ERICA'S CURE
By
George M. Scott

Nick sat at the patio table nursing his beer and watching the gulls fight over something only gulls would fight over. He took a drag of his cigarette, leaned back, and blew smoke toward the bright azure sky. Closing his eyes against the glare, Nick smiled at his good fortune at finding a place right on the beach.

After a few seconds he heard a cry that didn't sound like a gull's. He opened his eyes and quickly leaned forward. A woman was running on the beach. Her tight red skirt, silky blouse, and bare feet told Nick she wasn't running for exercise. He stood up, and his pulse quickened when he noticed the frantic look on her face as she looked over her shoulder.

Nick glanced up the beach and saw a man running after her. He was about fifty yards away and seemed to be gaining. Suddenly the woman stumbled and fell. She didn't get up. Nick vaulted over the railing, flicked his cigarette away, and ran toward her.

Adrenaline pumping his legs, Nick churned through the sand and reached the woman just before her pursuer did. He put his arm out and said, "Hold it, buddy."

The guy stopped a few feet away. His panting did little to reduce the threat of his lean body and hard face. He jutted his finger at Nick. "You better get the hell outta here."

Nick took a couple of steps forward, clenching his fists. "You're the one who's gonna leave."

Face distorted with rage, the guy swung with his right. Nick easily dodged it and slammed a fist in his face. A left to the gut and another right to the face, and the guy was down. Nick stood over him, jaw quivering, as he writhed in the sand and moaned.

"Hey," a voice boomed behind Nick. He turned around to see two cops with their hands resting on their holstered guns.

Nick smiled and held his palms out. "Not to worry, officers, I was just protecting the lady from this asshole."

"What lady?" one of them asked, looking around at the crowd that'd gathered.

"The lady right behind . . ." Nick's voice trailed off when he saw she was gone. "She was there a minute ago."

"He-he attacked me," the guy, now standing, whined. "I was just jogging, and he hit me. I-I thought he was gonna murder me." He licked his cut lip.

Nick lunged at him. "You lyin' son of a bitch."

One of the cops grabbed him from behind. "Calm down, sir."

Nick relaxed and allowed the cop to feel in control.

The other cop asked for their names and IDs. The guy was Peter Daniels.

The cops marched both of them to their vehicle parked nearby. One of them waited outside with Nick and Daniels while the other one entered their drivers' license numbers in the computer. In a few minutes, he stepped back outside.

"Both of you are clean," he said, handing them their licenses. He turned to Daniels. "You want to press charges against Mr. Wallace?"

He glared at Nick. "Like to, but right now I don't have the time."

The two cops grinned. "Then I suggest you forget your differences," one of them said. "Go home, Mr. Wallace."

"What about him?"

"He's not your problem."

* * *
Several hours later, Nick was cursing the Dodgers on TV when his doorbell rang. He padded over in his bare feet and looked through the peephole. A small smile awakened on his face. Keeping the chain hooked, he opened the door.

"You alone?" he asked.

"Ye-yes," came the stuttered reply.

Nick unlatched the chain. She was wearing a heavy purple sweater and jeans. Her blond hair was piled on top of her head.

"I'm Erica Randolf. I-I wanted to thank you for your help this afternoon."

"I'm Nick Wallace. No problem. Come in." He locked and latched the door after she stepped in.

"Have a seat. Can I get you a drink?"

Erica looked at him with her too blue eyes and shot him a quivering smile. "No thanks." Tinted contacts, Nick thought as he poured himself a shot of bourbon. He tossed it down, watching her while she limped over to the sofa. She stopped and turned around. Unfastening her hair, she shook it loose. Nick noticed the dark roots. Her face began to twitch as she started to pull up her sweater.

"What are you doing?" Nick asked, slamming the glass down on the table.

She jumped at the noise. "I-I'm going to thank you."

"Not the kind of thanks I'm after."

Erica stared blankly at Nick and pulled her sweater back down. She sat on the sofa and pulled her hands into the sleeves so that only her fingertips were clutching the edges. She reminded Nick of a neurotic teenager. He guessed her actual age to be at least ten years beyond.

"Hurt your ankle when you fell on the beach?" he asked, turning off the TV.

She looked down at it. "Yeah. It'll be okay."

Now for the big one, Nick thought. "How'd you get the bruise?"

Her hand darted up to her cheek. "Pete hit me . . . He always does."

"Where'd you change clothes?"

"When you and Pete were with the cops, I snuck back to his place and changed there. Then I got my stuff and split."

"In your car?"

