finished two over the last week, and are starting a new one today.

The rest of the crew are already there—Larry, Eddie, Miguel, and Juan arriving together in one truck, Richie, Darius, Duane, and Anthony in another. Both trucks bear the company logo, hauling enclosed trailers full of equipment—sleds, wrecking bars, Sawzalls, angle grinders, jackhammers, wheelbarrows, tile scrapers, and a bunch of other shit.

The guys set about gathering gear, putting on high-vis vests, hardhats, and safety glasses while Riley unlocks the front door.

He stands on the stoop as we head for the door and claps his hands. "Quick change of plans today, fellas."

Before he can get anything else out, Darius raises his hand. "Question, boss." He points at Panzer, who is currently lounging on the grassy verge between the sidewalk and the road. "Why we got a big scary-ass dog?"

Riley nods at me. "Bear?"

"That's Panzer. Won't bother you. Just don't try to pet him unless I'm with you."

Darius looks at me. "Long as he stays way the hell away from me, I'm cool."

"Anyone have issues with Panzer?" Riley asks. No one else says anything. "Right. So. Last couple weeks I've been noticing that Bear tends to work ahead of everyone else."

Juan grins at me. "That's ‘cuz he works like five people."

Riley chuckles. "Exactly my thinking, Juan. So, what I propose is that Bear takes a house by himself and the rest of us work together as usual. Bear, that cool with you?"

I consider the idea briefly and then nod. "Sure. Probably get more done that way."

Riley claps his hands. "Great. Guys, we're here. Bear, you tackle the one across the street. I've marked the walls that are coming out. You're going down to studs and subfloor. Power and plumbing are both off, but watch your clearances around outlets and shit. You know the drill."

"Sure do." I grab a wheelbarrow, wrecking bar, sledgehammer, tile scraper, and a red plastic coal shovel, toss the tools into the wheelbarrow, and then head across the street. “Panzer, komm.” When we reach the property where I’ll be working, I pause in the center of the patchy, overgrown front yard. "Platz. Bleib."

Panzer circles a few times clockwise, a few times counterclockwise, once more clockwise, and then lays down, tongue lolling and gaze alert and curious as he watches me head inside and assess the job at hand.

It's a doozy. Piss- and who-knows-what-stained carpet, graffiti-tagged walls, water-stained ceilings, old mattresses, discarded needles, empty booze bottles, piles of shredded newspaper, fiberglass insulation, and bits of cloth—rat and mouse nests. I wander the house, locating the walls marked for removal, identifying the load-bearing structures, testing the floors for sagging, and poking at water stains on the ceiling with my wrecking bar.

The first step is to get rid of the trash. I put on my work gloves, fit an N95 over my face, and get to work hauling shit out to the 30-yard roll-off in the driveway. Panzer watches me come and go, chin on his paws as he dozes. Riley pops in to check on me around eleven, after three hours of work. "Damn, dude, you're really cranking in here."

I've cleared the trash and removed the marked walls, and I'm now working on pulling down the drywall to expose the studs and insulation.

"Honestly, boss, this is better for me," I say. "No one in my way slowing me down."

He claps me on the shoulder. "Lunch in an hour. Good work, bud."

As I work, I let my mind wander. It's why I like demolition so much: my body does the work, and my mind has the freedom to process things.

Mostly, it's Noelle occupying my thoughts. It's tempting to think she's interested in me. She sought me out at the shelter and invited me to hang out with her friends, and whenever we're together, she’s always touching me.

I just don't know what to make of it.

I don't know how to trust it. I mean, shit, she's so far out of my league it ain't even funny. She's hot as fuck, for one thing. That thick, wavy red hair, those freckles. Her lips. Her body, Jesus. Takes everything I've got to not stare at her like a goddamned pervert. Big, round, plump tits that strain against her shirt. That glorious, tight, heart-shaped ass that sways with every step, hypnotizing me.

