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… A storm of trouble had struck. This time it was not mother nature, but time. His wife had
said, time and again, that she'd had enough of his drinking. Time, and her patience, had run out. This
time, she meant it. He was sure of it. Right now, cotton was the last thing on his mind. Joann was all
he could think of ...
He was sitting on the edge of the bed downing another beer, his head down, raining tears, while
he looked at pictures of not so long ago when life was good and love was their life. For him, it still was.
Tears and beer splashed randomly upon the photos of her pretty face. The irony of this brought a
chuckle to his lips. She had run him off because of his drinking, and now he was slowly drowning them
both, one beer, one tear, at a time.
Thoughts of suicide filled his mind. It seemed the only solution to his misery. God knew, she
deserved to be happy — without his drunk ass.
A tap at the door rocked him out of his dark fantasy.
“Fuckin' Smalltown,” he mumbled under his breath, in slowly rising to answer the door.
Smalltown was just that: Small. It was a town where everyone knew everyone else's business.
Gossip traveled faster than the speed of light. How could folks have possibly found out so fast where he
was staying? Clearly old Bob, the motel owner, had wasted no time in spreading the news that Sonny
and Joann were separated, and Sonny was shacking up with his booze in room one twenty three. He
had spoken to no once since leaving home.
“Who is it?,” Sonny asked sharply, in reaching for the door.
“It's me, who do you think it is, dumb-ass?,” the man outside replied.
“Oh, okay, hang on a sec,” Sonny responded a bit surprised, as he unbolted and opened the
door for his friend of many years.
“You look like shit, Sonny! Always heard misery loves company, so thought I'd bring you some
… Misery, that is,” the man exclaimed jokingly, holding out a freshly opened fifth of whiskey.
“You know I can't handle that stuff,” Sonny remarked laughingly. The truth was, he couldn't.
“You ain't handlin' nothin' right now, Sonny. Have a swig, it'll make your troubles go away.
Hell, you'll sleep better,” his friend offered convincingly.
“Well shit, pour us both a shot then. Plastic cups are on the table over there,” Sonny replied,
waving his friend on in and closing the door behind them.
“I gotta drive home. Already had me a few good pulls off that bottle, anyway. Enjoy my friend.
I'll have me a Bud.”
The two friends sat drinking and laughing over old times, for quite a while, before Sonny finally
got around to talking about Joann. Not long after that the conversation died out, with Sonny breaking
down in front of his friend. He was on his third shot of whiskey when he passed out. His friend sat and
watched him for a while, seeing that he was sleeping peacefully.
Before quietly leaving, he picked up the whiskey bottle and poured the contents down the
bathroom sink, tossing the bottle into the waste paper basket near the bed.
The man stared down at the photos of Sonny and his wife for several minutes, then he began
shredding them into pieces, setting fire to a couple and tossing them into the trash basket after
allowing them to burn — just enough.
“Pussy whipped motherfucker!,” he commented disgustingly to the sleeping man, while lifting
Sonny's keys off the night stand.
Sonny remained motionless. He was out cold.
____________
… The night was dark and overcast, without moon or stars. The O'Bryant family farm lay about
a mile west of town. The old farm house sat on a rise several hundred yards away from the county road
and entrance to the property. The lights inside lit the old home up like a beacon in the night ...
… The knock upon the front door came rather unexpected. She truly wanted no company, not
now, maybe never.
“Hey, surprised to see you … What brings you? … Sonny's not here,” she responded a bit
nervously, through the crack of the partially opened door.
“Was out this way. Saw the lights on,” the man replied coolly.
“Didn't hear you pull up. Usually see folk's when they turn off the county road heading up to
the house. Hear'em coming, lights a bobbin' for quite a spell, before they ever pull up out front. You
drive or walk?,” she asked curiously, easing the door open a bit more to glance out front.
A pickup parked in the darkness, a good ways from the house, answered her question.
“Was out spottin' deer. Thought I'd stop by to say hello. May I come in?,” he asked quietly.
“Well … Just for a minute … Have a seat … Guess you heard me and Sonny are splits? This
time, is the last time,” she added firmly. “No more!”
“Yeah, well I'm sure things will work out,” the man commented sourly, seating himself on the
sofa.
Clearly he had been drinking. His eyes told her that much when he stepped into the light, not to
mention the vapor trail that had followed him inside.
