Make, Take, Murder (20 page)

It was the sound
of a fist slamming into flesh.

“Stay here. Call nine-one-one,” Hadcho said, and he took off running toward the sound.

I nodded and started dialing.

“Stop! Police!” he yelled. “Put your hands in the air!”

A low moan, and an inhuman cry came from the backroom. A calm voice answered my call. I managed to spit out our address to the dispatcher and to tell her a beating was in progress. “Send an ambulance. I’m here with Detective Stan Hadcho.”

Bam!
Hadcho kicked open the stock room door. The light illuminated the back of the store.

“Police! Put your hands in the air!” Hadcho yelled. “Stop now! I said now!”

A whimper and another wet thump. Then an almost inhuman moan of pain.

“I said put your hands in the air!”

I hesitated. Hadcho told me to stay put, but this was my store. Whatever happened was my responsibility. Besides, maybe I could help.

My legs moved leadenly, but I trotted toward the stock room. I know our store so well, I could zig and zag around our display units. I paused when I got to the door.

“What you going to do? Shoot me? You’ll hit her!” came a maniacal cry.

I had to see what was happening. I eased the door open. I momentarily recoiled from the light. I struggled to take in what I was seeing, struggled to make sense of a seemingly incomprehensible scene.

Stan Hadcho stood there, weapon drawn and pointing at the floral delivery man who was hiding behind Bama. Her face was so swollen and deformed that her features were indistinct.

“This is between her and me!” yelled the man. “Get out of here. It’s none of your business. It’s a domestic case! Leave us alone!”

“Calm down and let her go,” said Hadcho firmly.

“She deserves this.” The man let Bama slide closer to the floor, a bloody streak marking the path down the front of his shirt and jacket. “It’s not about you. I got no quarrel with you.”

“Step away from her,” repeated Hadcho. “Put your hands in the air.”

“Your call.” The man laughed and let her drop. She fell with an “oomph.” Her assailant stepped to one side and smirked at her bloodied figure.

A thick and wet gurgle came from Bama’s throat.

I started toward her.

Quick as a rattlesnake strike, Hadcho reached out with his free hand and stopped me.

“But she can’t breathe!” I couldn’t stand there and let her die, but I knew from her posture and the noise that she was choking on her own blood.

“Kiki, I told you to stay away,” he said tersely.

The man used his foot to give Bama a shove. “She’ll be fine,” said the man. “I was just teaching Althea not to disrespect me. This is between husband and wife. It’s none of your business. You and all those busy-body meddlers. We were doing fine until people like you stuck your noses into our business.”

Althea? That must be Bama’s real name.

“Put your hands in the air. Step away from her,” repeated Hadcho.

Glaring at Hadcho, the man slowly pushed his hands skyward while taking another small step away from Bama. She gave a shuddering, liquid clogged sigh.

I couldn’t help myself. I rushed to her side, sliding my hands under her torso. “Bama? You’ll be okay. I’m here. Help’s coming.”

“Try to turn her onto her side,” said Hadcho. At the edge of her mouth, a small dribble of rusty blood bubbled. I worked at rolling her onto her shoulder. I moved very slowly, fearful of hurting her more. Her face swam before my eyes. The texture of her skin was ground up like so much hamburger, as a warm trickle of liquid came from where her nose, eyes, and mouth should be and spilled over my fingers. The feel was sticky and hot and slick.

I was there, concentrating on my co-worker when a hand grabbed my clothes and lifted me to my feet. My fingers flew to my collar, trying to loosen it, trying to get some air. The man shook me like I was a small kitten. My feet danced along the surface of the floor. He set me down a little and I staggered like a drunk. Taking advantage of my unbalance, he threw his arm across my throat to cut off my wind. I panicked, gasping, starving for oxygen, my mouth opening and closing like a beached goldfish. Then I remembered what an instructor said in a self-defense class. I turned my throat toward the crook of the man’s elbow and instantly felt less pressure. I couldn’t breathe deeply, but I could manage some air.

Then I felt a pinprick of pain under my chin.

