His Broken China Doll

By Kate Owens

    Charley is a young girl framed by her sexually abusive stepfather for the deaths of her mother and little sister. She escapes with her imaginary friend to live on the streets of Pensacola for two years until events force her to dig deep for the strength and the courage to confront her pursuer. She faces her own probable violent death to prevent him from destroying the lives of others who she has come to love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kate Owens
• Release date: Jun 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393157908

Book preview

Chapter One

Living feral

CHARYLIZE PARKER, WHO calls herself Charley, stumbles through an unfamiliar boatyard at midnight looking for a safe place to crash for the night. She is twelve, almost thirteen, homeless and in hiding, for the past two years from men who would kill her

I hope you’re right, Glory. I never knew about this place. It’s a long way from our usual hidey holes so maybe they won’t think of looking for me here. She trips over a tarp piled in deep shadow in the lee of a shed. Useful. She shakes the tarp out and loosely folds it, placing the awkward bundle under her arm.

Have to carry it ‘cause we don’t want drag marks on the sand in the morning. She walks on with more caution.

We’re almost out of Pensacola. On the edge, I’d guess. Miles and miles from the East Hill Deli. Don’t think they’ll look for us way out here. Yesterday in the deli, that guy almost caught me. If you hadn’t warned me ... He was more surprised than we were. He couldn’t keep up when I tore out over the back fences. She chuckles, He was fat ... slow. And old ... At least thirty. I was sure sorry to leave that corned beef sandwich behind. She walks through the yard looking for a shelter that will keep off rain. Keep her dry on the ground. We were lucky he’s old and fat. The next one might be an athlete. I am so tired of running, Glory. My legs are shaky. Maybe we can rest up here for a few days.

Charley talks to Glory out loud when they are alone and it’s safe. No one has ever seen Glory. Not even Charley. She has been Charley’s constant companion for ... Charley can’t remember not having Glory inside her, nurturing her, consoling her, guiding her. She doesn’t know who or what Glory is—her guardian angel or something else. Once she asked, but Glory acted like she didn’t hear. She talks to Charley with mind pictures, sensory impressions and nudges of intuition. There was only that one time she shouted words inside Charley’s head to wake her up. Charley doesn’t mention Glory to others. People give you strange looks if you have an imaginary friend when you are over the age of six. Years ago she asked her partner what her name was. Sing Glory to God popped into her head. Since Charley didn’t think it was a directive but a name, she shortened it to Glory and Glory seems content with it.

She stops to look out at the dark bayou seeing the distant glow of city lights over the black pines across the water. The salt air is thick with humidity and heat. It clings to the skin and permeates Charley’s clothes. The far traffic noise is muffled to a soft susurration. The only near sounds are the whine of mosquitos, the soft lap of quiet water against the boat hulls, and the clink of hardware on the steel stays of the sailboats at dock. This small yacht basin at the edge of the city is a still backwater flowing into the Gulf of Mexico that muffles the distant urban noise.

The largest work building is locked at the office door. They peer through the door glass to the dimly lit office at a large barometer weather station on the near wall.

Temperature eighty-nine degrees at midnight with one hundred percent humidity. How can the humidity be one hundred percent unless it’s raining? she says to Glory. If it rains, does that mean the humidity went to one hundred and one percent and the water is overflowing out of the air? ... Makes no sense.

They listen to the quiet hum of air-conditioning.

Oh, Glory, what would you give for one night in dry, splendiferous air-conditioning? She checks, but the big roll-up doors to the right of the office are closed and the man-sized door around the side is also locked.

Well, if wishes were motels, beggars would be sleeping on soft beds in air-conditioning.

Glory nudges a question in her mind.

Charley explains, The expression is ‘If wishes were horses, beggars would ride’, but I don’t see how horses would help here.

She pushes through the syrup of wet air to the cradled boats in dry dock with tarps over them.

What about this spot? It’s dark under the boat and we’ll use this tarp for a ground cloth. It’s behind the shed. The sun will rise on the other side so we’ll be in deep shadow for a bit after sunrise.

Glory fires a shot of agreeing warmth through Charley.

Okay, this is it. She slides under the boat, arranges the tarp, then snuggles and wriggles into a comfortable position with her head on her backpack.

