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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 callerID — it was my step-dad calling from Augusta again. What could hewant this time?

"What are you doing?" he asked.

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

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

"You’re out? There’s a man on the loose and you’re out? Haven’tyou been watching the news like I told you?"

This was the second time my step-dad had called me aboutthe guy on the news. The first time was late this morning when hewoke me up calling. He kept talking about a man and shootings atthe courthouse, and he told me to stay inside. I’d been up all nightunpacking boxes, and I just didn’t understand his concern. I mean, Ilived 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 inthe day. I’d just started a second job at Barnacle’s, a restaurant maybefive minutes from my apartment complex. The news was playing onthe TV screens when I got there, and I caught the basics: A man hadkilled some people at the Fulton County Courthouse and now he wason the run. My coworkers were talking about it a lot, but I didn’t paytoo much attention. Being from Augusta, I was used to hearing aboutviolent crime in Atlanta. And I had a lot on my mind with the moveanyway.

"Look," I said to my step-dad now as I shut my car door andheaded back up to the apartment, "this guy’s not going to come afterme. I mean, he could be anywhere."

I thought back to the five police officers who had come into Barnacle’sfor dinner. I was training to work the door, and as the menwere walking out, I heard someone ask them, "Hey, have y’all caughtthat guy yet?"

"Oh, don’t you worry about him," one officer said. "He’s probablyin Alabama by now."

I tried to reassure my step-dad: "You know, an officer who cameinto 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 ofhere. Then I’m done. I’ll be on my way to the other apartment in a fewminutes. I promise."

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

"Okay. Fine."

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

Then I would work a day shift at Express in Gwinnett Place Malland 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 letmyself do any more unpacking tonight. Maybe one or two boxes, butthat was it. Really, Ashley, you can’t get sucked into this.

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

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

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

Now and then as I worked I heard what the news anchors weresaying: The man from the courthouse was still at large. He’d killedthree people. There was something about a green Honda. I didn’t hearmuch. Mainly, I was focused on getting my house the way I liked it. Iknew 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. Ionly had one left in the pack now, but I purposely had not gone bythe store after work to buy any more because I knew I was going tomake it an early night. Looking around the apartment, I changed myplan 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 tosee Paige tomorrow, go to work, come home, and not have to worrywith this anymore. I can finish. I really can."

I kept working until all of the boxes were empty, setting out thelast couple of chunky candles on my picture table in front of the twoliving room windows. Then I stacked up the empty boxes right behindthe 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 getready for bed.

And yet I couldn’t quite seem to make it to bed. I tried to washclothes, only to find the washing machine in my laundry room wasn’thooked up right — when I threw in a few shirts and some detergentand turned it on, the machine just spewed water everywhere. Afterthat, I kept straightening and rearranging picture frames and knickknacks.My perfectionist streak was suddenly in high gear, and gettingthings 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 nowI was out of cigarettes.

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

As soon as I stepped outside, I heard a rumbling noise. Glancingin the direction of the sound, I saw a large, dark blue pickup truckbacking into a parking space at the end of the row to my right, maybefifty yards away. I didn’t think much of it. It was Friday night, and I’dbeen known to come in later than this. Plus, I’d just moved into thisplace; 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 stopsign. Looking over, I could just barely make out the driver’s outlinein the front seat.

About five or six minutes later I pulled into the QuikTrip parkinglot on Satellite Boulevard. Right then I realized I needed to reset theclock on my dash. My battery had died the night before while I wasmoving. This car was basically on its last leg — it was an ’89 PontiacBonneville with more than 200,000 miles. An Augusta friend hadbought it for me the previous summer because it had air-conditioning,which meant I could drive my daughter, Paige, around in it when Ivisited 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 ina long time — and I broke the rules. I stopped somewhere else withPaige, and I lost my privileges.

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

Bending down now to look at my clock in the QuikTrip parkinglot, I thought, "That time’s not right." I wasn’t wearing my watch, so Itook out my cell phone. It was right at two o’clock. I punched in thecorrect time on the dash and ran into the store for a box of MarlboroLight Menthols. Then I got back on Satellite Boulevard and headedfor home.