My fingers closed around the pink metal pole. I pressed my back against the wall of the living room, hearing Popov’s footsteps getting closer. I could smell the rancid odor coming from his t-shirt as he approached. Just as I saw the toe of his shoe, I yelled as loudly as I could and swung the broken lamp with all of my might. The weight of the lamp caused it to arc low, knocking the knife from his hand. The metal connected with his kneecap. He fell onto all fours and cursed in hard, guttural words.
He crawled toward me like an animal.
“This ends here, Popov,” I said, and tried to move backward.
“You’re right, missy, it does.”
He grabbed at my knees, forcing them to buckle. I lost balance and fell to the floor. My head ricocheted off the corner of the low wooden coffee table but I fought to stay in the moment. He knelt down on top of me, his kneecaps piercing my thighs, pinning me to the floor. His breath, hot and spicy, blasted my face. My leg was underneath me, bent at an unnatural angle. Popov set the reel next to my elbow and reached behind him for a pillow from the sofa. He pushed it into my face. The last thing I saw were his white knuckles.
My scream was lost in the fabric.
THIRTY-FIVE
The blood pumping through my ears drowned any sounds from outside. I couldn’t get air. I felt my hands along the rug, searching for something, anything. My fingers threaded through the metal film reel. I pushed it over my head and hoisted it, then slammed it down. Popov’s body went limp on top of me.
I pushed him off me and gasped for breath, huge gulps of air that did little to calm me down. I blinked several times to clear my vision and pushed at his body, kicked at him with my right foot, trying to get out from under him before he started to move.
That’s when I heard my name.
My reaction to Tex was less than graceful. Tears clouded my vision, streamed down my face. My nose was running. Blood ran from an opening on my hand. I didn’t know I’d cut it when I’d picked up the broken lamp. Tex pulled me up onto the sofa and put his arms around me. I cried into the soft fabric of his shirt. And then I heard barking.
Sloppy wet kisses covered my cheek. Rocky wriggled next to me on the bed, trying his best to elicit a response. When I moved and reached out to him, he yelped with the happy announcement that I was awake. I looked around, trying to figure out where I was. The walls were white, the bed was white, the unfamiliar nightgown I wore was white.
This wasn’t home.
People in scrubs moved around a white room with peach and green paintings framed in white-washed wood. A man I didn’t know sat in a folding chair next to the door. He flipped through a dog-eared golf magazine.
“She’s awake,” he announced to whoever was listening from the hallway.
Tex came into the room. For a moment he stood by the foot of the bed and looked at me.
“Night, you sure know how to prove a point.”
Rocky snuggled into the nook of my arm. His nose prodded the right side of my ribs. I curled my arm around him until he was against me like a teddy bear might have been for a child.
Tex sat on the edge of the bed and put a hand on Rocky’s head. “I should have been there like I said I would.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“It’s my fault that it got as out of hand as it did.”
“Popov…” my voice trailed off as I auditioned the different questions I had against the priority of how to start.
“Popov isn’t a threat to you anymore.”
“He’s dead?”
“He’s in jail, and based on what we know and what I think we’ll find out after talking to you, he’ll be convicted of four murders, along with whatever is on that spool of film. And after the home run you hit against his kneecap, I doubt he’ll be able to go anywhere.”
Ironic, I thought.
“I don’t get it. He’s been after that spool of film for twenty, thirty years?”
“The preliminary info is still coming in, but we know that Andreev Popov was an astronaut in Russia while the MIR space station was still operating. He was convicted of selling secrets to other countries. He compromised his country for money. The proof is on that footage.”
“But how does it all tie in with Doris Day?”
“That’s the weird part. He actually showed some promise as a filmmaker while he was working on the space program and had contacts in the States. He arranged for someone to send American movies to their mission base. It made him popular, important. The guy who could procure entertainment from behind the Iron Curtain back when very little was getting there. We weren’t racing to partner with Russia, and Russia wasn’t racing to cooperate with us. The only race anybody knew about was part two of the race for space.”
“The race for space was in the late sixties and Popov isn’t that old. I’m not following.”
“He had movies sent in to his camp. Doris Day movies were easy to come by. It was the mid-eighties, and people were fascinated with movies of the sixties. He arranged to see Pillow Talk and The Glass Bottom Boat.”
“What does this have to do with anything?” I asked.
“Scenes were filmed outside of NASA in The Glass Bottom Boat. That’s when he got the idea, a way to send secrets out of Russia. He spliced footage from his own camera into a reel of the movie loaned to them, and sent it back. This reel is from Pillow Talk. Only, it isn’t Pillow Talk. It’s footage from the Buran space program. Photos, schematics, plans. Projections. Timetables and formulas.”
“But I heard that movie reel was a little,” I sought the best word, “provocative.”
