Unlikely Angel

Unlikely Angel

by Ashley Smith



Chapter 1



Hostage




Friday, March 11, 2005



At 9:45 p.m. my cell phone rang. I looked down at my caller
ID — it was my step-dad calling from Augusta again. What could he
want this time?



"What are you doing?" he asked.



I was exhausted, almost too tired to answer. I held the phone
against my ear with my shoulder so I could carry a load of trash out
of my second-floor apartment down to my car. I had been moving for
two days. My new place was a smaller, bottom-level apartment on the
other side of the complex. I didn't have much left to do here — just
some vacuuming and painting to return the place to its original condition.
But I wasn't doing any of that tonight. I needed sleep. I was
driving to Dacula in the morning to see Paige.



"I'm moving the rest of my stuff," I said, trying to get down the
stairs. Just please let me get off this phone.



"You're out? There's a man on the loose and you're out? Haven't
you been watching the news like I told you?"



This was the second time my step-dad had called me about
the guy on the news. The first time was late this morning when he
woke me up calling. He kept talking about a man and shootings at
the courthouse, and he told me to stay inside. I'd been up all night
unpacking boxes, and I just didn't understand his concern. I mean, I
lived in Duluth, maybe half an hour northeast of downtown Atlanta.



"Thanks, but I'm not too worried about it," I had told him.



I learned a little more about the story when I went to work later in
the day. I'd just started a second job at Barnacle's, a restaurant maybe
five minutes from my apartment complex. The news was playing on
the TV screens when I got there, and I caught the basics: A man had
killed some people at the Fulton County Courthouse and now he was
on the run. My coworkers were talking about it a lot, but I didn't pay
too much attention. Being from Augusta, I was used to hearing about
violent crime in Atlanta. And I had a lot on my mind with the move
anyway.



"Look," I said to my step-dad now as I shut my car door and
headed back up to the apartment, "this guy's not going to come after
me. I mean, he could be anywhere."



I thought back to the five police officers who had come into Barnacle's
for dinner. I was training to work the door, and as the men
were walking out, I heard someone ask them, "Hey, have y'all caught
that guy yet?"



"Oh, don't you worry about him," one officer said. "He's probably
in Alabama by now."



I tried to reassure my step-dad: "You know, an officer who came
into the restaurant said the guy's probably in Alabama, so I'll be fine.
I've just gotten off work, and I have a few more things to get out of
here. Then I'm done. I'll be on my way to the other apartment in a few
minutes. I promise."



"Well, okay," my step-dad said. "Just get home and get inside and
don't leave."



"Okay. Fine."



I loaded the rest of the trash into my car and drove the half mile
or so to the other side of the apartment complex. I was thinking about
what the next day would look like. I would see Paige in the morning.
My Aunt Kim, who had custody of her right now, had brought
her the two and a half hours from Augusta, and they were staying
with my Uncle David's family in Dacula, about thirty miles northeast
of Atlanta toward Athens. We were all meeting up at Uncle David's
church at ten o'clock for a kids' ministry Olympics day.



Then I would work a day shift at Express in Gwinnett Place Mall
and a night shift at Barnacle's. It would be a full day, and I felt completely shot right now. I knew I just had to get to bed. I couldn't let
myself do any more unpacking tonight. Maybe one or two boxes, but
that was it. Really, Ashley, you can't get sucked into this.



I pulled up to my new apartment and parked right in front of the
door. I didn't have far to carry my things, only ten or twelve steps
up the walk. When I got inside, I pulled off my gray knit work shirt
and black leather belt, which left me in a white tank top and a pair of
baggy jeans. Then I turned on the TV in the living room.



"Okay," I said, looking at the five or six boxes lined up in the
middle of the floor. "Just one or two."



While the news played in the background, I began unpacking the
boxes and putting things where they belonged. The eight-by-ten photograph
of Paige holding that red flower could go on top of my stereo
speaker near the door. The two gold angel candleholders could sit on
my picture table for now — I was going to hang them on either side of
that mirror propped up on the back of the sofa.