Don’t forget to wake me just before sunrise. Before it gets light.

Charley covers her face with a man’s handkerchief against the night insects, pulls her arms into her oversized tee shirt, and falls deep into sleep, safe in the assurance that Glory stands watch.

The nightmares come as they always do, her mother and her baby sister cartwheel endlessly into a bottomless blackness. It has been two long, sometimes terrifying, years during which Charley has grown and hardened far beyond her twelve years and they still search for her.

The Past

Charley is ten years old

Chapter 2

CHARLEY IS STIFF AND all over sore, especially in her bony hips, from sleeping under the mesh of thick bushes on the heavily landscaped grounds of an office park. Glory woke her just before dawn. It’s taken them until mid-morning to walk to the visitor center park at the foot of the Three Mile Bridge that crosses Pensacola Bay to the south-east.

We should be okay here for a while. Lots of tourists, Glory. Lots of picnickers. I totally blend. I’m just hanging out here in the shade waiting for my parents to bring snacks and the maps. After a bit, I’ll meander over to another pavilion on the other side of the park so I don’t get noticed for being alone too long.

Charley rests in one of the shady pavilions watching for police cruisers and anyone taking an interest in a child sitting alone.

It’s only been two days since we ran off, but my leg muscles are jumping and twitching from all this walking and running. She sighs, shutting her eyes from the glare of the sun on the bay water. I’m tuckered out. She leans back against the picnic table with elbows on the concrete surface. Bushed. Finished. If I have to run again soon, it won’t be far.

Glory sends a picture of Charley napping under the shade of a tree in a park.

That’d be nice, but we’re here for a reason. Lots of homeless people pass through here on their way to someplace else. It’s the best bridge to cross the bay without a car. She stretches to work the knots out of her leg muscles. "That’s what Mom said when we stopped here before. I need to talk to someone. Find out how to make it on the streets. How best to hide. 

Tourists come and go from the visitor center clutching brochures and maps, resting and stretching cramped joints and muscles as they unwrap snacks to relax at picnic tables. The few homeless are easy to spot in the crowd.

Her stomach rumbles. I’m soooo hungry, but we better wait till tonight. She pulls her money from her jeans pocket. Seven dollars and seventy-six cents. That’s enough for a meal, so we’ll wait as long as we can to eat. Maybe even tomorrow.

She looks across the heavy flow of traffic on four lane Highway 98 to the park on the other side. A narrow ribbon of blacktop winds down to the water’s edge below the bulk of the bridge. Here are the cars and vans of transients with doors open like winged gulls to catch any moving air. The same vehicles camp here week after week, but the police seem busy elsewhere. They have no time to move them along.

They won’t do, Glory. They already have homes. Kind ‘a like turtles, aren’t they? Besides, I don’t want to get close to one of those vans.

Glory flashes an image of hands snatching Charley into the rear of a van.

Yeah, so right, she nods.

Charley looks around the visitor center park on her side of the highway. Most of the people are couples or in family groups. They look like they are stopping for a short rest and a stretch, some of them pulling out snacks, sandwiches and drinks from coolers. They spread this goodness across the concrete tables.

Oh, Glory, I can’t watch. I want to run up and grab some of that food. Charley looks away from the feasts to scope out the rest of the crowd.

Two men sit in the shade of a far picnic pavilion beside bikes that lean against concrete support pillars. The bikes are heavily loaded with saddle bags behind the seats and over the handlebars. The men aren’t far-riding sport cyclists with bun hugging neon spandex outfits to boast their special, cool athleticism. They are dressed in faded looking tee shirts, bagged out jeans and well-worn sneakers.

Them, Glory. I’ll bet they’re traveling a long way. Look at those saddlebags. If they had money, they’d be driving cars or taking a bus. They’re traveling men .... Hobos. They just have saddle bags instead of those poles with bandanas stuffed with things, like in the cartoons.

She looks about. Still no cops, but plenty of people around. They won’t grab her here. They don’t know her searchers would pay money to get her back.

Come on, Glory. Let’s go talk to them. They don’t look like they’ll be staying long enough to tell anyone they saw me. She casually strolls in their direction while looking around the bayside park as though she were a tourist.