“Men and their booze!,” she thought to herself, shutting the front door in turning to address
his statement.
“I don't think so this time. It's over!,” her voice trembled, fighting back the tears.
“I'm here for you, Joann. Anything you need. I'm here,” the man replied, a bit too warmly.
“I'm free, white, and twenty one 2, so I can take care of myself. Thanks for offering, but no
thanks. I'll make it on my own,” Joann replied, cold chills suddenly making their way up her spine.
Funny, she had never felt uncomfortable around him before. What was different, this time?
“'Sup to you,” he added, with a bit of a slur to his voice.
Something in his voice — his tone, maybe his slur — triggered her reaction.
“You'd best go, you've been drinking, and I need to be alone right now.”
“Sure thing,” he replied icily, rising from the sofa, as though he were headed for the door ...
He was on her before she had an inkling of what lay within his heart. He was a big man, some
might say a fat man, for a Mexican. He had been a long time, trusted, friend of the family's for many
years now. She had trusted him all this time, 'till now ...
Joann fought valiantly to free herself from his grasp, but to no avail. He was simply too strong,
and too drunkenly determined to carry out the vile thoughts his mind had harbored all these years;
waiting for this opportunity, just waiting ...
She was nothing more than a rag doll in his hands, as he forced her through the house, and into
the bedroom where he had fantasized of this moment so many times before.
“Fucking bitch!,” he groaned, when she bit the lips that sought to kiss her, his hands now
ripping at her clothes.
The war for her modesty was lost in a matter of minutes. She fought bravely, trying so hard to
stop him, but she simply could not. All she could think of, while he savagely beat her, was how much
2 Free, white, and twenty one — I am free, white, and twenty one: A commonly heard expression in the southern states of America that simply means a
person is old enough, is an adult, and therefore has the freedom, to do as they choose or wish to do. Intentional or not, it is a racist statement of the old
South adopted by whites who are often insensitively inconsiderate of its true connotations and historical significance in that this expression is equivalent to
stating: “No one owns me... I am my own master.”
____________
When the man reached Sonny's motel room, the guy was still out cold from the mickey his
friend had slipped him earlier in the evening. Pussies should not drink whiskey, especially drug laced
whiskey.
____________
Thomas sat bolt upright in the bed. It was his first night back in Smalltown. Now, he wondered
if returning to this West Texas town had been such a wise decision.
Clearly it was a dream, but this was the first time he had dreamed such as this: To feel the
emotions of a woman. He had only thought that he had felt pain before in his dreams. This dream
hovered over him like a specter that refused to go away, even after several cups of late night coffee. It
was as if she were crying out, not only for help but, to tell the world what had happened to her. It left
Thomas unnerved, a mental wreck, in pondering the meaning of it all, and the why, of the why, of the
why, he had dreamed it in the first place.
“What is it? What's wrong, Thomas?,” Daniel and Elena asked in unison.
“She has a daughter!,” Thomas exclaimed, jumping out of bed to fire up his computer.
The dark writing4 was starting — again!
____________
… Out at the farm, the local volunteer fire dept. had put out the fire, saving most of the home.
A nearby neighbor had spotted the blaze almost immediately. Firefighters had stated that it was a
miracle the whole house hadn't gone up in flames.
The neighbor had also seen Sonny's pickup leaving the house. He seemed to be in a hurry ...
Joann's naked body was found, beaten and badly burned, lying just inside the hallway.
Apparently, after the fire started, she was only able to make it to the hallway before succumbing to the
smoke. She was pronounced dead at the scene by authorities. She was only twenty seven, a week away
from her next birthday. Thankfully, her little girl had gone to spend the night with a friend from
school. She had just turned nine last month.
Authorities were seeking to contact next of kin. Sonny had some explaining to do …
It was shortly after six am when the phone began ringing off the hook.
The man grumbled as he reached for the phone. “Que! Quien es?,” he spoke irritably into the
receiver.
“This is officer Walters with Smalltown PD. Sorry to wake you, but there's been a fire out at the
old O'Bryant place. Joann O'Bryant is dead. We're trying to locate Sonny, to let him know what's
happened. Folks around town say you guys are friends.”
“Haven't seen him in several days,” the man replied groggily. “If I do, I'll let him know, okay?”