Her eyes. God, her eyes. The way she looks at me like she sees something worthwhile in me.

Something I have trouble seeing in myself.

My wrecking bar bites into drywall near a seam, and I lever it sideways and then yank hard, ripping a huge section away to topple to the floor. I smack the hooked end of the bar into the wall, burying it in place, and haul the section out to the dumpster, heaving it in. I’m sweaty and filthy, but I feel good, my muscles loose and warm. Now that I can work at my own pace, I get a lot more done. I was held back by the sheer amount of people coming and going; Riley likes to use his whole crew at once on a single property, working faster that way rather than splitting us up into separate crews. Each property gets done faster that way. The problem for me is I can work twice as fast as the next guy. Now that I have a whole house to myself, I can set my own pace and not worry about anyone getting my way.

I take a quick break, sipping coffee from my thermos as I lounge in the grass beside Panzer, who rests his chin on my thigh.

My mind goes back to Noelle. To the possibilities. Wondering what she wants from me. Friendship? More? What would more look like?

She has married parents and siblings. A good job. Friends. A whole life. A good, stable, clean, well-adjusted life.

Where does a giant, hairy, tattooed ex-con with blood on his hands and a closetful of skeletons fit into that life?

I don't.

Best case scenario, I’m just an interesting new thing—a project. An anomaly in her vanilla, well-ordered life.

Best not to let my imagination run away from me. Hope is a dangerous thing. One thing you learn on the inside is acceptance. Each day is exactly the last one. No one is going to suddenly show up at your cell door and let you go. I worked my ass off to get here—avoided fights, made friends with everyone I could, and stayed away from the troublemakers. Volunteered wherever I could. Kept quiet. Obeyed the guards. Took my lumps from the guards with a quick club without complaint—god knows I can take a hell of a beating. When rumors of the opportunity for a work-release program made its way around the population, I was first in line to get evaluated for it. I was passed over the first few times—my security level was too high. But after another year and a half of doing good time, I finally got selected for the program, mainly because of Jacobsen’s recommendation.

I worked like a mule during the supervised work-release period—an armed deputy accompanied me and Eddie, the other inmate from the program. The deputy monitored us, accompanied us everywhere we went, and watched everything we did. Strip searched us when we got back to the prison, making sure we hadn’t smuggled in any contraband. Eddie got released on parole six months ahead of me, and now it's my turn.

The point is, it's not luck and it's not random that I'm out. I worked for it. Learned how to keep my temper in check. Learned how to defuse a violent situation rather than resorting to breaking faces the way I used to.

Now that I'm out, though, hope is a different thing. On the inside, hope is a liability.

You hope for an early release, but if you don’t get it, you’ll go bananas. Hope for a good cellmate but get stuck with a chatty asshole. Hope no one fucks up free time in the yard with a bullshit fight, necessitating another fucking lockdown. You hope, and hope gets crushed. So you stop hoping and just do your time. Find your rhythm. Pick the shit that gets you from one day to the next—for me, it was the meditative intensity of lifting, and talking to Matt.

On the outside, hope is a tender little seed in my gut. Tempting to water it. Watch it grow. But old habits die hard.

I have a roof over my head. I can walk out the door whenever I want. I can eat what I want when I want. No guards to give me a liver shot with a billy club just because he’s having a shit day. No buzzer announcing nightly lockdown. No chow lines. No communal showers with cold water, and having to watch my back in case some jackass decides he wants to shiv me to make a point.

That's enough. It has to be. What else is there?

Panzer is sleeping behind the desk in front while Gloria and I clean cages and top off water bowls in preparation for closing. It's been a long, hard, rewarding day. I got the house almost done and then spent the evening at the shelter working on training Roger to behave. A couple came in and spent some time with him but decided he would be too much work to train. It was heartbreaking—Roger was excited when they played with him and got depressed when they left without him. So I figure I can teach him some basic commands, and maybe the next couple will take him home.

I keep an ear out for the door chime, that pesky feeling of hope percolating my gut—I want Noelle to show up again.

