Caught in the Middle (12 page)

Jolene nodded. “Oh, yeah. Maybe he didn’t plan to kill him beforehand, like premeditated, you know, but he certainly could have gotten mad enough to hit him on the spot.”

“How about shooting at me?”

Jolene looked at me with real confusion. “But why would he do that? You didn’t know Hannah or Patsy. And you keep saying you didn’t see anything at Taggart’s.” She turned suddenly sly. “Unless you’re holding back, hoping for an even bigger story?”

I sighed. If Jolene, one of the great intellects of the universe, thought I was playing games, why wouldn’t Andy Gershowitz think the same thing?

Suddenly she looked alarmed. “You know,” she said slowly, and I could almost hear her new idea unfolding,
crinkle, crinkle,
like tissue wrapping paper.
And it’s bound to be about as substantive,
I thought unkindly.

Her hands shook as she reached out and grabbed my arm. “I was with you when you got Patsy. What if Andy decides I know something, too? What if he decides to shoot me?”

“I don’t think you need to worry, Jolene,” I said. “He probably doesn’t even know you’re involved. Which you really aren’t.”

“Argh! I hate living alone! It’s so dangerous!”

“You’ll be fine,” I said soothingly.

“Hah!” she said. “You’re a fine one to talk with all the things that have been happening to you. Besides, you’ve never been married, so you don’t understand lonely. You’ve never had anyone care for you. You’ve never been protected. You’ve never been—” She paused, searching for the right word to nail my marital coffin more firmly closed than ever. “Cherished,” she said all soft and breathy, sounding just like Marilyn Monroe. “Arnie cherishes me.”

I sighed. A husband who was separated from his wife didn’t sound all that cherishing to me, but she was right in one respect. I didn’t know cherishing. Whatever Jack had felt for me, it wasn’t cherishing.

“Arnie and I may be separated, but he still cherishes me,” she said, just like she’d read my mind. Twice in one conversation we’d understood each other, a frightening idea. “I just know he does,” she continued. “I’m going home right now and calling Arnie to come protect me.” She grabbed her coat and swathed herself in layers of black leather and faux fur.

“You’d actually miss dinner with your mom?” I said, thinking that history was about to be made.

She stopped at this thought, glove half-on. “Well, I’d actually be safer at my parents”, wouldn’t I? More people. And when it’s time to go home, I’ll make my father take me. Or I’ll make Arnie come and get me. Yeah—I’ll make Arnie come for me. No Andy’s going to shoot me.”

“Where do you live, Jolene?” I asked. It just occurred to me that I’d assumed she was living with her parents since the separation.

“Those new condos over by the old Greeley farm south of town.”

I stared at her in amazement. They were gorgeous, all brick and beautifully landscaped, and they cost at least $250,000 each. Arnie must be doing pretty well. Or Jolene’s father. She certainly wasn’t making enough money at
The News
to buy a place like that.

I watched her scurry out into the storm, shook my head to clear it and turned back to my flat screen. I wrote a while longer, praying that the love and anguish of Liz and Hannah, Annie and the two boys would reach out from the page and grip people’s hearts. When I finished, I was spent.

I went to the coffee machine, poured the dregs into my mug and carried it back to my desk. I reread my copy, made some adjustments and pushed the button to send the finished product to Don. Not that he was there to receive it. I’d been vaguely aware of him leaving as I finished up my piece. But it’d be there for him to retrieve and edit whenever he wanted. Ah, the joys of modern technology.

I glanced at the clock. Five forty-five. I’d finished more quickly than I’d expected, especially taking into account the Jolene interlude. It was time to go to City Hall.

I pulled on my coat and wound my scarf around my neck one and a half times, tucking the ends into my coat front. Then I put on my wool tam, turned up my collar and yanked on my gloves. I was glad I’d worn my boots, though the spike heels and the suede wouldn’t do well in the snow. Still, I ought to be able to make the trek through the parking lot, across the street and up the long walk to the old mansion that served as City Hall without too much difficulty.

When I walked outside, I was surprised at how thick the snow was, both on the ground and tumbling out of the sky. I looked at the light that was supposed to illuminate the parking lot, but the swirling snow reduced it to a mere halo, a ten-watt bulb taking on a gymnasium.

