Uncaged (3 page)

He paused. The realization hit that someone he leaned on for approval and advice just circled the wagons and left him on the outside. The truth left him feeling like an abandoned child. Caring, stable, and decent Leonora was easily the closest thing to an aunt. He wanted to keep her in his life but sensed she’d already moved on to the next lost soul. “I might not be here much longer.”

She tensed with her brows arched. “What are your plans?”

“I’m sure Hank has already mentioned something to you.”

“I know my brother dreams big.”

Nervous as hell, he shuffled his feet. “Now that I’m eighteen, I can sign my own contracts and travel without a guardian. It totally frees me to take on the mixed-martial arts fight circuit. Hank said I could learn more in one year on the circuit than—”

Leonora threw her hands in the air. “I saw this coming the first day I introduced you to Hank! What about college? Did you ever meet with the tutor I introduced you to? Mitchell you’re so smart. If you focused, you could transfer into an engineering program, no problem. There are scholarships available. I’ll help you write a grant. Use the money from the settlement to build a future. Please don’t mess yourself up in the ring. I’ve seen that tragedy so many times.”

He’d spent every waking hour of the past year training, fighting, and exhausting himself. He would have done anything to dull the emptiness inside except sit still and think. Time spent alone with his thoughts was the enemy. He scheduled each day to the max with endless physical routines to tamp down the suppressed anger continually threatening to erupt. Fighting provided the only safe form of release. He lived for brutal bouts on the sparring mat. The chime of a training bell triggered an inner detonation. He’d become the real Pavlov’s dog, trained to rage in a cage. The wounded Wolf in him belonged behind a curtain of steel-mesh, not in a classroom. “I’m meeting with a manger-promoter this Sunday.”

Opening the driver’s side, she climbed in. “I won’t lie. I’m worried for you. Cage fights nearly killed Hank. Promise me you’ll think of a fallback plan.” Her lips quivered and curled but didn’t quite achieve a smile. “And stay in touch.” The car window went up, and she was already moving before he could answer.

“Good-bye, Leonora.”

Four Years Later

With a sense of purpose, Christy rubbed a glue stick across the back of the last official promotional photo of Mitchell aka “Wail’n Waya.” He looked sleek and fierce dressed in black boxing trucks on the steps of a Vegas casino. She pasted the eight-by-ten glossy into her scrapbook chronicling the meteoric rise and fall of Mitchell Waya’s MMA career. Flipping the page, she glanced at her favorite picture—Mitchell’s smiling face on the label of a sports drink. In this photo, he looked approachable, even kind, an unusual quality in an MMA fighter. The scrapbook had once been a comfort, almost an obsession, but now she needed to move on and put it away.

Turning each page with care, she took a final glance. In the first months of her recovery, she’d hounded Leonora for information about Mitchell so often she’d been banned from asking. Lucky for her, his face started showing up everywhere, even on cable. Without driving Leonora crazy, she could look at him all she liked.

With sweeping dark brows and a dramatic blend of Scottish-Lakota features, Mitchell seemed incapable of taking a bad picture. The media loved him. Young, with the perfect balance of brawn and soft-spoken humility, he drew fans of all ages. Overnight, he became an international hero. His mercurial eyes could convey a sense of playful sweetness one moment and the next a burst of raw ferocity. His unique fighting style was praised as “effortless,” “otherworldly,” or her favorite quote, “The mixed-martial arts world has never seen a phenomenon like Mitchell Waya. He’s a sledgehammer strapped to a fountain pen. The damage is executed with concise elegance.”

She gazed at a collectable sport card of a beaming Mitchell holding his championship belt aloft in front of a cheering crowd in Frankfurt, Germany. Or a funny promo shot of Mitchell hamming it up on a train platform in Tokyo. He crouched in the sprinter’s position as if preparing to race the train. The caption read:
“Which is faster? The Bullet or Waya?”

But the good times didn’t last. It pained her to look at the next collection of photos. A mega-hyped televised event at the Emperor’s Palace, Las Vegas, brought Wail’n Waya’s reign to an end. In front of a packed house, Mitchell harmed a man so badly the opponent left the cage a quadriplegic for life. The nerve-severing strike, delivered a split second after a bell, had ruined Mitchell’s reputation and caused controversy. With every angle of the tragic incident thoroughly analyzed, an odd feature became apparent. In several frames, Mitchell’s face took on a feral animal quality and his eyes glowed amber. Tex Wilkins argued with the press the uncanny effect resulted from multiple flashbulbs and the ambient lights of Vegas, but she knew better.