“Well, if you do see your friend, tell him we need to talk to him,” the officer replied firmly in
hanging up.
Later that morning, the man gathered his clothes of the night before. His wife lay sleeping, just
as she had been when he had come home. He had brought Louisa over from Old Mexico. Mexican born
women were hard workers, obedient, and submissive — his kind of woman.
After the phone call, he had thought it best to get rid of his boots and clothes. Attempting to
shake off a hefty hangover, he set his mind to searching for last night's prize. But, where had he put it?
Puzzled, he removed his wallet, keys, pocket knife, and loose change from his pants — nothing more.
His worry now hinting of desperation, he picked up his shirt. Lifting it for inspection, he could already
see that it held something hidden within its pocket. Reaching inside, he removed a small ornate
locket, suspended from a broken gold chain. The chain had snapped when he tore it from her neck.
“Ah, something special to remember the puta by,” he said, in smiling to himself. He could still
smell her scent, and the fear she oozed when he had taken her.
Getting into his pickup for work, he dropped the locket into the ashtray to join other mementos
he had collected over the years, closing it firmly with a slap of his hand.
He left for work a little early. Upon arriving, he promptly disposed of the boots and clothes in
the company's incinerator. It was a quarter 'till eight. Work started this time of year at eight am.
After making coffee for the guys, the man poured himself a cup, and lit a cigarette. He sipped
his coffee slowly savoring it, smoke drifting from his nostrils. It would be an interesting day …
____________
Sonny heard the banging on the door only distantly, through the haze of fog that had consumed
his mind. By the time he managed to sit up on the bed, the motel room door had burst open, and he
was immediately swarmed by police.
He sat bleary eyed and disoriented, not believing his ears, while they told him about his wife. At
first, he was too shocked for tears … Then, drop by sprinkling drop, they began to fall in torrents down
his face ...
Smalltown's finest watched him weep with faces of stone. The room was a shambles, with beer
cans and shredded photos everywhere. The air was filled with the smell of a fire. It took only moments
to locate the source, in a waste paper basket, along with an empty bottle of whiskey … The cuffs came
out almost immediately.
____________
… It was a Saturday morning. Sonny's week had been a living hell on earth. He was beaten
black and blue by inmates several times during the week, as they took their righteous indignation out
upon him. The guards seemed oblivious to what was taking place — blind to his blackened eyes,
disfigured nose, and bloody clothes. He was pretty sure he had a couple of broken ribs, but did his best
to not favor his side for fear the next attack might be launched towards that part of his body. Hell, even
his own lawyer had made light of the shape he was in.
Sonny was awash with hopelessness, wishing to God that he really had killed himself. Maybe
then Joann would still be alive. More than that though, he wished he knew who had raped his wife.
His burning rage was all that kept him going. If he could just get out of this hell hole, he would find the
son of a bitch who had done that to his sweet Joann, the love of his life — the only love he had ever
known.
He'd not had a visitor, other than his lawyer, all week. Honestly, he expected none. Joann was
loved by everyone who'd ever known her. This town had a vigilante personality. If he made bail in
putting up his farm, he wasn't too sure he would be alive to make the trial. His lawyer had told him so,
advising him to tough it out in jail until the trial was over. The man who had been his friend and legal
adviser for years seemed to hardly know him now, offering little hope of a good outcome at the trial
unless some hard evidence of his innocence turned up … There would likely be none ...
____________
… His fingers were a blur upon the keyboard, while he sought to write down everything he
could remember about the dreams. Sometimes he was able to remember every detail. Other times,
there would be holes in his memory that would later return … Some never did. Those that did not
terrified him even more than those that did. To continue writing stories inspired by his dreams was
not what young Thomas Flynn wished to do … It was what he felt compelled to do — often as not,
almost against his will …
____________
… And so, the young man, Thomas Flynn, had returned once more to Smalltown — where he
had first met his little friends, Daniel, Elena, and their son, Matt — the resting place of older author,
Thomas C. Flynn. The dreams started again only a few days after arriving back in Smalltown, with
Thomas starting his new job as day dispatcher for the Smalltown Police Department ...
“You sons of bitches set me up, didn't you?,” Thomas stated flatly to Sam's friend, Detective
Race Chance.
“What do you mean, Thomas? Samuel told me you needed a job. All I did was to help get you
hired,” Race replied impatiently.
