Villains Don't Get Backstories

Chapter 4

The silence was a friend of mine, but the silence that hung between Belle and me was thick and oppressive. I had long since hung up my social skills. Penetrating the foot between her and me was impossible, so I just left her curled into herself in my car. I smoked while leaning against the rot iron fencing that circled the second-floor walkway of the shitty motel and watched her. When she stirred, I propelled myself back against the motel wall as guilt filled me for spying on her when she was clearly vulnerable.

Belle slowly climbed the stairs, her dark, erratic hair still obscuring the bulk of her pale face. I dipped my eyes to allow her privacy in her approach. She leaned against the fence with her back to me as the flick of her lighter bounced off the wall beside me. Moments later, a plume of smoke encircled her.

"Will you help me?" Her voice came low, barely rising above the sound of the traffic from the road below.

"Have you tried the police?"

"Yeah, they..." her chin fell to her chest. "He's one of them," she finally added.

It snarled in me- a father, an officer, two roles meant to protect. "What do you want from me?"

"I need someone to protect me. I don't want to be afraid anymore." Belle's emotionless words hung in the dry southwest air.

"Do you know where he is?"

"He's my dad; I know where to find him. But..." Her hands gripped the fencing as something, a memory, soared through her. "He's tricky. He twists your mind."

"Villains don't get backstories," fell from me like a knee-jerk reaction. "I'm ready to roll when you are."

Belle nodded subtly but didn't move from where she stood. I slipped into my room, cleaning my gun to keep my hands busy and my mind still.

"So, what's the plan?" She was in the doorway, silhouetted by the parking lot lights.

"You tell me; I usually work solo. I still can, if you want," I offered, but I already knew the answer. Belle's soul was damaged but not shattered like mine. She was looking for closure to move forward, whereas I was a resident of my own purgatory.

"I want to do it," her voice cracked as she spoke. "I want to try at least."

I nodded, "so, you're looking for me to..."

"Disarm him."

"Disarm him?" I asked back.

"I... can you make sure he can't hurt me again?"

"I'll be right there the whole time," I promised, regretting the roughness of my voice. I once was tender, but that was lost now.

"No," her forwardness hit me like a punch and brought my eyes to hers. I hadn't noticed the dull grey of her eyes before. For a moment, I wondered if they had ever sparkled like a sapphire ring. "I want to do it alone. I just need you to get him for me," she asserted.

"Listen, I don't think I should leave you alone..."

"Yes, it's what I want," determination shot up her spine and filled her voice before deflating when she added, "it's what I need."

"We can head out tonight," I nodded.

"No, I need to do this now," her grit came through again.

"Right now? It's late," my eyes flickered to the clock, "err, early."

"I need to do this before I lose my nerve. I'm tired of these ghosts haunting me."

I gave her a nod and loaded my gun. "If you expect me to leave you alone with him, I expect you to have a gun." I pulled my spare from my leg holster and handed it to her. "You know how to handle that?"

"Yeah, it's funny the things you pick up when..." her voice cracked and then petered out like a broken-down engine.

We drove into the desert in silence except for a few murmurs of directions. The junk house didn't surprise me.

"Don't let him talk," she spat out when I killed the engine. "It's how he gets you," she added as she handed me a picture.

If the circumstances had been different, it would have been a pleasant enough family portrait. A family of four posing on a summer day. Belle's jet black hair pulled her from the blond hair of her mother and sister. It was even stark compared with her father's light brown hair. Everything about the rest of her family was different; the smiles that danced with the threat of laughter, the hands easily falling around each other, they even bent towards each other while Belle leaned away. Scars had already marked her.

I hadn't planned to let him talk. I had already broken enough rules when Belle's glimpses of frailty sunk into me like blood into the parched desert ground.

The cluttered dilapidated home felt familiar. A man slept in an old easy chair in front of a flickering tv. I looped around to see his aged face; hard lines of the taxing years since the photo had replaced the humor, and his soft brown hair was now heavily mixed with grey.

"Hello, friend," I murmured loud enough to wake him as I pulled the coffee table towards me and sat down, ensuring enough room to extend my gun without it being within his reach.

His eyes fluttered open and assessed me, and then the gun casually tucked between my thigh and resting hand. I had expected a startle, but it was as though he had been expecting me.

"How can I help you, son?" His eyes were the sparkling blue that I had wondered if Belle had ever had.

"I'm here about your daughter," I nodded.

"Belle," he whispered. "Is she..." he paused to choose his words. "Is she okay?" It would have sounded like a touching whisper if I hadn't seen the damage he had done.

"She's about to be," I toss a pack of zip ties to his lap. "I hear you carried a badge; you must know what to do with those."

He gazed down at them for a long moment before he pulled one out and used one to tie his feet together. The turn of events was a surprise; I had anticipated that he would throw them back in my face or run, but he just set to work. Once he finished his feet, he tied a hand to the chair.

"I'll need some help with the other one," his voice was calm, almost relieved. As I zipped his second hand to the chair, he plucked the words swirling between us. "What did she tell you?"

"Enough," I murmured before standing up and heading to the door.

Belle sat cross-legged on the hood of my car, just as she had earlier in the night.

"You good?" I asked as I approached.

"Depends."

"He's in there and not going anywhere."

She slid from the car and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. I looked for the tremble of her hand as she lifted a smoke to her lips, but she moved with steady swiftness.

"You don't have to do this. I'm already a wanted man with blood on my hands," I offered.

"The law has never been a friend of mine," her voice came in the low growl of a summer thunderstorm threatening from the next town over.

"It's different. You can't wash this stain off your soul."

"Good," she defiantly spoke as she ashed her cigarette into the air and then paced inside.

I waited at the car, leaning against it as the sun rose over the desert behind the house. It would have been peaceful if I hadn't been waiting for the bang. Part of me wanted to charge in and stop Belle from tainting her life, but more of me hoped that Belle would come screaming from the house, unable to pull the trigger.

Instead, I pulled the familiar picture and stared down at the man who both took everything from me and made me the man I was.

Then, in the gentle pastels of a Tuesday sunrise, a sharp, thick bang sliced through my consciousness.