Page 69 of Girl, Forgotten (Andrea Oliver 2)

Nardo laughed from the back of the truck.

Andrea felt a sudden, sharp pain electrify her arm.

She looked down.

Dean’s hand was clamped so tightly around her wrist that her ulnar nerve felt as if it was on fire.

US Marshal trainees had to practice anywhere from two to eight hours a day of army-style tactical combat training, Brazilian Jiujitsu and hand-to-hand combat in order to qualify for graduation. This wasn’t a theoretical course with textbooks and pop quizzes. This was hands-on fighting in a flea-infested sandpit every single day, often twice a day, in the pounding rain or the scorching, tropical heat of Brunswick, South Georgia.

Sometimes, the instructors blasted you with a fire hose just to make it interesting.

For obvious reasons, or maybe to scare the shit out of them, an ambulance was always on standby. Washing out of the course because of a medical emergency was not unheard of. You didn’t get to pick your sparring partner. That’s not how it worked in real life and that wasn’t how it worked in training. Women didn’t only fight women and men weren’t only paired with men. Everybody fought everybody, which meant that sometimes Andrea had to beat Paisley Spenser to the punch and sometimes she had to take on a six-three male cadet whose body looked like it was carved from a single block of granite.

She had learned very quickly that the main drawback to being a giant block of granite was that it took an enormous amount of physical energy to swing around your fist or sweep out your leg. Sure, the guy could break someone’s spine once the blow landed, but landing the blow took a hell of a lot longer when all that muscle had to be activated.

Andrea didn’t have that problem. She was quick and she was mean and she didn’t mind fighting dirty.

That was why everything happened very fast inside of Dean Wexler’s old Ford truck.

She grabbed his wrist with her right hand. Her thumb was pressed against the base of his palm and her fingers secured the back of his hand. Then she twisted his arm behind his back, pinned down his elbow, and drove him face first into the steering wheel in a perfectly executed rear wrist lock.

Andrea didn’t even realize it was happening until she was on her knees pressing the full weight of her body into Wexler’s back.

“Fuck a duck,” Nardo said. “That’s you finished by a little girl, old man.”

Wexler was grunting, but this time it was from pain.

“I’m going to let you go,” Andrea told Wexler. “Don’t test me again.”

Slowly, Andrea released her hold. She sat back with her hands at the ready, prepared to pin him again if he did something stupid.

Dean Wexler wasn’t going to do anything stupid. He pushed open the door, mumbling, “Fucking cunt.”

Andrea got out of the truck, but she kept her distance, giving Wexler some space. He moved like he drove—slowly, all stiff joints and arthritis. She found herself questioning her response. Had she been too forceful? Was there another way to de-escalate? Had her first real-world altercation turned her into one of those asshole cops on a power trip?

“Well done, old gal.” Nardo was leaning against the back of the truck. He slipped a cigarette out of his pack of Camels. He offered one to Andrea.

She shook her head. Her fists were still clenched. Her heart was still racing. She reminded herself that this was her training. She had let the first time go. Then she had given him a warning. Wexler had escalated the situation by grabbing her wrist. She had reacted. And, most importantly, when Wexler had complied, she had released him.

“I imagine you could make a pile of money taking that show on the road.” Nardo laughed, coughing out smoke. “How do you feel about wrestling in Jell-O?”

Andrea waved away the smoke. He reeked of stale beer and rancor. “I met your wife at the diner. What does she think about you running around out here with all these young girls?”

“Ex-wife, thank God.” He took a long drag on the cigarette. “And you’d have to ask her.”

Andrea tried, “What about her brother?”

“Dead as a doornail, poor old thing.”

Andrea felt her breath catch. By Eric Blakely’s own witness statement, he was the last of Emily’s group who had spoken to her before the attack.

At approximately 6:00 p.m. on April 17, 1982, I, Eric Alan Blakely, witnessed Emily Vaughn heading toward Beach Drive from the vicinity of the gymnasium. I didn’t notice how she was dressed because I did not care. Nor did I notice if she was high or intoxicated, though both seem likely given her storied past. She tried to speak to me. I spurned her attention. Then she shouted invectives, which caused me to try to calm her. She cussed at me, then walked into the alley. I walked away myself, heading toward the gym, which is what my other classmates have told you. The altercation frankly left a bad taste in my mouth, so I decided to return home where I watched videos with my sister, Erica Blakely. I do not know who the father of Emily’s baby is. I was wearing a black tux that night but so was everyone else. I swear the contents of my statement are true under penalty of law.

Nardo took a drag on his cigarette. “Being dead is a bit like being stupid, isn’t it? Easy for you, but hard for the people around you.”

Andrea could only look at him. He was actually expecting her to laugh.

“Ah, well.” He winced at her through the smoke. “You know, you’d be good-looking if you lost a few pounds. You’re staying over at the motel, right?”