Everything after that was kind of a blur. Movement. Cursing. Irritation and frustration. Thank goodness he’d had her followed.
The three of them headed to the police station and he spent the majority of that time being elbowed by English, who didn’t want him to say anything. Every time she or Channey tried to discuss the events, it was almost like they were being interrogated—not believed.
Getting to his feet, he proceeded to demand justice. The laws were ass-backwards. There was no justice for some folks. Plain and simple. The police were walking on eggshells after some recent police brutality charges, the limelight was on them, so now, everyone was a sitting duck. Talks of defunding the police had resurfaced, and soon after, people complained that their calls to the districts garnered slow reaction times. 911 sometimes didn’t dispatch an officer until folks were dead, and the perpetrator long gone. This was the climate they lived in—where the police were afraid of the criminals, and the criminals were encouraged. Roaming free. Untouchable.
The officer said they were still on the lookout for the vehicle, and gave her further information, including some relating to a court date. Deep down, they all knew it wouldn’t lead anywhere. They left the station, devised the next steps, and Channey parted ways with them. Axel had it from here. He hated this for her. English now sat in the passenger seat of his truck, her police paperwork in hand. A vacant look on her face. The lights were on, but no one was home.
Michael Jackson’s ‘Chicago’ played on the radio as he winded down the back roads on his way to taking her home. He didn’t want her driving. She was far too upset. English had given Channey the keys, and she said she’d bring her car over later that evening.
“Sorry for being so quiet.”
“You don’t have to say nothin’. I know you’re upset. I know you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared. I’m angry, Axel. Angry that he has once again gotten away with this. He’s emboldened by now. I was ready to kill him dead if he came towards me… sick of this shit!” Her voice rattled. She nervously chewed on her nails while staring out the window. He looked at her reflection. Her eyes were trained on the bursts of vibrant green tree leaves, falling rain, dense foliage flashing in fast motion providing snapshots of nature as he drove past.
“Nothing wrong with being scared, English.” He jammed his cigarette in the ashtray, killing the flame. “As long as you don’t let the fear stop you from what you need to do, being afraid sometimes is just part of life.”
English had to be fearing for both her family and her sanity. By the time they’d finished with the police, he’d heard the story three times, and it never got easier to understand how such a thing could happen in public, in broad daylight, and they were gone without a trace. The police were looking for the car in question. Footage was being pulled from a nearby camera. One problem did exist, however. The license plate came back fake. Big damn surprise.
Master was slick about his shit—an expert at staying right under the radar and having others do his dirty work. A regular ol’ modern day Charles Manson. Master manipulator, and crazy as fuck.
He made sure he wasn’t the one driving, or the person who slipped out of the car to try and circumvent English getting away. This motherfucker…
Channey was an eyewitness and she’d seen him, but despite her training and credibility, it would still be her word against his. He imagined if things got hairy, her criminal background would be tossed into the ring to discredit her. The odds were stacked against English.
I’m going to level the playing field…
“Pull over.”
“Huh? Why?”
“Just pull over, Axel. I need to get out of the car.”
“English, you’re almost home and it’s rainin’.”
“Just do it! Pull over!” Her eyes sheened over as ‘Time’ by Culture Club came on the radio station. He jerked his truck over to the side, careful to not slip into a nearby embankment. Before he could barely get it in park, the passenger’s side door flew open, and English was outside. He rushed out to grab her, to force her back into the truck, only to stop in his tracks. She spun around and around, her arms outstretched, dancing in the rain—in her work attire—as cars zoomed past on the road. Her face beamed, her eyes raised towards the sky, arms extended like a bird’s, spinning around and around like a flower being twirled between a child’s fingers.
He made his way back to his truck to turn the music up at high volume. ‘Eyes Without a Face,’ by Billy Idol, was now on. Returning to her, he wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her into the air. She opened her mouth, gulping raindrops as if they were candy. Her body trembled as if she were silently sobbing, releasing her frustration. Angry tears disguised by the rain. But more than that, she might be forcing herself to forget her troubles. To live in the moment. He couldn’t be sure. That was the thing about English. Every now and again, he wasn’t certain why she did what she did, or said some of the things she’d said, but in the end, he seemed to always know how to respond.