“The dreams have started again, and the story I am now writing begins right here in Smalltown.
It's bad, Race, real bad.”
Race could see the seriousness in Thomas' face. He knew the young man was not exaggerating.
He had read the kid's stories. The ones that sprang forth from his dreams contained a power and
emotion that spoke of true life events about people who were victims truly in trouble, at the hands of
those whose minds were also truly demented.
“You say your new dream story begins in Smalltown?,” Race demanded.
“Yeah, and I think you guys tricked me into coming back here so that I could write the damn
story, and help you solve some clueless ass case,” Thomas admitted angrily.
“Don't have any unsolved cases right now,” Race replied.
“Yes you do. You just don't know it, Race. This dream begins right here in Smalltown, about
ten years ago. There was a fire on a local farm. A woman was raped and left for dead in a house set
ablaze.”
“You're talking about the old O'Bryant farm house. Joann O'Bryant was raped and died from
smoke inhalation, after her attacker set the house on fire. Her husband, Sonny, was seen leaving the
house right after the fire started. He was convicted and sentenced to life in prison. This town loved
that girl. If he had been found innocent, someone here in Smalltown would have likely killed him
themselves, first chance they got. Folks 'round these parts don't take kindly to men who rape women,
much less murder them. The bastard should have gotten the death penalty, but the judge thought the
case was a little strange and that the trial left a lot of questions unanswered, despite the evidence
against him. It was rape and murder cut and dried. That's the way folks in Smalltown saw it. That's
the way I saw it then … That's the way I see it now,” Race firmly informed the young man.
“He didn't do it, Race,” Thomas interjected sincerely.
“Well, you'll play hell convincing this town otherwise. People here prefer to let sleeping dogs
lie. If you start stirring things up, you won't be workin' for the Smalltown Police Department for very
long.”
“I know these dreams are real. I can feel it in my bones,” Thomas added.
“I believe your dreams are real, Thomas. You've dreamed something that really happened, but
long ago. The case is closed. Write your story if you must, but don't start digging for reasons as to why
it should now, suddenly, be reopened. Folks won't take kindly to that kind of digging up the dead. Let
Joann rest in peace, son,” Race advised the young man seriously.
“And so the real killer simply walks, is that it?,” Thomas inquired emotionally.
“The real killer paces within his cell, while time creeps slowly by. Shit! Let it go boy … Let it
go!”
Kathryn awoke to the sound of Savage Garden's, Madly, Truly, Deeply. They were a has been
band, but she loved their music. Washing the sleep from her eyes, she paused in front of the mirror in
deep thought. Today was exactly ten years since the fire, since her mom, since her dad had been
imprisoned. To this day, she was convinced of her dad's innocence.
After all, why would any man who planned to murder his wife, rape her before burning their
home? If he had wished to make her death look like a rape turned murder, he could have simply raped
and killed her. Besides … Anyone at all who truly knew her dad, knew anything about the O'Bryant
family, should have known that he would never, in his life, have set fire to his family's old homestead …
She also knew, in her heart, that there was no way in the world that her dad would have ever hurt her
mom ...
No … Someone wanted to erase evidence. Someone wanted the truth to remain hidden —
forever. It seemed so strange, even this morning years later and Kathryn Joann now nineteen,
that the cops could not seem to reason this logic out, rather than convicting her father of crimes he did
not commit.
She had told her adopted uncle, Fabian, this very thing, time after time, over the many years of
awaiting the day her dad would come up for parole, in hopes of his release from prison.
Her uncle had never said so but, at times, she almost felt as if he believed her dad was guilty.
He had been good to her over the years, after she had run away that last time from her dad's
brother's. The state had finally given in, and allowed her to stay with him and his family, giving Fabian
Salazar full custody of the girl ...
____________
… Kathryn worked at a local florist shop. She loved flowers. They reminded her of her mom.
Her days were filled with nothing special. She was a tomboy. She had few friends, only memories.
High school had given way to dreams of college, but college costs money. So, she had resolved herself
to the fact that she would likely live out her days here in Smalltown, an invisible girl with a stained
past. Would the day ever come when folks ceased to stop and whisper when she walked by? She
seriously doubted it.