No longer afraid she’d gone mad—the sad event provided some vindication to the stories she had told to Leonora years ago. There were other witnesses. The world glimpsed the avenging angel doing battle in the cage, too.

The MMA suspended Mitchell from the ring, and an investigation followed. To pass the time, he drank too much and drove too fast—a bad combination that led to wrecking his Lamborghini on a desert highway. With every limb broken, he barely survived.

Worse, sensing his golden goose laid a rotten egg, Tex Wilkins had embezzled Mitchell’s earnings and fled. A popular rumor claimed Tex relocated to Argentina.

Her mother, Mara stepped out of the kitchen. “I’m making a BLT for breakfast; would you like one?”

“No thanks, I just finished a bowl of oatmeal.”

Mara peered at the photos on the tabletop. “I haven’t seen the scrapbook for ages. What made you get it out?” With a gentle touch, she grasped Christy’s hand. “We haven’t talked about that night in the alleyway for a while, do you need to?”

She closed the scrapbook. “I’ve got Leonora and two tag-team therapists for that.”

A slight smile made Mara’s eyes crinkle. “I’m a good listener, too.”

“You’re a terrific listener and an amazing mom. Sometimes I feel bad that it’s always about me and ‘the tragedy.’ You don’t even get to have a private life.” She paused. “Do you ever dream sometimes of what it might feel like to not plan your weekdays around seeing a counselor?”

With a soft groan, Mara shook her head. “I’m grateful for the help. I would have been lost.”

By bright morning light, she noticed her mother appeared less care-ridden and more beautiful than she’d looked in years. “Me, too, but my God, I want a taste of a normal life. How am I going to get my future moving if all I do is talk about the past? I’d do anything to be free of the boogeyman as a conversation topic. It’s all anyone wants to talk about.”

“Over time, it will happen. Look at how far we’ve come. You’re already in college, living with a roommate.” A nervous laugh spurted past Mara’s lips. “I am coping with those changes as best I can. I’m always going to worry, but it’s getting easier to let you out of my sight. If I could afford to have a bodyguard follow you on campus, I would.”

“I appreciate what everyone has done for me, but sometimes I feel suffocated. I need independence. You know what I would really love?”

“Tell me?”

Capping the glue stick, she tossed it into the plastic craft box. “I want to help someone else.”

Mara swept her auburn hair away from her delicate face. “Who? How?”

“Mitchell’s been on my mind.”

“Poor man. I read he endured months of traction. The media went crazy for his story, but he dropped off the radar. Wherever he is, at least he’s alive. With so many people looking for him, you’d think he would have turned up by now.”

Chewing her lip. “Leonora knows where he is. I asked her.”

“What?”

She steepled her fingers beneath her chin. “Mitchell contacted Leonora when he was released from the hospital.”

Leaning across the table, Mara clasped her hands. “Really? He’s an adult. Why contact child services?”

“You know Leonora; she wouldn’t tell me. They didn’t meet face-to-face, e-mails and phone calls only. That’s all Mitchell would agree to. He won’t meet with anyone. From how he sounded, she suspected things were bad. If she’s concerned, so am I.”

“What could you do for him?”

She twisted a strand of shoulder-length hair around her finger so tight the tip of the finger turned blue. “I don’t know, but he saved my life. I owe him.”

Mara’s expression softened. “Take heart. Maybe he’ll come out of hiding, and you can meet him some day.”

Drawing a tense breath, she continued. “I already know where he is. Leonora accidently on purpose wrote his contact information on a slip of paper and allowed it to fall into my purse. I have his phone number and a PO box.”

Looking appalled, Mara straightened. “That’s so out of character for Leonora, I don’t know what to say.”

“I pleaded with her. You know how persistent I can be. Leonora talks tough, but she’s all heart. She’s practical, too. I think she’s as worried about Mitchell as I am, and she knows she can only do so much.”

Mara shrugged. “Where is he? Beverly Hills?”

“Los Lobos, the Black Hills. I checked Google Earth. The place barely exists. It’s a whole lot of rural nothing. I’ve been calling the number. Believe it or not, it’s a place called Gee’s Bar.”

A smirk crossed her mom’s face. “I believe it.”