“I’ll slice her from ear to ear with this boxcutter,” Bama’s assailant said to Hadcho. “Back off or I’ll let her bleed out. See? You want her dead? I didn’t think so. Now set your gun down on the floor nice and slow.”

I watched Hadcho lean over, his eyes never leaving the man’s face, as he gently set his gun on the floor near his own feet. The detective’s face was tight, but non-threatening. I could see him making minute calculations, tiny decisions, under a surface that only seemed yielding. Hadcho’s warm chocolate eyes had turned flat and cold like frozen rocks.

“Kick your gun over to me.” My assailant gave me another upward heave to prove I was under his control.

Hadcho did as he was told. The tip of his burgundy loafer gave the gun a slow, leisurely shove. The weapon glided my way, but stopped a good twelve inches from my toes, instead of my assailant’s.

I knew that Hadcho was calculating on the misdirection to buy time. Time for me, time for him, time for this creep to make a mistake.

“Stupid! I told you to kick it to me.” With a shudder of rage, the man shook me and poked me with the knife tip. A warm trickle started along my neck. I sputtered, gasping for air, shocked by this violence. The knife tip strayed from my skin. His lips pressed up against my ear and I could smell his sickeningly sweet cologne. “Listen to me, girl. I’m going to give you enough slack to pick that up. Grab it by the barrel. When you’ve got it, I’m going to have you hand the gun over to me by the muzzle. Try anything and I’ll slice your throat before I shoot your friend.”

“Okay,” I managed. “I’ll
do whatever you want. I’m going to get it, but I’ll go slowly.”

The man had no choice but to move with me. His breath was on my neck, the cloying scent of his fragrance turning my stomach. His weight rested against me so that I could feel the expansion of his lungs. Beating another human being to a paste takes a lot of energy. This man was panting like a boxer who’d gone ten rounds. Except this hadn’t been a fair fight. The other “fighter” was a slip of a woman whose life now rested in the balance. A staccato mix of coughing and gargling reminded me, if we couldn’t get Bama out of here fast, she’d surely die. No one could survive such a mauling and …

I swallowed hard and told myself, concentrate, Kiki. You have to fix this. You can’t let this guy have Hadcho’s gun! He’ll probably shoot Hadcho and take you along for a hostage!

Bama was lying there in a growing puddle of liquid. If she didn’t pull through, if she bled to death, how could I live with myself ? This was why having her photo in the paper had terrified her. This was why she was so hateful toward men. This was why she’d changed her look.

And I’d told this jerk how to find her. Told him when she worked. Explained he could find her alone!

Why hadn’t she told me she was on the run? Why hadn’t she warned me?

Then another thought: This was why she never wanted to be friends. She wanted to keep her distance. She wanted to remain a cipher. She had been trying to fly under the radar, trying to stay anonymous so this man couldn’t find her.

What was he to her? A husband! How sick was that?

The pool of blood around her was steadily growing. My collar was damp with my own blood.

“Get the gun!” screamed my assailant in my ear.

“Okay, okay,” I soothed him.

I started a slow bend toward the gun. This jerk was pressed up against me so tightly I didn’t have to use my imagination. I could tell how exciting all this was to him. While I was terrified and sickened, he was thrilled! His body actually trembled as he pulled me closer. This was his idea of a good time.

What would he think of next?

I had one choice and one chance. If I picked up the gun, Hadcho would be defenseless. Bama’s husband would be in total control of the detective, Bama, and me.

A soft rattle came from the figure on the floor. Bama’s irregular breathing sounded more and more labored. She hadn’t moaned, hadn’t whimpered. The sticky scent of copper filled the air.

The man changed his grip to accommodate my bending. Now he used his left hand to twist my collar to one side, while he held the knife in his right hand. “You’re going to grab that gun, then all of us are taking a little ride.”

I reviewed my options. He couldn’t have that gun. We couldn’t get into that van. I knew the statistics. Knew our chance of survival would diminish dramatically. Whenever a crime moves away from the original site, the victims are more at risk. The perpetrator has more control, but also has more problems, problems that are easy to eliminate.