Because of this all too clear reality, she had long since chosen to go by her mother's maiden
name, rather than that of her dad's. She hoped he would understand. She wrote him regularly, but he
rarely replied to her letters. Each reply spoke strongly of how much he loved her, and unwaveringly of
the love he had felt for her mom. He never spoke of his innocence, or complained. She had come to
believe that the only thing that kept her dad alive, from day to day living in prison, was the hope he
held out that his little girl knew her father would never hurt her, or her mom. If so, he was right. But
in the meantime, she had to live in this town of professionally inspired gossipers.
Only recently, had she moved into a place of her own, with her uncle Fabian's help. She was a
young woman now, and no longer a child. It was only natural for her to want the freedom of a place of
her own. Besides, lately his eyes had begun to linger upon her rather unpleasantly. Something felt
different about him; something she could not puzzle out.
____________
Thomas was almost certain his heart had stopped beating — for a split second — as he gazed
into her eyes for the very first time. It was his first week back in Smalltown, and he had just made his
first appointment at the clinic. He found it hard to believe that he had run into her twice in the same
day — pleasingly so.
Smalltown was the resting place of older author Thomas C. Flynn. So, he and Daniel, Elena,
and Matt had made their way to the local florist shop to purchase something nice to leave in planning
to visit his grave ...
“Hi,” he uttered somewhat awkwardly, “I need something nice in memory of a friend.”
“Guy or girl?,” she asked curiously.
“Does it really matter to the dead?,” Thomas asked a bit jokingly.
“It matters to you,” the young beauty replied seriously.
“You pick. They're just flowers for a man I've come to admire,” Thomas answered, trying his
best to keep his eyes from drinking in her beauty ...
… Thomas left the florist shop, his heart aglow. He'd had a few teenage crushes on girls
growing up but, this girl, she took his breath away.
“Thomas is in love,” Elena chided heartily.
“Give me a break, Elena,” Thomas answered irritably, trying to hide the obvious.
“What woman, you expect the boy to live a single life, while we raise a family?,” Daniel asked
his wife jokingly.
“I think it is wonderful that he has found someone for himself … That is, if she is interested in
him too,” Elena replied. “My instincts say, she is.”
“Well, I'll tell you this: I swear she can see us. Looked me right in the eyes,” Daniel added.
“She's absolutely beautiful.”
His remark drew an instantaneous slap in the face from his wife, who only heard his statement
about Kathryn's beauty while ignoring his comment that perhaps she really could see them … So did
Thomas … His mind was on Kathryn, and Kathryn alone.
“Does your precious Leprechaun Law say anything about you guys minding your own damn
business?,” Thomas asked the little couple sternly. “I don't meddle in your lives, so leave my life
alone!”
“Okay, okay, the two answered together, choking on their laughter …
____________
____________
Dispatching had proved to be much more interesting than Thomas had ever imagined. He
actually enjoyed his job, except for the really bad calls. But, it was a job, and Samuel was pleased to
see him working with law enforcement, still hoping that one day he would apply to the police academy.
Thomas seriously doubted that would ever happen.
He had been dating Kathryn for almost a year now. She was the most extraordinary girl he had
ever met. There was seldom a moment during the day that she was not on his mind. This made him
smile, even after awakening from the dreams that continued to haunt him — still.
Joann had a daughter out there, somewhere. He had to find her, but how? He had quizzed
Kathryn a time or two about the old O'Bryant farm. She had become quiet, offering him nothing to go
on. After a while, he had stopped asking her.
Clearly, her uncle Fabian did not really approve of Thomas dating his niece. The man seemed
friendly enough, despite his occasional remarks that had begun after seeing Thomas leave the MHMR
office one afternoon. They had even had a few beers together over barbecue at Fabian's home, and
Mrs. Salazar appeared to be a very good woman, though she walked on pins and needles around her
husband — almost fearfully so. Thomas couldn't help but wonder why.
“Mr. Salazar, are you familiar with the old O'Bryant farm?” Thomas asked over a cold beer one
evening, while the two sat chewing the fat.
“That old place has been sold,” Fabian answered a bit sharply.
“Did you know the folks who lived there?,” Thomas asked. I'm just curious about a story that I
heard when I came to town.
“Don't know much about them. Try to mind my own business. Need another beer?,” Fabian
asked crisply.
“Sure. Funny thing. Nobody in this town wants to talk about that old farm, or the folks who
used to live there. It strikes me as odd, is all,” Thomas added, popping the top on the fresh beer
Fabian had handed him.