“It is. Aside from the information about the Buran missile, it also shows a young Andreev Popov having sex with a blonde secretary in a restricted office. That’s what made this particular reel so valuable. It wasn’t just footage of their mission. It was the footage that ID’d him as the spy.”
“And that copy of Pillow Talk ended up at AFFER. Are you telling me that Popov came to the states and has been looking for it since he left Russia?”
“The woman came forward. Told her story to the media, told what he was doing. He denied any involvement in the spy scandal. His cover story was that someone stole his camera and made the footage inside the space station. The Russian media didn’t believe him, so he fled, but he knew he had to find that film and destroy it if he ever wanted to return. Once in the States, he made a name for himself as a,” he paused for a second, “documentary filmmaker, all the while searching for that reel of film.”
He tipped his head to the side and stared out the window. “He knew what he was doing when it came to filmmaking. Russia had no proof he was the spy, unless they came into the possession of this reel, but they were unforgiving. His career was over. He knew this reel of film was in the US so he went about finding it. Madison, he’s not a dopey old man. He’s a spy. A successful spy, who sold his country’s secrets for money. He was smart. But he was vain, too. He used his charm and his wits to get into the beds of women along the way—Thelma Johnson being one of them, and in the end, that was his undoing.”
“You found the connection between Popov and Thelma Johnson.”
“From what we can determine, Thelma Johnson knew she had something very valuable in that film reel. We’ll never know if she knew what it was, but she realized early on that as long as she had it and told no one where it was, she was safe from Popov’s rage. He wouldn’t dare hurt her without knowing where she’d hid it.”
“What about Sheila?”
“We’re still working on that.”
“I think I can help you out.” I told Tex what Popov said, about Sheila finding him searching the house. Tex had known she was a wild child, but he hadn’t realized she was capable of blackmail.
“After Sheila died, Popov must have convinced her mom that Hudson was guilty. She never considered anything else, until one day twenty years of bottled up rage and frustration over the fact that he still hadn’t found the reel caused Popov to snap. Thelma must have reali
zed he killed her daughter. Before she could do anything, he killed her, too.”
“What about Hudson?” I asked.
“He’s not involved.”
“Does he know you know that?”
“If he doesn’t, he will soon enough.”
“You should have listened to me.”
“Night, don’t go there.”
The funny thing was, despite what Tex thought, I didn’t want to go there either. Too many what ifs fluttered around us: what if he’d stayed at my apartment building instead of going on Richard’s wild goose chase after Hudson? What if I’d been better at asking for help? What if Hudson had cooperated with Tex long ago instead of hiding? What if Popov had had a few more seconds to hold that pillow down over my face?
Tex moved his hand from Rocky’s head to my thigh and I didn’t push it away. It reminded me of how long it had been since I’d let someone touch me. And it wasn’t just physical touching I craved.
I put my hand on top of his. “Where’d you find Rocky?”
“In the dumpster. I wasn’t the one who found him. It was Donna.”
“Who’s Donna?”
“Officer Nast.” He said her name differently than before, softer. “She’s the one who gave him a bath. He didn’t smell so good when we fished him out. Someone in your building likes tuna. Or doesn’t, considering how much we found in the dumpster.”
“And the cat?”
“We found a black cat in your kitchen cabinet, next to an old popcorn popper. You never told me you had a cat.”
“I don’t. I’m watching him for a friend who had to get lost for a couple of days.”
This time Tex was silent.
“So it’s over,” I said.
“Mostly,” he answered.
“Mostly?”
“There are still a couple of loose ends.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Rest, Night. We had a guy look at your knee, and you’re going to need surgery, most likely, though you’ve proven me wrong before. Anyway, we’ll get into the other stuff later.”
Officer Nast came to the doorway. Her long brown hair was loose. Soft waves framed her face and hung off to one side. She was out of uniform, and dressed the way Pamela used to dress when she wasn’t posing for a real estate flyer. Thin white T-shirt, low-rise jeans, hoop earrings. She tossed her hair behind her shoulders.
“Allen, you coming?” she asked. Her green eyes sparked from across the room. I looked at him then her, and tried to figure out what had changed, and when.
He sat on the bed, our fingers entwined. An IV was hooked up to my arm, and the liquid from a pain-killing drip made tiny plinking noises. Otherwise, the room was silent.
“Go. It’s easier this way,” I whispered.
He avoided eye contact and I knew. I knew neither one of us was in the right place to take on a challenge.
He took two steps toward the door, then turned back around, his blue eyes clouded. He was going to move on, and I almost didn’t blame him.
“It’s easier this way,” I repeated.
“Maybe it’s time I stopped taking the easy way.” He walked out of the hospital room and left me alone with my puppy.