If we left here, Bama’s husband would more than likely kill us and dump our bodies. Our remains might never be found. Poor Anya! She’d go through the same misery as Michelle Gambrowski.

I had to shift the odds. My eyes flickered toward Hadcho’s. I think he read the determination in mine not to yield, not to follow directions, and not to give in.

With a blink at the detective, I lowered my head, but I jutted my hips out and away, so that I folded over stiffly at the waist. This forced Bama’s attacker to curve his body awkwardly over mine. His left hand kept its purchase on my clothes, but the boxcutter had strayed from my neck. The reach position was ever more difficult for him. As I dipped lower, I subtly shifted my weight from both legs to one. At the low point of our journey, I used my peripheral vision to see where the gun was.

Still ahead of us.

Still beyond my reach.

I moved a smidge lower, absorbing the attacker’s weight on my back.

My right leg was slightly off the floor, counterbalancing our weight like a fulcrum.

Thank goodness Bama’s husband wasn’t a heavy man, and I was strong from all my dog walking and carrying boxes. My back muscles hurt, but I continued my slow progression closer to Hadcho’s piece.

Time slowed. I concentrated.

“I’m going to grab for the gun. Just like you told me to do.” My voice sounded appropriately terrified, and I mixed in a lot of submission. I came across as meek and cowering, which is exactly what he wanted from me.

I extended my fingers, as if reaching for Hadcho’s weapon. But instead of making the grab, I quickly balanced my fingertips on the floor while simultaneously sweeping my free right leg back and sideways. I threw my leg out and wide, as hard as I could.

I surprised him.

I heard a snap.

He screamed.

He lost his grip on my collar.

Out of my peripheral vision, I saw Hadcho make a dive for his gun and pull another piece from somewhere. His pocket? His jacket? It all happened so fast!

Bama’s husband collapsed behind me. I was already halfway to the floor so I tucked my head and pulled it tightly to my belly to complete a somersault. I finished by rolling into a tight ball, coming down hard on the back of my shoulders. The move hurt like heck. So much so that I saw stars. But I continued my roll and scrambled to my feet, jumping away from my attacker.

My middle-school gym teacher would have been so proud.

Bama’s attacker was on the floor, grabbing his leg and howling. Hadcho raced to his side. The attacker grabbed Hadcho around the feet and knocked him down. There was a brief scramble for the gun. For a second, Bama’s husband had the gun and was shakily pointing toward Hadcho.

I couldn’t let that happen.

I was on my knees, by our returns shelf. I jumped up, picked up a large Fiskars Paper Trimmer and bludgeoned the man over the head. I hopped from one side to the other of the struggling men. I scanned the shelves. There was a Crop-a-dile within reach. I grabbed it and smacked the bad guy up the side of the head.

The force sent him reeling backward.

Just for good measure, I smacked him again with the Crop-a-dile.

Those Crop-a-diles are built tough.

The attacker roared in anger. He covered his face with his hands. Instead of coming toward me, he limped toward Hadcho like a mad bull charging.

But Hadcho was ready for him. “Uf,” he grunted as he rocked back on his heels. In a neat move, my date sidestepped the attacker, whirled him around and forced him up against a wall. The takedown was almost balletic in its grace.

“You’re under arrest,” said Hadcho, snapping handcuffs on the man’s wrists. The detective cranked the guy’s arms up behind him so hard, his shoulder sockets popped.

The guy howled in pain. “You hurt me. My face is bleeding! I think she busted my knee! You dislocated my arms!” he whined.

That was fine by me. He deserved everything he got and more.

I squatted at Bama’s side. Her reddened face was still swelling, turning its contours into the smooth surface of an inflated balloon. Her nose was flattened and her lip was split. All distinctiveness blurred as her features were absorbed by the puffery of her wounds.

Fearful of hurting her, I slid my arms around her shoulders and again tried to roll her onto one side so her airway was clear. I worried about her spine, but I figured breathing was the first priority. As I gently turned her, I heard her sigh and stiffen. For a cruel second, I thought she died. I leaned my ear to her lips, “Hang on there, Bama.”

“I hate you, Kiki Lowenstein,” she whispered.