Seven-thirty arrives, and I've taught Roger to sit and stay and to lay down and stay. Tomorrow we'll work on come and heel .

We make sure all the cages are latched securely, all the doors are locked, and the lights are off, and then Panzer and I walk Gloria to her car.

No Noelle. Disappointment is a sour weight in my belly, which is stupid. She has better things to do than hang out at an animal shelter with me.

We walk home, Panzer and I. Once home, I pour him a big bowl of kibble and nuke a can of chili for myself. Leave my front door open for the warm late spring air, and listen to birds sing their evening songs.

Headlights rake across the parking lot, slant toward the building, and then stop and shut off. A door opens and closes. Feet stomp on the metal steps. Panzer is lying halfway out the door, big body across the threshold, nose sniffing the air. A low growl rattles his chest and the walls, and then his head lifts and his long tail starts flipping and tapping.

Noelle appears at the top of the landing. "Hey, Panzer. How ya doing, buddy?" she says in a high-pitched sing-song. She crouches in front of him, letting him sniff her as his tail picks up speed, now whipping side to side like a scythe. "You're a handsome boy, yes you are."

He licks her face, playfully nudging her hand aside when she tries to stop him from licking her right in the mouth.

"Okay, okay," she laughs.

"Say halt," I tell her.

"Panzer, halt," Noelle says, her voice firm but still shaking with laughter. Panzer stops licking immediately, pulling his head back to look at her; she ruffles his ears. "Good boy."

His tail thumps, and he watches her as she rises to her feet in the doorway. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah, 'course."

She's wearing a pale green dress that ends just above her knees, the neckline scooping low to show a dick-hardening expanse of generous, creamy cleavage. The sleeves are short, capping at mid-bicep. Her long, strong legs are smooth and soft-looking, and her hair is twisted in a braid hanging over her right shoulder, the tip dangling just above the swell of her breast. A worn, tan leather purse hangs from her shoulder.

Her eyes are sad and red-rimmed.

I shoot to my feet and move toward her, reaching for her hand. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I just…" she shakes her head and sighs. "I'm just a little disappointed, is all."

"Come. Sit. Tell me about it." I pull her by the hand to my couch—a ratty, threadbare thing older than me with old, sagging springs. "Couch is a piece of shit, sorry."

Noelle sets her purse on the coffee table, a low thing of splintery oak and foggy, ring-stained glass. "It's stupid."

I lower my bulk onto the couch well to one side, giving her plenty of space to sit as close to or far from me as she wants. She plops down right beside me and kicks off her flat black leather shoes to reveal bare toes, the nails painted a muted mint green almost the same shade as her dress. Her dress settles across her thighs, pooling at her core in a tempting triangle. She leans her head back and closes her eyes.

"Sorry to show up like this," she mutters. "I just got some bad news and don't want to be alone."

"Welcome anytime," I tell her. "Was hoping I'd see you."

She sighs again, heavily, rubbing her face with both hands. "I'm sure compared to what you've been through, my silly little problems are pathetic."

I pat her knee. "Panzer—komm."

He unfolds to his feet, shakes himself, and then ambles over to Noelle, resting his heavy head on her lap. Automatically, her fingers dig into his ears and rub, scratch, and knead; his eyes roll backward in his skull and he rumbles a happy sound in his chest, tail slinking side to side in sinuous waveforms.

"He really is a sweetheart," she says.

"Yep." I stretch my arm along the back of the couch behind her head, not exactly around her shoulders, but almost. "Tell me about it."

"I expected it, but it still sucks," she says. "I saw a space a few days ago. It was way out of my budget, but it was…it was just perfect . I ran the numbers like fifty times, but no matter which way I looked at it, it was out of my range. And then today Kelly called and told me it's gone. I shouldn't be upset about it, you know? I mean, I knew I couldn't afford it, but I wanted it. I wanted it so bad, Bear."