HI THERE. GREAT BIKES. Mind if I take a look? I won’t touch anything. Promise ... I’m ... Janie.

The men exchange a look, raise eyebrows and nod to her. Charley walks over to the bikes to look closely at the loaded panniers thrown over the back wheels like saddlebags on a horse. The bags look like they are stuffed full with supplies and clothing. They have bedrolls bungee tied on top behind the seats. More nylon zipper bags hang in front of the handle bars.

I’m Pat, and this here’s George. Nice to make your acquaintance, Janie.

Pleased to meet you too, sirs. Are you traveling men? Going a long way?

Always, Miss Janie. Like to be on the move. Never know what’s ahead to see and do, says George.

Where are you going?

Well I’m goin’ to Jacksonville. Pat’s riding down to somewheres in south Florida.

You’re not traveling together?

Nah. We just happen to meet up at this here park, taking a rest before crossing the bridge, Pat says.

George adds, We know each other from way back. Nice to just sit and catch up for a bit.

Charley looks around. There are lots of people about and it seems safe to get closer. Can I sit with you for a minute?

Well, yes, little miss, if your parents don’t mind you sitting with strangers, Pat says.

I don’t exactly have a parent here. Charley slips onto the bench across from the two men. I don’t exactly have a home anymore, either. That’s why I wanted to talk to you ... You know ... To find out how to get along.

The two men look at each other then back to her. She looks back and wonders if this was such a smart idea. Still, these men are probably not friends with the police. They will be leaving in a few minutes.

Little girl, Pat says, Are you telling me you got no place to be? No home? He looks at her as she slides to the end of the bench. Just settle. We ain’t goin’ to hurt you, but you need to understand what a pickle you’re in. Charley casts about for the best escape route if they are going to turn her in. Wait, wait. I ain’t goin’ to hurt you none. I just want to make sure I understand what’s what. He stays casual and makes no move to threaten her into running.

Realizing she is holding her breath, and now that she sees a direction to escape, Charley can risk an answer, I’ve got someone after me ... I need to hide. She looks at her feet, pauses, kicking hard at the sand on the concrete pavilion floor. You’re homeless. You make it. Tell me how.

She looks up at the men, hoping for a miracle answer. Those bikes are loaded with needful things for them to survive. She wants to know what she must get. There is no possibility she can carry a load like that on her back. She doesn’t have a bike, and knows one will not help her, but work against her freedom of movement. She is better off on foot where she can duck into small spaces, get over fences and elbow slither through culverts. She and Glory talked it through last night. Having to travel by way of roads and streets will limit her ability to avoid capture. She needs to be able to slip through places like a cat. Still, the men are experienced at making do with very little and with some level of comfort. She wonders what she will need to get and how she will carry it.

Pat and George exchange looks.

George shakes his head. You’re a little girl and we’re grown men. It’s not even safe for us—not really. They’s cops that want you to go on your way or go to jail and some places they’s men who will grab you and sell you to the sex trade. Well, they don’t want me. I ain’t pretty enough. Now, I know you don’t know what that means, but you better stay clear of them or you’re better off dead.

Charley nods. They have no way of knowing, and she is not going to share how she knows, but she understands what sex slavers are. The men who search for her taught her what they are.

Pat says, Seems you have powerful reasons to be on your own. He gives her a hard appraising look. Stay away from the busy traffic corners where the panhandlers are. You don’t want them to mark you and pass the word. You want to stay out of downtown and Brownsville after dark when the drug pushers and the pimps come out to play. They look for sweet, young meat like you.

George jumps in, How’s she s’posed to know what pimps are? She don’t look like trash. He looks at Charley and says, But, he’s right. You want to stay clear of everyone who can get close enough to grab you. I’m not going to tell you what a pimp is, but they’s bad men and they will sell you sos you will wish you was dead. Don’t let anyone mark who you are and where they can get you. He leans forward, elbows on the table and lights a cigarette, looks up at the pavilion ceiling, and blows a long, slow column of smoke. Don’t sit with strange men at picnic tables, either.

Why you can’t go to the police and get a place to stay with social services? It’s bad, but not as bad as the streets, Pat asks.

Charley answers, "Because the police are