“Shit ain't worth talking about,” Fabian offered, in changing the subject.
That was the last time Thomas bothered asking anyone in Smalltown about the O'Bryants.
____________
____________
After watching Fabian drive away, Thomas stormed through the PD's entrance, hoping that
Race Chance had come in this morning. Surprisingly, Race sat at his desk shuffling through papers in
a case folder. The look upon his face said that something had him concerned.
Kathryn had dressed in jeans and a tee shirt this morning, hoping she didn't melt in the
summer heat, with her hair in a pony tail tucked through the back of her cap. For the past several
years, she had spent most of her weekends helping her uncle Fabian cut wood. He sold most of the
wood they cut, keeping some for use around the house for family barbecues. She had better things to
do with her time, but remained clueless as to how she would ever explain that to him. She owed him
so much more than she could ever repay. She had crawled out of bed a little late this morning,
wondering if he had already come by. But locking her door, in stepping outside, she smiled to see him
round the corner in his old Chevy pickup truck.
As he rolled up, she could see the cooler in the back, just like always. Uncle Fabian never went
anywhere without a cold beer. Kathryn rarely drank alcoholic beverages. When she did it was usually,
a wine cooler, maybe one or two.
“We're late,” he snapped at her. “Had to give dumb ass a ride to work.”
“Why do you insist on calling him that?,” she asked, the sound of her voice making clear his
words hurt her.
“Cause he's a dumb ass white boy,” her uncle answered sharply. “You should find yourself a
real man … Not a boy.”
“You mean a Mexican man,” she replied angrily. “I love Thomas, no matter what you think of
him, uncle.”
“Suit yourself, Katie Joann,” he answered, slipping the pickup into gear.
“My name is not Katie … It's Kathryn … I hate it when you call me Katie!”
The drive out to the old O'Bryant farm was a quiet one. Fabian had been cutting wood from
undeveloped acreage there, off and on, for many years now. Sonny's brothers had refused to sell the
____________
… The old house stood majestically in the heat of the morning sun, a memorial of the hard
working O'Bryants, who had poured their blood, sweat, and tears into this old farm, spending their
lives tilling its soil. The scars from the fire, now also served as a memorial of her mother's death.
Each time he drove by, uncle Fabian always stopped — looking the place over as if
remembering old times — before driving on to the uncleared fields where they would be cutting wood.
This morning proved to be no different. In fact, this morning seemed almost special to him.
He headed for the wood cutting area, whistling some old Bronco 6 tune, to himself, while they drove
along.
Pulling up beneath the shade of a stand of older mesquite trees shielding them from the sun
and from view of the old road leading back to the house, her uncle parked the pickup truck.
Coming here always swept Kathryn away to those better times, times when life was so very
good, and her mother was still alive with her dad by her side. Long ago, this area had come to be
known as the O'Bryant family picnic and barbecue area. In her mind, she could still savor the scent of
fresh barbecue cooking on the grill, and hear the laughter of her mom and dad that sprang to life every
time they spent a day here at this special place where nature had kindly afforded a Wash 7 that had
given rise to the tallest trees on the farm by carving out a small, deeper, area that, in times of a good
rain, served as a natural pond — that is, until the lack of rain and the harsh summer sun saw it return
to being every bit as dry as a Dry Wash always is. It was a beautiful place that one could easily picture
— right after a much needed good rain — as a little oasis, right smack dab in the midst of, an often dry
and desolate, West Texas. Her thoughts sought to keep her immersed in the memories of those
yesterdays, but her uncle's voice shook her loose from her reverie ...
“Time to go to work lazy girl,” uncle Fabian commented casually, stepping out of the truck to
pop a top on a Bud from the cooler.
Kathryn slowly got out of the pickup, to face the summer heat head on. His old truck's AC did
not cool very well, and so lessened the shock of meeting the hot summer air. Stretching her legs in
readying herself for some hard work, the girl reached into the back for a bottle of water.
There was no point in staying angry at her uncle all day. Born and raised in Mexico to later
become an American citizen, she doubted seriously that he would ever change his old fashioned,
traditional, ways of thinking about life and people — especially a woman's place in the home. He had
wasted no time in insisting that she speak Spanish in his home, working side by side in the kitchen
with Aunt Louisa, cooking meals and making fresh, handmade, tortillas.
