The
next morning Belinda called Sam. “I don’t know when the insurance company will
fix my car, but I need to go to the studio.
I had to take the truck back to my neighbor. I have a painting due in four days and
obviously can’t use the one I had planned to use.”
“And
I want to know this because?”
Was he being snide?
“I
need to know if all the reports have been turned in. I feel like my life is gone and I can’t get
going foreward. I need my SUV. My paintings won’t fit in a rental.
“Oh,
of course, my mind was somewhere else. The
reports were sent over two days ago, so it shouldn’t take much longer. But if you think your SUV is coming back to
you, you are sadly mistaken. The windows
could be repaired, but the bullet that went through the fender ricocheted off
the front axle, then proceeded through the engine block, and all the oil leaked
out of it. When you drove to the PD, the
engine block froze up. It’ll be totaled.”
Sam. She pictured his deep honest eyes. Not dependent puppy eyes.
Maybe
they wouldn’t have to be so formal now they were on a first-name basis. Sammy fit well on him--the name Grandby had
called him when she first met both of them.
Belinda
sighed. “You are so sweet! I guess I’ll call a car rental company then,
because I’m stuck here at Chris’s house.
He had to take his car to work.”
“Is
this Chris Danner you mean?”
“Yes. I only moved in with him because I had
nowhere else to go.”
“Are
you two an item?”
“Item? Not a chance.”
“Good,
because Mr. Danner works for the Beacon Casino, not a big box store like he
told you.”
“I
think you’ve got the wrong Chris Danner.”
“No. All acquaintances of victims and witnesses in
a murder are checked out.”
“Well,
why would he tell me he worked for a big store as a foreman?”
“Have
you ever been at his place of employment?”
“No. But I wouldn’t care if he worked at a
casino. There’s no need to lie about
it.”
“Maybe
he changed jobs and forgot to tell you?”
Well. Anything was possible. She said, “I wanted to ask you about the blue
car. Have you found it yet?”
“Sorry. No luck on that one. Spokane
Belinda
thanked him again, then went out to the loaner truck and took the painting out
of its bed. It was so cold, she was glad
it hadn’t been wet when she put it in there.
The paint would have frozen and
ruined another attempt. Maybe God just
didn’t want her to enter that art show.
#
Through
the miracle of homeowner, business owner and auto owner insurance, Belinda
would collect a decent check to replace a few things, so she’d be able to buy a
car, maybe this weekend.
The
body of Reedy had been removed. It was
so strange him showing up like that and being dead. Awful.
And nobody knew when the funeral
would be held. She wasn’t even his wife
any more. The locks had been changed out
to deadbolts, no glass in the doors.
Maddie
said she had cleaned up the studio. They
both knew that meant getting rid of the remnants of the picture and cleaning
the floors.
Excited
about having a car again, even a rental, Belinda forgot to corner Chris over
nothing important like where he worked.
If
she didn’t get that painting submitted she’d be out a lot of cash. It had only been four days since her life
turned upside down, but at least she felt well enough to go to her art studio, driving
a Toyota Camry. She’d have to get
something larger soon.
She
didn’t know if she’d have to sell the studio--would she be able to work there
after all that had happened?
When
she brought the painting into the studio and set it up, she found a large
envelope held with cellophane tape to the back of the canvas.
She
opened the envelope on its backside but left it still taped to the canvas. Inside were a bunch of old certificates. She impatiently thumbed through them. Probably some awards. He liked to bowl and at one time had played
sports. Had her father put those there? A key was tucked in a bottom corner.
She
couldn’t think about this right now. The
certificates couldn’t be of much value since they were not in the warehouse
until the painting was brought in.
Short of time before another disaster, she started her search at the
door, turned left and checked every inch of every wall and duct. There were overhead plumbing pipes for water,
braces holding them up. Metal heat
ducts ran across the ceiling of the large area with vents craning down like the
heads of giraffes. The heating unit was
up there as well--tucked behind the bathroom.
A set of rungs ran up the wall to a thin scaffolding access ramp. Spider
webs clung to all braces and corners, including a filthy Red Cross First Aid
Kit she hadn’t known was there. When she opened it she found the door was fake. Only an old safe was behind there. An old gym combination lock was on the door, rusted
shut. It could have been there for
years. Just some parts in there her father didn’t want misplaced.
He loved his tools, always had kept them locked up. She
closed the odd fake door and explored the crevasses of the antique room. Darkness had closed in quickly. She flipped the light switch up. Nothing happened. A run of fear crawled up her back. She fumbled around to find the lighter and
candle she’d used on the fateful day the murders started, and lit the tiny
wick--the only thing between abject panic and hope. She slipped into her bulky coat and grabbed
her purse, carried the candle with her then headed for the door.