"Space for what?" I ask.

"Oh, a salon. I'm a cosmetologist. My dream since I was a sophomore in high school has been to own a hair salon. I'm right there, bear. Right there . I know I can do it. I just…I need the right location at the right price. That's the hold-up, though. Real estate on Main Street, where I want to be, is really expensive. So either I need to keep working and saving and building up my credit, or I downsize where I live to somewhere cheaper, or I go for a space in a less-than-ideal location. Or all three."

"No sense in compromising on a dream you've been working on for this long," I say.

She groans. "I know. I know. I keep telling myself to just be patient, but it's hard. I've watched four perfect properties come and go in the last year alone. It's demoralizing because they're all just out of reach."

"One day at a time. It's all we can do." I hesitate. "When you're looking at a long stretch like I was, you learn to focus on the day in front of you."

She rolls her head on the couch-back. "What was it like? Being in prison, I mean. Mind me asking?"

"Nope. It's…hard. Boring, most of the time. Not much to do to pass the time. Can't trust too many people. Gotta watch your back. Especially when you're me."

She frowns at me. "Why?"

I tip my head to one side. "New guys like to prove themselves by picking fights with the biggest, baddest dude they think they can take. It's always me. So they'll jump you in the showers, or try to shiv you in the hall or in the chow line. Just to prove a point."

"Shiv means stab, right?"

"Yep."

“You've been stabbed?"

I snort. "Too many times to count."

She sits up and looks at me, concern knitting her features. "Bear, no ."

I want to laugh at the compassion, the fear for me, the ache for my pain. She’s so sweet, so innocent. Instead, I touch the pad of my thumb to her furrowed brow. "None of that. I'm fine."

"But…people just come up and stab you for no reason? And the guards let them?"

I shrug. "They get caught, they do a few days in the box. Lose privileges. To them, it's worth it."

"But… why ?”

"It's not for no reason. If they can do damage to a guy like me, it proves to the rest that they're not someone you wanna fuck with. Means they’re more likely to get left alone by the other guys.”

She blinks, thinking. "But…you're bigger than just about everyone, right? Can't you just…stop them?"

I nod. "Sure. Wanted to, I could snap 'em like twigs. That don't do me any good, though."

"I don't understand." She toys with the end of her braid as she looks at me.

"If you get caught fighting, you get punished. Locked in solitary, what we call the box. Or, you lose privileges—time outside, time in the commissary, phone calls, visitation, shit like that. Plus, if you fight a lot you get tagged as a problem. Parole board won’t even look at you if your security level is too high, and neither will work release programs like Riley’s.” That’s the most I’ve said all at once in a long time.

"So what did you do?" she asks. "When guys tried to hurt you?"

"Depends. Usually, though, they'd get one shot in, and then I'd take the shiv from 'em. By that point, the guards show up and take it from there. They get punished and I don't."

"But that means you just…let them shiv you?"

I shrug. "Sure. One little poke ain't gonna kill me, long as they miss the vitals." I pat my stomach. “I’ve got enough padding that most shivs can't even reach my organs anyway. Most shivs aren’t that long.”

She stares at me for a long, silent moment. "And this happened often?"

I shrug. "First few years, yeah. Eventually, my reputation spread around, and new guys knew better and learned to leave me alone."

She lapses back into silence again. "Geez. That sounds awful. People sure are mean."

I snort at that. “Nice guys don't end up in prison."

She peers up at me. "You're nice."

"No. I'm not."

"Bear. You are . You've never been anything but kind to me." She rolls into me, half on her side, half lying against me. "Told you my problem was stupid."

"Noelle, your problem isn't stupid. It ain't a competition. It's real to you. It's upsetting to you."

"I guess." A sigh. "You had to worry about being stabbed. My worst problem was a silly fight with my siblings. Hard not to see that as stupid, in comparison."

"What's your family like?" I ask.

