Save Me from Dangerous Men (Nikki Griffin #1)(101)

I did what I could to learn. As usual I turned to books, reading everything from The Gift of Fear to The Woman Who Walked Into Doors. I read articles and sociological journals and legal cases and nonprofit reports. I learned about Battered Women’s Syndrome and the cycle of violence, an endless looping pattern of anger, violence, apology, calm.

The violence kept happening. All around me.

The fourth time I saw Clara was in the hospital. She wasn’t in good shape. On the other hand, she hadn’t broken her neck. Being pushed down a staircase could do all kinds of things. It was hard to stand in a hospital with a bruised and terrified woman and think about words like “lucky.” But maybe she had been. I decided then and there that I didn’t want there to be a fifth time. The cycle had to be broken.

Once that decision was made, one step seemed to lead naturally to the next. Like shooting pool. Each shot lining up the next. Finding Clara’s husband was simple. Most people had to live somewhere and work somewhere. Most paid bills and received mail and frequented bars and gyms and grocery stores, had social circles and habits.

First a name. Then an address. Then watching, studying. Just like I had with Jordan Stone. I learned when Clara’s husband went out and when he went to bed. I learned who his friends were and what he did for fun. I began to understand that a lot of little facts could become important. Whether someone was a vegetarian or loved fried chicken. Whether someone walked a dog every evening or bothered to raise the shades after getting up in the morning. Whether someone’s idea of a good time was getting drunk or going on a hike.

Everything mattered. The less important a detail seemed, the more it might matter.

Sink a shot. Line up the cue. Aim again.

The next step.

I hadn’t known exactly what I wanted to say to Clara’s husband when I stopped by for a talk. Before I knew it, I had lapsed back into my training. Applying reason, logic, debate. I was a decent talker and I was trying hard. I gave Clara’s husband every good reason why he should allow his wife to move on.

He made my next choice an easy one. He reacted aggressively.

And then everything seemed to click.

Staircases were unpredictable. Someone could go down a dozen different times and end up a dozen different ways. Clara’s husband happened to go down pretty hard. He had been drinking, which hadn’t helped. Later I found out that he ended up with a broken hip, a separated shoulder, and a few less teeth from where his face bounced off the banister.

Nothing said I needed to break his right wrist after he landed. But it felt fair, so I did.

He was ex-military. He had guns. He liked to shoot. And he was a drunk. A dangerous combination. After he got better, I visited him again. In the morning, when he was still in bed and most likely to be sober. I reminded him that other people had guns, too. I showed him one of mine. I explained that his wife was going to be single, and that only he could decide whether she should be a divorcée or a widow.

Breaking the cycle.

And he understood.

That week I quit my job at the shelter. I had started to feel that talking was inefficient. Clara’s husband helped me understand that certain people were wired in an unusual way. Like they had a switch that had been mistakenly preprogrammed in the Off position. So that their default mode was not wanting to listen. Talking to them first was pointless. They’d never hear a word. It was important, with those people, to reset the switch to On, so that they were in a position to take in important information.

Then they could hear just fine.

Everything became much easier. First reset the switch, then talk. Two steps.

The danger wasn’t alleviated just because of my talks. Over time I’d gotten good at reminding the men I spoke to that they could meet new people, act differently. Hopeful things. I didn’t want them descending into such pits of depression or rage that even the worst consequences seemed unimportant. Several times, throughout the years, my talks hadn’t worked. Those were terrible moments. But usually I accomplished what I wanted.

Word of mouth was a powerful thing. Pretty soon I got a call from a different woman at a different shelter. One followed the next. Later, other people started coming to me for other work. Finding information, finding people. Not especially exciting. Mostly following, watching, staying in the same place for hours. I liked the work, though. I was solitary by nature. Irregular hours, time alone, it all suited me well. I was okay at what I did.

I kept at it and got better.





43


Woodside was supposedly one of the most expensive zip codes in the country. A quiet area in between Palo Alto and San Francisco, full of hidden mansions and estates. I bought a coffee and a sandwich in the small town, then rode a few miles out until I reached a winding driveway blocked by a black gate. The gate was about ten feet high, made up of vertical iron rods set two inches apart, topped by a row of little ornamental spikes. Designed to open outward in two halves, each half folding out from the middle. I passed the gate and pulled over on a side street, turning around so I could see the main road. I opened my sandwich and made myself comfortable.

An hour later the sun had set. I returned to the driveway. The security was straightforward. One camera on either side of the gate, mounted high up so as to take in the surrounding area. Next to each camera was a motion-activated floodlight. The system was clear. Any nocturnal motion would trip the lights, which would then illuminate the area for the cameras. The cameras probably fed into a security system off-site. Simple and effective.