“Mitchell won’t take the call. The owner of Gee’s Bar is supposedly giving him my messages.”

“Honey, I would leave him alone. Stop calling.”

“I can’t. If I wait, he might move on. I could lose my only chance to thank him in person.”

“Granted it was a huge ordeal, but you only saw Mitchell once. Do you think you might be idealizing matters?”

“Do you think I haven’t had this exact conversation with my therapists a thousand times?” Raising her hands to her ears, she froze. “I’m sorry to snap. I didn’t mean to. Why doesn’t anyone seem to understand I need closure? I want to see with my own eyes that Wail’n Waya is a flesh-and-blood man, not a demigod, supernatural force of nature. I’m doing better. Now he’s the one who’s down for the count. If I can lift him up, even the tiniest bit, then I should do it.”

“If he won’t even talk on the phone, how are you going to contact him? E-mail? A letter?”

Her shoulders tensed. “I’m going to Los Lobos.”

Mara sighed. “Who’s going with you? Leonora?”

Fidgeting in the chair. “No. I told you, Mitchell refuses see anyone from his past.”

“So?”

“So, I’m going to sneak up on him. I’m just going to show up. I don’t have any other choice.”

Shaking her head, Mara’s gaze drifted up the wall. “Sweetie, that’s a terrible idea.”

“Just listen. It serves so many purposes.” She pointed to her eyes. “I need to stand in front of Mitchell and make visual contact. If he’s rude or turns out to be a regular guy, great! It will help me let him go all the easier. I can thank him and say good-bye. I’ll be home for a late dinner.”

“When is this scheduled to happen?”

“It’s got to be today. I have to be back on campus Monday morning for the spring semester.”

“What? Not today! Los Lobos is at least three and a half hours away. I can’t drive you there. The contractor’s coming to repair the porch.”

“The hot-shit contractor who keeps smiling at you? Good for you, Mom!”

Mara blushed. “Don’t try to distract me. This is serious. How are you planning to get there?”

“I’ll drive myself.”

“Alone?”

“I drive alone the same distance to Sioux Falls University.”

“But the other way takes you into wilderness, toward a man you don’t really know.”

She glanced out the window to avoid the look of pain forming on her mother’s face. “Mom, I can’t explain it, but all my instincts are telling me I should do this. My conscience is howling at me to check in with Mitchell. Would Leonora give me his contact information if she had reservations about him?”

“I’ve always trusted Leonora’s judgment, but….” Mara hesitated. “No matter what I say you’re going to do this, aren’t you? If I say no, you’ll run to Los Lobos behind my back, right?”

“I don’t want to worry you or lie. That’s why I’m telling you where I’m going, who I’m meeting, and when I’ll be back. I have everything in my purse. Phone, GPS, Glock, MACE. You have to allow me a little independence.”

“Do I have let you do risky things?” She rubbed her eyes. “When did you plan on leaving?”

“Now. So I can return by tonight.”

Knock, knock, knock.
A heavy fist rapped on the door.

Mara rose and walked to the front door. “That’s the contractor. He’s early.”

The moment she was alone, Christy plucked her phone from her pocket. With low expectations, she dialed Gee’s Bar for the third time in two days.

On the fifth ring. “Hello,” a male voice rumbled. “You’ve reached Gee’s Bar. What do you want?”

“Is this Mr. Gee?”

“Just Gee,” he growled.

“I’m Christine Killgaren, the journalist who wants to interview Mitchell Waya.”

“I remember.”

“Has Mr. Waya come to Gee’s Bar yet? Have you given him my number?”

A rude snort. “He don’t want to talk.”

“So, you’ve spoken to him and told him about me?”

“Yep. He said the press can go….” An uneasy paused followed. “Make luck for themselves.”

“Make luck?” She balked. “By any chance is he with you now?”

“He’s shaking his head. So, I guess the answer’s ‘no.’”

“That’s what I thought. Would you please tell Mr. Waya I want to do a straightforward interview with him? No tricks or paparazzi. I’ll give him a chance to tell his side of events.”

A long pause followed before Gee returned to the line. “Too bad. You missed him. He just left.”

“Later today, I’m driving past Los Lobos.” She sounded too eager. “I’d like to stop for a short while. How do I find you?”

“I wouldn’t do that, Miss,” his tone was discouraging.

“Why?”

He grumbled, “Because spring thaw turned the dirt roads into slush.”