Free Girl of Rage by Charles Sheehan-Miles Page A

your emergency?”
    “I’m calling from the Annapolis Road Motor Inn. A girl was prostituting herself next door, and someone called the police. Now the police came and they’re screwing her.”
    “Ma’am, what is your room number?”
    “I’m in 112. They’re next door, the door to the right of my room. The police officer is in there right now, screwing her. Do you hear me? Instead of helping her, he’s fucking her while the hotel manager keeps watch.”
    “We’re dispatching someone right now, can you tell me your name?”
    “No. I have to go.”
    Andrea set the phone in its cradle and walked to the door. She set the chain on the door and turned the deadbolt. Then she ran for the back window. It was small, but she should be able to fit through. High above the toilet, the glass frosted. She slid the window back.
    It stuck.
    Damn it. What was she thinking? She should have checked the window first. But the rage, the thumping next door, all of it was just too much. She yanked at the window again, bracing her right leg against the corner of the wall. Slowly, she felt it beginning to separate. Finally, with a sudden crack, the window snapped back and she slipped off the toilet, falling to the floor and hitting her head on the wall. Her vision went white, for just a second.
    Jesus. She had to move. Back on her feet, she stretched for the window, lifting herself up and through it with both arms.
    Her window was directly above the bed of a white, dirty pick up truck. She let her body fold through the window, hanging on with both arms and flipping over, landing in the truck feet first. The truck was parked in a dirty alley behind the motel. A ten foot high chain link fence, tangled with weeds and brush, was about ten feet from the back wall, the space between worn and potholed concrete. Puddles of filthy looking water filled the potholes.
    Andrea jumped to the ground from the back of the truck. Old crushed beer cans and condom wrappers scattered the alley. She ran to the end of the alley then calmly walked out from behind the building. The motel, a grey painted building that looked as if hadn’t been maintained since the 1990s sat on a corner of a two lane road and a larger, six lane divided highway. Annapolis Road was lined on both sides by fast food places, mini-malls, check cashing places and pawnshops.
    She walked, back erect, across the two-lane road and sat down at the bus stop. Dylan would be back soon—she could keep an eye out for him here.
    Three police cars were already in the parking lot of the crappy little motel, lights flashing. She couldn’t tell from here what was happening. But she knew she didn’t want to be over there.
    There was Dylan. He was walking up the street toward her, a new backpack slung over his shoulder and a large shopping bag in his hands. His eyes darted from her, to the hotel, then back to her. No change of expression. The police out front were obvious.
    He sat down next to her at the bus stop and lit a cigarette. “What happened?”
    With as few words as possible, she explained the situation. When she talked about the police officer exploiting the woman in the room next door, his fists clenched.
    “You did the right thing,” he finally said.
    “We need to find a new place to stay,” she replied.
    “Yeah. Here, I got you some clothes. I hope they fit. Jacket, pair of jeans. Size six shoes. I thought we’d head to the public library, get on the Internet. I want to touch base with Alex, then we’re going to have to disappear again.”
    Andrea nodded. “Okay, Dylan. It sounds like a good plan. But somewhere along the road, we stop running. I want to know who my father is, and why this stuff is happening.”
    “Yeah, me too,” he said.
    They stood up when a bus slowed down. “Let’s take this one,” he said. “If it goes to a train station, we can go from there.”
    She nodded, and they waited on the edge of the sidewalk as the bus came to a stop.
    Andrea glanced over her