She laughs, trailing off into a sigh. "They're a lot. I have two sisters, twins, four years older than me, and two brothers, also twins, four years younger than me. Natasha is the oldest by six minutes, then Nikki. Nat is a pediatric resident at McLaren, Nikki is a news anchor at Channel Four, and Nate and Noah just graduated from Central Michigan and are trying to start a business. So far, they've tried a car wash, a car dealership, and some sort of app. Mostly, they're into partying, playing video games, chasing girls, and off-roading. And giving my parents gray hair with their antics. They're twenty-six going on sixteen."

"And your sisters?"

She sighs. "Annoyingly perfect. Straight-A students, never in trouble, beautiful and thin and popular. Like I said, Nat is a doctor and Nik is a journalist on her way to being the next Connie Chung."

"And your folks?"

"Mom's the principal at the middle school, and Dad teaches psychology at the U-of-M satellite campus here in town.”

Successful parents, successful kids.

"You guys get along?" I ask.

She shrugs. "Mostly. I'm the middle kid, which is its own weird, difficult thing." A self-deprecating laugh. "Sorry, that's another complaint from someone who's lived a charmed, privileged life."

"Weird and difficult how?"

She shakes her head. "Doesn't matter."

"Does to me."

She tucks her chin into my shoulder and gazes at me. "Why?"

"Curious, I guess. Never had a family." I long to let my arm slide down and curl around her shoulders, hold her close and never let go. I don't. "Wanna know things about you."

"Well, four years is a tricky gap when you're little. When I was four and old enough to want to play with my sisters, they were almost nine and didn't want me in their way, messing with their big girl stuff. The boys were just babies and took all of Mom and Dad's time and attention, which left me to sort of fend for myself, which meant I played alone most of the time. That's how it was growing up. Nik and Nat had their lives, Nate and Noah had theirs, and I had mine. Now that we're all grown, it's a bit better, but the twins, being twins, have this bond with each other that I just can't even touch."

"Sounds kinda lonely," I say.

She nods. "Yeah, I guess it was. People don't understand how you can be lonely in a family of seven, though." Her voice is slow and sleepy. "Mind if I rest a minute? I was up at five this morning."

“Go for it," I murmur.

She sinks into me, so I slide lower on the couch and put my feet on the table. Her cheek rests on my chest. She lets out a soft, contented sigh and sidles closer yet, snugging her hips and belly against my side, one arm wedged between us, the other curved low across my belly.

"You're very cozy," she whispers.

"Got you, Noelle. Rest."

"Mmm."

My heart pounds in my chest, hammering a mile a minute. What does this mean? What do I do with this, with her feeling so comfortable with me? It feels good. So good. Makes my stomach flip and tighten, makes my heart swell with pride. Makes some part of me way deep down sit up and snarl—daring anyone or anything to threaten this sweet, sexy, beautiful, kind, innocent, trusting little woman in my arms.

Panzer gets up, takes a long, splashing, gulping drink from his bowl, and then resumes his spot in the open doorway. I should close it so bugs don’t get in, but I'm not gonna disturb Noelle for a single goddamn thing.

She sighs sleepily and nuzzles closer, and the slight adjustment in angles draws my arm off the couch back, so I have no choice but to let it drape over her. I absolutely refuse to take any kind of liberties with her body, so I make sure my arm rests on her shoulders and my hand on her waist, well away from her hips or anywhere even remotely erogenous.

The hard labor of the day finally catches up to me, and my own eyes begin to droop. "Panzer, Pass Auf." PAH-ss OW-f —watch out, be on guard.

Chin on paws, his eyes snap open and his ears prick up—no one and nothing will get within a hundred yards of him without him knowing. Even if he drowses off a little, he'll keep guard all night long.

I linger in the lulling in-between, not quite asleep and not quite awake for a long time, wanting and needing to relish every second of contact with Noelle that I can get.

If this is all I ever have with her, it's still far more than I could ever hope for, or dream of, and far more than I deserve.

At some point, I fall asleep.