6http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q_TAH4987KA
7 Wash — An arroyo (/əˈrɔɪoʊ/; Spanish: [aˈroʝo], "brook"), also called a wash, is a dry creek, stream bed or gulch that temporarily or seasonally fills and
flows after sufficient rain.[1] Flash floods are common in arroyos following thunderstorms. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arroyo_(creek)
____________
When the two men jumped into the police cruiser, Thomas suddenly grabbed the steering
wheel from the passenger side, where he sat looking intently at Race.
“I know I'm no cop, just a dreamer, but it seems to me that if Kathryn might really be in danger,
then maybe we should make certain she's safe first.”
“Hell boy, you think like a cop already. Besides, I know you're sweet on that girl. Point the way
to her house, and we'll have us a look see,” Race answered jokingly, starting the car and slamming it
into reverse.
Minutes later, they pulled up outside Kathryn's apartment. After several knocks upon the door,
it was obvious that she was either sleeping in all day, which was not like her at all, or she was not at
home. Thomas rarely saw her on Saturdays during the summer, but had never really thought to ask
her why.
____________
… While the girl stacked wood cut to length on the trailer they would be pulling back to town,
his eyes watched her. Reaching into the cooler for a fresh beer, he pulled out two. Popping the top on
one and taking a hearty sip, he held out the other in her direction, waiting to catch her eye. After
stacking a few more logs on the trailer, Kathryn gave a nod his way, acknowledging the fact that she
could see the beer and, yes, it was looking better all the time. She had worked herself up a Texas sized
thirst.
Her uncle smiled mischievously as he handed her the beer, watching intently while she opened
it and downed it voraciously. It was ice cold, and even tasted half way decent to her surprise. Clearly
her thirst had overridden her taste buds.
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… Race slowly rose to his feet. Thomas bailed out of the police car and ran to the passenger
side of Fabian's pickup. Kathryn lay there on the front seat, unconscious and naked, but alive. Her
clothes lay fallen upon the ground beside the pickup.
Race busied himself with making certain that Fabian was no longer a threat. A quick glance
assured him the man was dead.
“Any sign of the girl?,” Race yelled towards the truck.
“Yeah,” Thomas replied, emotion filling his voice. “She's unconscious, but I think she's okay.
From my dreams, I'm pretty sure he drugged her. She's naked Race. Son of a bitch stripped her!”
“I'm sorry, Thomas, but damn glad we got here when we did,” Race replied in trying to cheer up
his young friend.
Race had only taken a step or two in the direction of the pickup, when Thomas yelled out.
“Do me a favor, Race. Stay there, please! She shouldn't have to wake up to find out she's been
seen naked by half the town, stripped by the man who raised her — a man she trusted. Her clothes are
right here. Come on, can't we spare her that?,” Thomas pleaded from beside the pickup.
“It's against procedure … But fuck procedure! After what her mother went through, her father
too, I think we can spare the poor girl that shame. Can you get her dressed before she regains
consciousness? I got to call this in,” Race replied understandingly to his friend.
“I hope so. Wouldn't ever want her to know I saw her like this,” Thomas answered gratefully.
Thomas fought back tears while he dressed her, praying she would not come to, just yet. He
had lowered her tee shirt and bra into place and was putting her panties back on, when he noticed the
swollen redness on her left cheek and the blood oozing from her ear.
Rage consumed him. Red was all he could see. Storming around the pickup, he headed for the
body of Fabian Salazar.
“Fucking piece of shit!,” Thomas screamed at the man, tears streaming down his face, as he
drew back his foot to kick the dead man in the face.
Two strong hands suddenly gripped his shoulders, jerking him backwards and almost off his
feet.
“She's more important than this asshole right now. Don't you think?,” Race asked, looking
squarely into Thomas's eyes. “Take care of your girl. Hurry, before folks get here … ”
Regaining his composure, Thomas went back to the pickup to finish dressing Kathryn. After
carefully lacing up her shoes, he looked up at her beautifully sweet face. Even in sleep, she found a
way to smile. He knew, at that moment, he was truly in love with this girl, and would do anything to
spend the rest of his life with her. He also now realized that his dreams had not been such a terrible
curse. After all, his dreams had led him to her …
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