The one thing I’ve always liked about a heavy snowfall is the way it blocks all sound. Standing at the edge of
The News
’s back stoop, I listened—and I heard nothing, absolutely nothing. I knew that not far away was a road and across that road was a busy City Hall with lights and people and noise. But I could see and hear nothing but the soft whisper of little wisps of frozen water. I turned my face up and stuck out my tongue.

I jumped as an impudent flake found its way into the minuscule opening between my scarf and my neck. So cold!

As I plowed through the snow, I marveled at this amount falling so early in the season. What would February and March, the notorious snow months, be like? As I pulled even with my rental car, I had a thought: did a window scraper come with the vehicle or would I be wiping snow away with my sleeves, freezing my arms and hands in the process?

Curious, I opened the right front door and took a quick peek at the floor and in the glove compartment. No scraper. I made a sort of
harrumph
noise. Just because I had ruined one of his cars was no reason for the rental man to give poor service. I pushed down the lock and shut the door with a muted slam and backed out between the cars. Maybe there was something I could use in the trunk.

I slid the key in the lock and only hesitated a minute. After all, what were the odds of finding two bodies in your trunk within a week? I turned the key and the lid popped up on an empty trunk. Completely empty. No bodies. No snow scrapers.

I reached up to pull the lid shut. But before I even touched it, there was a sudden pressure on my throat so unexpected and so violent that I couldn’t defend myself.

ELEVEN

I
grabbed at my throat, trying to pull away whatever was choking me. But through my thick gloves, I could find nothing to grasp. All I knew was that I was being strangled, and that in an amazingly short amount of time, I was seeing the traditional stars—red, they were—as well as whirls and flashes behind my eyelids.

Something that felt like a knee was pressing into the base of my spine, bending me backward at the same time it pushed me forward and into the pressure around my neck. Once again my face was turned up to the falling snow, but this time in fear and pain.

Andy Gershowitz? But why?

I flailed about, tearing at my neck, but all I seemed to do was pull my own scarf out of my coat. My legs could no longer hold me, and I fell to my knees in the snow. The pressure on my neck lessened for an instant to adjust to my new position, but it quickly tightened, if anything with renewed vigor.

God, help!

The peaceful quiet of the snowy night became a roaring waterfall in my ears, and I knew I was losing consciousness. My lungs ached for oxygen, and my head was heavy on my shoulders. Just as I slid into the black waters that preceded terminal sleep, I heard a faint whistling.

Merrily we roll along, roll along, roll along.

Surely celestial choirs sang more spiritual anthems than that!

When I was next aware, I lay on my side, cold and shivering in spite of the burning, searing agony in my throat.

I’m not dead, and I’m not dying! Oh, God, thank you! Thank you!

I gasped great drafts of icy air, each glorious one scorching its way to my lungs. I clawed at the material about my neck, pulling it away as if air on the outside would mean air on the inside. Oh, how wonderful to breathe!

Slowly my need for oxygen leveled off and a more normal inhaling/exhaling replaced my panting. My head ached fiercely, and I realized that I was going to have a sore throat to rival any tonsillectomy patient.

Wait until you see the bruises tomorrow, kid
, I told myself.
It’ll be turtlenecks for you for the foreseeable future. But at least there is a foreseeable future.

I was shaking all over, probably more from shock than cold, though the temperature was bitter, frigid, icy, Arctic, Siberian. I caught myself up short before I became a full-fledged thesaurus and looked around the utter blackness. I was—what? Where?

I still wore my coat and scarf, though one end of the scarf was dangling and wet with snow.

“Oh, you wonderful scarf,” I said. Actually I whispered, because my throat wasn’t working too well. “You and my collar probably saved my life.”

I pulled a glove off and reached up; my tam was gone. I reached down and felt dampness on the knees of my slacks. Otherwise I seemed fine. I reached out cautiously in front of me and touched metal. I reached beneath me. Carpeting. I rolled onto my back and put a hand out. Metal. I tried to think.

Metal, metal, carpeting. And something poking me in the back.

