Chapter Twelve
Jolene
A s I watch Beau’s taillights fade down my driveway, anxiety floods me.
I hate lying to him, but I can't take a chance on telling him what's going on with Ricky and his girl.
I have zero doubt in my mind that Beau would do everything in his power to protect her, but the judicial system is slow.
There's so much that could happen between the time you arrest someone until the time you finally get in front of a judge.
I'm not willing to risk something worse happening to them while the law does its thing.
Back at my house, I dig out my go bag. It's got pretty much everything I'd need, and then some, if somehow things went sideways tonight.
I double-check that the flashlights work and if I have a stocked first aid kit.
I also have my night vision glasses—compliments from Boomer—a military-grade knife, my new Wi-Fi jammer, a pair of binoculars with night vision, and more guns and ammunition than necessary.
I tested the jammer on my house and at Thatcher’s hardware store when I first got it.
Well, I suppose I didn't tell him beforehand, but it sure as shit was funny watching him try to figure out what was going on with his internet.
He didn't think it was as funny when he found out what I was doing, but when I told him I needed to make sure it worked so I could be safe, his anger quickly faded.
Feeling as prepared as I'll ever be, I grab the keys to my hoopty, shut off the lights, and head out the front door.
The night is cool and cloudy. It should be dark by the time I make it to Ricky's, and the moon is only but a sliver, which will help conceal me in the more open areas.
Unable to resist the cool night, I roll down the windows and blast country music as I fly down the road into town. I'll enjoy raising hell for now. Once I make it to the other side of Main Street, it's all business.
There are quite a few people milling about downtown, considering the only thing open is the bar, but I suppose it never hurts to take in one of the last cool summer nights we'll have.
I curse when I drive past the hardware store and see Beau's truck parked out front. He must've stopped to see Thatcher on his way home. I crane my neck but don't see anyone sitting out on his balcony. A breath of relief whooshes through me.
Once through town, I take off one of the less-traveled dirt roads on the path I mapped out over lunch with Nana.
I know I'll be glad for the cloud coverage once I'm creeping through the property, but I'd give my next beer for some moonlight so I could cut the headlights and drive more incognito.
Oh well. It's not like there should be folks out this way.
Finding and turning on the barely there trail that leads to the back end of Ricky's property, I cut my lights.
I squint as I use the low runner lights to navigate the tight path.
It's not a long trail, but it's far enough off the dirt road that I can get close to the property and hide my hoopty in case I need a quick getaway.
It takes longer than I'd like to turn my jeep around, but when I finally have it facing the right direction to flee at a moment's notice, I cut the engine and gather my gear.
I sling my pack on my back and start the trek up through the woods so that I can be on top of the hill and looking down at the old farmhouse.
I'm hoping I'll be close enough to initiate the jammer, so that when the time to check out the house comes, I won't have to worry about any cameras.
Finding an old oak with some low-hanging limbs on the edge of the wood line, I start to climb.
I can see the house from the forest floor, but I can't see the driveway from where I'm at.
Pulling out my binoculars, I switch them to night vision and start to survey the area like Boomer taught me.
I don't see Ricky's truck, but there's a new outbuilding that didn't show up on my parcel viewer or Google satellite image of the property. It's large enough to hold Ricky's truck and farm equipment, so I can't just assume the information that he's on the rig this week is accurate.
Surveying the land once more, I decide on the best path to take to the house. Stowing the binoculars away for the moment, I sling the bag back over my shoulder and shimmy down the tree.
I set off down the hill at a quick jog. I want to get my eyes on Ricky’s girl and his son before they head to bed for the night. It's not late, but taking care of a little one seems as exhausting as working a full day on my farm.
I'm dressed head-to-toe in black tactical gear. It's made specifically for women, and it’s comfortable while also functional. It helps me hide in the shadows and makes moving from place to place much easier.
Within minutes, I'm sliding around the corner of the house, my back pressed to it as I listen for any sounds.
I can hear a TV blaring, but that's about it.