The
downstairs door rattled like a snake. Shrrrrr
Metal screeched across metal. Creaks that promised footsteps on the treads
spaced out at first faintly then louder, with a cold, cold breath. Cops?
No. They had her cell number and
would call if they needed to get inside again.
She
tiptoed in her sneakers, felt her way to the bracket ladder leading up to the ducts
and shinnied up through years of accumulated dust to the top of the
eighteen-foot-high ceiling. Her climbing
was obscured by the noise of her loft door being jimmied open then jammed back
against the wall with a thump. She held
her breath.
A
black figure charged through the door.
If she’d had her gun which had been stolen from her house, she’d have
felt safe. But no. She mentally kicked herself for not replacing
it.
Damn! She forgot to blow out the candle. It was obvious she was in the loft. She teetered in silence and dark and dust,
trying not to sneeze, considering dropping on top of the figure below her. One hundred fifteen pounds traveling at, say,
two miles per hour should at least knock him out if she hit him right. But if she missed and landed on her own head,
he’d probably plaster her into the studio wall and she’d never be found. He could even shove her into one of the ducts
she was crawling around. Nobody would
ever find her.
In
the feeble candlelight below, she could make out a rebar strut that could get
her just over top of whoever it was. She
wished he’d taken off his coat so she could see who it was. Silent like the
mouse, Belinda remembered Anne Frank’s story.
But Anne didn’t live through it. Belinda resolved she would.
He
shined a flashlight around the floor, checked the corners and walked into the
bathroom and banged around. She left
her purse, quickly shucked her jacket, covered her hands with it, and slid down
the strut as quietly as she could. He
must have noticed movement overhead. He
grabbed her foot. She kicked him off,
pulled her knees up and dropped the rest of the way on top of him right in
front of the staircase. They both tumbled down the stairwell, Belinda banging
her head as something snapped in her shoulder.
When a heavy object rattled away down the stairs, she hoped it was his
gun. He rolled with her, hitting treads with his head a couple of times in
their death spiral. He smelled like oil.
Pitch dark in the stairwell continued
with them out into the moonless night as they rolled from the broken door where
the safety lights and the entry light were all out. The air and the asphalt were so damn cold. And of course the stairs had already done
their damage.
The
figure scrambled part way back up the stairs obviously looking for the
gun. Belinda ran through the open
downstairs door then tried to lock the deadbolt with the key from her jeans
pocket. But the new deadbolt had been
torn off the door and the assailant simply shoved it back open.
The blessed patrol car came prowling toward
them like a leopard. The man in black vanished.
She
hobbled over toward the police unit, everything on her body complaining loudly. The driver stopped, turned on the overhead
flashers and warily got out of the car, talking to the box on his shoulder. Belinda yelled, “Did you see him? He was here just a second ago. God, my shoulder hurts. Can I have one of those boxes? Then you wouldn’t have to take so long
getting here,” before she slid down the fender of the cop car onto the ground.
#
“Okay,
enough is enough,” Sam Magers said. He
took off his hat, put down his notebook, quickly looked around the empty
hospital room, and bent down to give Belinda a wonderful kiss.
This
time it was a good shock instead of a bad one.
Her toes melted.
After
the kiss she tried to figure out something to say. But she’d lost the ability.
Grouped
near a lot of doctor offices which included shrinks, the hospital emergency
room would make it easy for her to marry a shrink. Otherwise she wouldn’t be able to pay the fee
to regain her sanity.
“You
obviously haven’t got the sense God gave a rubber duck,” Sam said.
“Going to a warehouse in the dark
doesn’t sound like a very bright person.
I mean, you look like your IQ is in triple digits, but that is just a
ruse. Your double digits are disguised.”
The
double entendre made both sets of their eyes look at her boobs.
“It
wasn’t dark when I went there. But it was longer than I thought I’d be. He must have cut the wires. I wouldn’t have gone into a warehouse with no
light.” Did he think she was totally
stupid?
Looking
down hurt. Looking up hurt. She needed a pill. Oxycontin would be good. Maybe Morphine. She’d heard it all before. From Chris, from Madrigal, and from Sergeant
Magers himself several times over.
“Do
you have any idea what the assailant wanted?”
She
did not. Also she couldn’t kiss Sam then
go live with Chris. Besides, why had
Chris lied? She couldn’t go to her
parents’ house since it was cordoned off.
She couldn’t go home because it was still trashed. She just might never want to see it again
anyway. And there was no way she was
going to live in the loft, even for a few days. Belinda was tired of being scared, and just
plain tired. She wasn’t sure she’d ever
sleep again.
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