I slid to one side and explored what was beneath me with chilled fingers. More metal with holes here and there. It wasn’t until I touched the rubber and followed the circle that I knew what I was touching and where I was.

I was lying on a spare tire in a car trunk.

Would it be worse to open your trunk and have a live person go
Boo!
in your face, or to find a Patrick? Either way, someone had better open this particular trunk soon!

I made myself lie still and listen instead of screaming and beating the trunk lid as I wanted. Maybe I could hear something that would give me a clue as to where I was or what was happening. Moments passed and I could neither hear nor feel any driving motion. I concluded I wasn’t being taken anywhere, at least not at the moment.

“Help!” I yelled. “Is anyone there?” I yelled as loudly as I could—which wasn’t very loud considering the condition of my throat. Even so, my voice bounced back at me in the enclosed space, loud and frightening. “Help! Help!”

Nothing happened, and I remembered with an almost nostalgic sadness how I had enjoyed the sound-deadening effect of the snow. A violent shiver shook me, then another. I had to get out of this cold, and soon. Between the shock and the chill itself, I’d be in bad shape in no time.

Dear God, I need You again!

And once again I heard the faint whistling:
Merrily we roll along, roll along, roll along.

Angels again?

The whistling got louder, and I realized I was hearing a real person, close by.

“Help!” I screamed as loudly as my throat would let me. “Help!” I banged on the trunk lid with both fists.

The whistling stopped and a voice said tentatively, “Merry?”

“Yes, yes,” I screamed. “It’s me!”

“Where are you?”

I recognized Curt’s voice and started to cry. “Here,” I blubbered. “In the car trunk.” And I banged my fists some more. I even kicked a few times for good measure.

“Okay,” he yelled, and banged back at me, his fists mere inches but a whole world from me. “We’ll get you out.”

“Royal we or literal we?” I sobbed inanely.

“What?” he called. “I can’t hear you! Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” I said, but it was a mere whisper.

“Merry!” His voice was urgent. “Are you hurt? What happened?” I could feel him pushing and tugging at the trunk lid, the whole car shaking under his assault.

“Aren’t the keys in the lock?” I called. I could see them clearly in my mind, dangling there just as other keys had done that other night. But of course they weren’t there, or Curt would use them.

“No keys,” Curt said. “Let me try to pull the backseat down from inside the car and get you out that way.”

“Don’t bother. The car’s locked.” I sighed. If I froze to death before they got me out of here, it would be Dad’s fault for making me so paranoid about evil men lurking behind the driver’s seat, intent on mayhem and murder.

As Curt began tugging on the door handles, the car rocked beneath me like a mechanical bull. Finally he stopped.

“I’m going to have to call the police to get you out. Will you be okay until I get back? You’re not bleeding in there or anything, are you?”

I tried to remember if my attacker had done anything but try to strangle me. “I don’t think I’m bleeding. He just tried to choke me.”

I heard an unintelligible explosion from Curt at that news.

The few minutes he was gone to seek help were an eternity. I shivered and prayed and repeated, “I will trust in the Lord and not be afraid” over and over. When I finally heard Curt call my name, I felt my whole body relax. When I heard Sergeant Poole’s voice call out to me, I felt like the Old West settlers when the cavalry arrived in the nick of time to save them from the marauders.

The police quickly popped the trunk lock. Arms reached in and helped me out, passing me from person to person until Curt had his arms around me.

“You’re all right?” It was as much statement as question, and the concern in his voice was balm to my spirit.

“He tried to strangle me!” I said as my knees folded under me. I grabbed on to Curt’s lapels so I wouldn’t land in the snow again.

“Here,” Curt said, and scooped me up. He carried me to the back door of
The News,
pulled the door open and tramped in, Sergeant Poole following behind.

The warm air hit me, and I started shivering convulsively, burrowing against Curt for any heat he might provide. His arms tightened, and I felt an overwhelming and surprising desire to collapse in gut-wrenching sobs.

Why did I want to cry after the crisis was over? Of course, crying after was better than crying during, at least from the viewpoint of clear thinking when needed. Still, everything was fine now. It was smile time. I sniffed bravely and swallowed my tears.