Making my way towards a window, I peek in what looks like a bedroom.
I can't see anyone inside, so I keep moving towards the windows with the TV lights spilling out.
When I reach it, I glance inside and internally curse when I see Ricky lounging on the couch.
Even though I'm tall, the window is high, so I don't have the best view.
Looking around, I spot a beat-up flower bed.
I push the corner of it with my foot to test how sturdy it is.
It seems like it will hold, so I ease on it and take another look inside.
I'm not surprised to find what looks like meth paraphernalia on the table by Ricky's feet.
It's not uncommon for guys to get seriously hurt on the rigs.
But with their injuries come the prescription painkillers.
Unfortunately, not everyone can quit taking them cold turkey, and they end up turning to harder stuff.
I know Ricky was hurt a while back, but I'm not sure if he falls under that category or if he's just an all-around abuser.
Out of nowhere, Ricky laughs loudly, startling me. My grip on the ledge slips. I tumble backward, but any sound I make is covered by a pan clattering in the kitchen.
"For fuck's sake, Calliope. Can't you do one fucking thing right?" he hollers as he pushes himself up off the couch. His pupils are blown, and his hands are twitching at his side. I've seen Ricky mad, but Ricky high makes this situation a million times worse.
I wait impatiently, but it's not long before I hear Calliope scream and more crashes sound.
I don't insert myself in the middle of a domestic abuse situation.
There are too many chances the person or people I'm trying to rescue could end up hurt or killed.
Its fucking torture hanging back right now.
You can’t intervene, Jolene, no matter how much you want to. Now is not the right time.
Needing a better look, I work my way around the house and find a kitchen window. Ricky is straddling Calliope, his hands around her throat, her face an unnatural shade of red as her eyes roll back in her head.
Watching becomes almost impossible.
Fuck it. I need to go now, or she’s not going to make it.
Sprinting around to the front door, I dig in my bag for my knife. My gun would be preferable, but there's no way I'll risk this woman's life, especially since her son's probably somewhere in the house.
To my relief, the front door is unlocked when I turn the handle. As quietly as I can, I make my way into the house. I can hear Ricky's panting breaths as he mumbles and curses under his breath.
I'm about to launch at him and take him down when he releases Calliope and spins around. I’ll never know how he heard me, but I ready myself for his attack.
"You fucking cunt. What the fuck are you doing in my house?” Ricky charges at me.
I dodge out of his grasp and bring my knife around, slashing it through his thigh as I slide below his arm on my knees, popping back up on my feet behind him.
The cut is deep. Crimson blood spills from the wound, but it doesn't even phase Ricky.
He's too high to feel the pain, and for the first time tonight, I realize how much I've underestimated him.
I managed to keep a few feet between us when I dove past his previous attack, but I'm on his turf and have no idea what kind of weapons he keeps in his house.
So fucking stupid, Jolene.
"I asked you a question, bitch. Why the fuck are you in my house? You think you can just do whatever you want ’cause you’re fuckin’ the chief? Maybe I should take that pussy for a ride and see what all the fuss is about. Never got why all the guys thought you were God's gift to dick."
"Oh, Ricky boy. You couldn't handle me, and there's no way I'd let your limp dick anywhere near me.
" Taunting my attacker is probably not the best move, but I'm keeping his focus on me while I'm putting myself between him and Calliope.
It's also giving me time to assess my surroundings.
If I can get him facing the front of the house, I have no fear of a bullet hitting Calliope or her little boy.
"Always did think you were better than everyone else since you were a DuVall. But I know you're all just a bunch of men-hating whores who spread their legs for anyone they can use to better themselves."
"Well, if we're going with that line of bullshit, looks like I'll never have to worry about your dick being anywhere near my pussy." I’m slowly sidestepping. I still have my knife in my hand at the ready, but I don’t want to engage in hand-to-hand combat with Ricky while he’s high. I might know how to take down someone bigger than me, but he’s unpredictable in his current state.
"Stupid bitch!" Ricky lunges. His movements are sloppy since he's fueled by the drugs.