Now and then as I worked I heard what the news anchors were
saying: The man from the courthouse was still at large. He'd killed
three people. There was something about a green Honda. I didn't hear
much. Mainly, I was focused on getting my house the way I liked it. I
knew exactly where I wanted things — photographs, candles, lamps,
books, knickknacks — and I just kept going.



At about eleven I stopped and smoked a couple of cigarettes. I
only had one left in the pack now, but I purposely had not gone by
the store after work to buy any more because I knew I was going to
make it an early night. Looking around the apartment, I changed my
plan just a little. I saw I was knocking out the boxes pretty quickly,
and I thought, "I could be done with this really soon and be able to
see Paige tomorrow, go to work, come home, and not have to worry
with this anymore. I can finish. I really can."



I kept working until all of the boxes were empty, setting out the
last couple of chunky candles on my picture table in front of the two
living room windows. Then I stacked up the empty boxes right behind
the front door. I had done it. I was ahead of the game. It was after midnight, but I was finished. I smoked my last cigarette and began to get
ready for bed.



And yet I couldn't quite seem to make it to bed. I tried to wash
clothes, only to find the washing machine in my laundry room wasn't
hooked up right — when I threw in a few shirts and some detergent
and turned it on, the machine just spewed water everywhere. After
that, I kept straightening and rearranging picture frames and knickknacks.
My perfectionist streak was suddenly in high gear, and getting
things in place like I wanted them ended up being a huge job.
Before I knew it, it was going on 2:00 a.m. I was still awake. And now
I was out of cigarettes.



Too wound up to go to sleep at this point, and really needing to
smoke — I always smoked right before bed — I decided to make a run
to the QuikTrip, a mile or two from the apartment complex. It was
chilly out, so I put on a long, hooded beige sweater and a tan knit
cap. Pulling the hood up over my head, I grabbed my pocketbook and
keys, opened the door, and went out into the night.



As soon as I stepped outside, I heard a rumbling noise. Glancing
in the direction of the sound, I saw a large, dark blue pickup truck
backing into a parking space at the end of the row to my right, maybe
fifty yards away. I didn't think much of it. It was Friday night, and I'd
been known to come in later than this. Plus, I'd just moved into this
place; I figured the driver was probably a neighbor. I got into my car,
backed out, and drove past the truck, rounding the corner to the stop
sign. Looking over, I could just barely make out the driver's outline
in the front seat.



About five or six minutes later I pulled into the QuikTrip parking
lot on Satellite Boulevard. Right then I realized I needed to reset the
clock on my dash. My battery had died the night before while I was
moving. This car was basically on its last leg — it was an '89 Pontiac
Bonneville with more than 200,000 miles. An Augusta friend had
bought it for me the previous summer because it had air-conditioning,
which meant I could drive my daughter, Paige, around in it when I
visited her in Augusta at Aunt Kim's.



But I had only driven Paige in the car once. That particular day,
Aunt Kim told me to drive Paige straight to her soccer game and back.
This was the first time she had let me take my daughter anywhere in
a long time — and I broke the rules. I stopped somewhere else with
Paige, and I lost my privileges.



Now my car had begun to cut off in traffic — the engine would
just sputter and go out and I'd have to crank it up, praying for it to
start again. The battery had fl at-out died for the first time the day
before, when I was moving into my new apartment. I had loaded the
car down with a bunch of my stuff and even hoisted my mattress and
box springs onto the roof. Things were sticking out of the windows
and trunk; the car was almost touching the ground. When it wouldn't
start, I called someone I knew to come jump it and help me move
a few heavy items over to the new place. I only had two friends in
Atlanta, and they were not very close friends.



Bending down now to look at my clock in the QuikTrip parking
lot, I thought, "That time's not right." I wasn't wearing my watch, so I
took out my cell phone. It was right at two o'clock. I punched in the
correct time on the dash and ran into the store for a box of Marlboro
Light Menthols. Then I got back on Satellite Boulevard and headed
for home.

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