"Uh-uh, in Pete's."

"Where'd you park?"

"In front."

Nick exhaled sharply, trying to control his temper. Then he shook his head and looked over at the end table where he kept his gun.

"What?" Erica asked, just a hint of concern in her voice.

Nick allowed himself a small smile. "Nothing. Who beat you up before Pete?"

Anger flashed in Erica's eyes before washing out in apathy. "Jeff."

"Before Jeff?" He took a chair from the dining room table and sat in front of her.

"All right, I'm always gettin' beat up." She curled up on the sofa and looked away.

"You must like it."

She squinted at him, squeezing tears from her eyes. "What?"

"What'd you do to get them to beat you up?"

"I don't do nothin'." She sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

Nick leaned forward. "Oh, come on. What happens when you shack up with a guy who doesn't seem inclined to smack you?"

"Well, then . . . I-I don't want to talk about it no more." She ran her fingers through her hair.

"You said you wanted to thank me. This is how I want to be thanked. Hearing about your life."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, fine. Go ahead.”

"You said every guy you've been with has abused you, so you must-"

"Yeah, I guess I ask for it sometimes."

"How?"

"Oh, by screwin' up; not doin' things right."

"Like by parking Pete's car in front of my house."

She bit her lip and slowly leaned forward. "You gonna hit me?"

Nick wanted to but instead jumped up and stabbed his finger at her. "You're a fucking addict."

She flinched. "I'm clean, man."

"I don't mean drugs or booze. I mean you're addicted to abuse. A codependent is what you are."

"Co-what?" She tossed her hair over her shoulder.

"Codependent. You need to be hit just as much as the guys need to hit you."

"You some kind of shrink or somethin'?"

"I used to do that kind of work, but I retired."

"Now you're gonna ask me about my father." Nick was thankful she didn't want to know why he quit his practice.

"God no."

"I'm tryin' to get away from him."

"Who?"

She hesitated. "Pete."

"Sure you're not just trying to taunt him?"

"Oh, God," she groaned, eyes big with sudden awareness.

He folded his arms across his chest. "This kind of addiction will kill you with the same finality as drugs or booze."

A sound coming from the patio cut off her reply.

"Get down," Nick whispered as he turned off the light. "OJ's here."

"It's probably Pete," she squeaked as she slinked off the sofa.

"Right. Now, I want you to stay perfectly still. I'm gonna deal with old Pete."

Nick opened a drawer in an end table and took out his Glock 40. He slowly slid a round into the chamber.

By then Nick could make out a dark figure peering in the double doors. He was carrying something long and black. Shotgun, Nick thought with a shudder. He crouched down and waited. He didn't have to wait long, because suddenly, blam!, the glass doors exploded in a shower of glass.

Nick sprang up and fired. Crack! Pete yelped and went down, but not before he put a hole in the ceiling. Then he got up and shuffled out the door, holding his thigh. Nick walked over and looked outside. Pete was gone.

"You shot him!" Erica screamed.

Nick spun around to find the shotgun pointing in his face.

"You shot Pete." Now she was calm - too calm - and Nick didn't like the vacant look in her eyes.

He waved his hand in front of her face. "Hello. I had to. He was going to kill us."

Erica sneered, "Not us. Just you. For saving me on the beach." She cocked the gun.

Nick managed to laugh. "Right, and after killing me, he'd have just beaten the shit outta you."

She didn't say anything, but the shotgun didn't move.

"I could prove how much I care for you by slapping you around some. That make you feel better?" Nick wondered if she knew how false his bravado was.

"No more co-whatever for little Erica, Nicko."

Nick saw two blue eyes glaring at him, mad-owl like, from the other end of the shotgun. Then he remembered he was still holding his gun. He started to raise it, when blam! The blast sent Nick sprawling backwards onto the floor. He opened his burning eyes and saw a second hole in the ceiling, just in front of the one Pete had made.

Erica dropped the smoking shotgun and with a toss of her hair, turned and calmly walked out the door. Nick was left to remember why he'd quit the counseling business - he feared the stress was going to kill him.

###

George teaches cultural anthropology at a university in the Los Angeles area, where he lives with his wife and daughter. He has turned to fiction writing to relieve the tedium of academe, and he has published stories in Futures Magazine, Nefarious, and Aphelion. He is currently putting the finishing touches on his first novel, A Fearful Symmetry, and continues to try his hand at short fiction. George is a member of the Los Angeles Chapters of Sisters-in-Crime and Mystery Writers of America. You can find his website at www.georgemscott.com