As Shaun went back to building, my thoughts returned to Pat. I thought of what Shaun had said about the girl. She tore up a painting because she was sad, much the same way Pat had torn up our friendship and poor Peter because she was sad. I knew somewhere deep down that Pat would never want to hurt anyone. If anything, she probably felt terrible about it. I should talk to her. And talking is best done in person. Text messages and calls were, in my opinion, a lousy excuse for not seeing someone face-to-face.
“Monica,” I called. “Can you look after Shaun while I run an errand? I mean, can you stay overtime tonight, if needed?”
Monica entered the room, carrying a tray with snacks.
“Sure. My man won’t be home for another two hours and while I can’t wait to see him, I’ll happily stay a little while longer,” she said with a wink.
Monica lived on the property in a smaller guest house with two bedrooms and a little garden with a hot tub. After Jen died, she suggested herself that she and her husband be closer and I felt relieved. She would take Shaun to their cottage when I was away on business so she got to sleep in her own bed while looking after him. They were like family to us, and once I got round to finally buying a ranch in the outskirts of L.A., I’d make sure they could choose if they wanted to build a house on that property too. If they preferred a house somewhere else, I’d pay for that instead.
“Great, thanks, Monica. Shaun, I’ll see you later. I hope to be back for your bedtime story, but don’t be mad at me if I’m not as this is really important. You see, I think there’s a girl like your friend who is very sad right now and your story reminded me that I need to check in on her.”
“OK, Dad, give her a hug and she will feel better. That’s what I did.”
I smiled. For children, some things were so simple.
***
A mere ten minutes later, I pulled up my motorbike in Pat’s driveway. Well, it was the driveway both for the chalet and the main house. Thankfully we both lived in the hills, so the way to hers was easy and I was also glad I had her address on a contract, or I wouldn’t know where to go.
There was a car other than Pat’s Beetle in the driveway and I assumed it belonged to the owners of the main house.
I took off my helmet, placed it on the steering wheel and walked down the path to the chalet — it really was as picturesque as Pat had described it. A little cottage with a fairytale garden and views over the canyon.
As I got to the door, I heard voices.
“Bill, for the love of God, let me go. You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re doing. You can’t kidnap me. You’ll regret this in the morning. Stop it!”
Bill’s reply was a mumble, but from what I heard, the situation required police intervention. I could go inside, but I didn’t know if Bill was armed. Shit!
Quickly I turned away from the house so that my voice wouldn’t be heard and dialed 911.
I described the situation to the lady who answered and she promised to send someone straight away, keeping the sirens off so as not to alert the man inside.
As I hung up I could feel myself sweating profusely. I was scared — scared of what Bill would do to Pat. I strained to hear what was going on, but things had turned quiet. What was he doing to her?
I realized I could see them if I went to the other side of the house and looked through the windows, so I walked around, careful not to make a noise. As I reached the panoramic windows, I knelt down behind a bush and moved one branch to the side so I could see what was going on.
Inside, Pat was sitting on the couch, hands tied. Bill was busy putting a gag on her too — apparently, he didn’t like her shouts about leaving her alone earlier.
I couldn’t see a gun, or any other weapon.
I felt inside my biking jacket’s pocket and there it was — pepper spray. I always carried it with me as you never know what you’ll run into. Angry dogs on the loose were usually as bad as it would get around here, but I sometimes filmed in locations that were less than savory.
As Pat tried to move her head away from Bill, he grabbed her harder.
Something burst within me — I couldn’t stand seeing him manhandle her. I saw one of the sliding glass doors was open and jumped up and rushed into the room, kicking Bill’s knees from the back so he lost his balance. Then I quickly grabbed his arms behind his back and gave him a further push so he fell into a kneeling position.
“See how that feels, now that you’re the one being held down,” I spat, while Pat looked on with big, frightened eyes. “It’s alright,” I told her. “He can’t harm you now. The police are on their way. Sorry, I can’t remove your gag while I’m holding onto this one.”
Bill finally seemed to have caught up to what was going on — his alcohol-soaked brain clearly wasn’t moving too fast. Taking him down had been easier than ninety-nine per cent of my stunts and those were choreographed moves.
“You’re the son of a bitch who slept with this whore.”
“No,” I corrected. “You’re the one who slept with a whore. I’m the son of a bitch who made love to this woman and who will now make sure you end up behind bars.”
Just as Bill was about to reply, I heard a noise and looked towards the door — the police. Thank God!
“Hands in the air. Everyone.”