A week later I was out of the hospital. My knee was still my knee. A replacement might be in my future but as long as they could make do with what God had given me, I wasn’t going to fight it. They wanted me to use a cane. I didn’t. They won. Taking Rocky for a walk was trickier now that one hand had to stay on the wooden prop.
For the time being, my apartment was a household of three. Rocky, Mortiboy, and me, though I knew Hudson would soon come to collect his charge. He sent me a letter, explaining he had to go away for a while, but would be back. I knew he had sent a similar letter to Tex because the lieutenant told me, though I hoped the tone of that letter differed slightly from the tone of mine. But each day, when I got up to feed the cat and take Rocky for his morning walk, I looked up and down the street for a heavily primered blue pickup truck.
Speaking of cars, my Alfa Romeo was returned, neatly backed into my space. I didn’t ask who had driven it over. The driver would have needed a ride getting home and there was a good chance that this was one project Officer Nast could do with Tex. It bothered me that the idea of them together bothered me. It made me think I was starting to feel things again, and that bothered me most of all.
Rocky was out front, peeing on the lawn, when Tex’s Jeep pulled up and parked along the curb in front of the no parking zone. The perks of being a cop, I guess.
“Night, we have to talk.”
“I didn’t know our relationship had progressed to the point where that sentence was due,” I said, and immediately wondered about the casual manner with which I’d said ‘relationship’.
He seemed not to notice, preoccupied with something else.
“How’s your schedule today?”
“Mostly open. I have an appointment with a new client at two and I’m doing a walk through with the Duncans at four-thirty, but other than that, nothing. Why?”
He stopped about ten feet away from me and stood there, his face taut. I could see his teeth clenching, not because they were bared but by the subtle movement of his jaw.
“What’s wrong, Lieutenant?”
“Remember when we searched your car?”
I nodded.
“We found something. I couldn’t say anything until we figured out what it meant. Turns out it didn’t have anything to do with Popov or the Doris Day murders.”
The Doris Day Murders. That’s what the press had been calling Popov’s killing streak. The Doris Day Murders committed by The Space Case, as the disgraced Russian had been labeled. It represented the fundamental flaw with creative license, that when it came to things like murder, there should be a journalistic rule against being too clever.
“So why are you telling me? My part is done. I sacrificed my knee to help you stop a killer,” I said, trying, and failing, to keep my voice light.
“Can you come with me? Now?” he asked, ignoring my tone.
“Sure. Come inside and I’ll get my things.”
Tex was more in emotional lockdown than he’d been since I’d met him. I wondered what had caused this shift. Was it Officer Nast? Or had all of the flirtation, all of his attention, really been about the murders? Had I simply been a means to an end?
Inside the apartment I put Rocky in his crate and lifted my white wicker handbag. My uniform post injury had been a full skirt, boat neck T-shirt, and ballerina flats and today was no different. The fabric of the skirt swirled around my knees, covering the black Velcro brace I’d taken to wearing 24/7.
I followed Tex to the Jeep and got inside. He drove up Gaston, continued up around the bend and turned left again on Lakeshore Drive. Two miles later he swung the Jeep into the Mummy parking lot. I looked at him, no words spoken, but questions evident in my expression.
“We found something hidden by your spare tire. Did you put anything there, keep anything there?”
“No.” The hair on the back of my neck bristled. “What did you find?”
“One of our forensic guys found a reel of film when he went over your car. About six minutes’ worth. We thought it had something to do with Pamela Ritter’s murder.”
“How did she get a reel of film into my trunk?”
“She didn’t. It’s been there for awhile.
“You’ve known about this all along? What’s on it? I mean, you watched it, right?”
He looked away. “Yes, I had to. It turned up before we connected Pamela’s murder to Sheila’s. I was still on the case, and I had every reason to believe it was part of my investigation.”
“But I’m guessing it didn’t, and I’m guessing it had something to do with me. That’s why I’m here, right? I can tell you I didn’t hide any film in my car, for what it’s worth, and I hope by now my word counts for something.”
It seemed a pretty minor thing, a random loose end for him to use to visit me. Es
pecially after the way I’d seen him interact with Officer Nast in the hospital. And it dawned on me, what this was. An excuse to see me.
“Damn it, Lieutenant, you didn’t have to try so hard. Life isn’t really like a sixties sex comedy where you have to create an elaborate ruse to get my attention. If you wanted to come see me, just come see me.”
“Let’s go inside.”
He got out of the Jeep and came around to my door, helping me get out. A week ago, I would have shaken off his assistance. With effort, I anchored the cane in the dirty driveway.
We walked, slowly, into the theater. “Go inside and take a seat. I’ll be with you in a second.”
“Tex?” I asked, wanting some kind of reassurance. He had no words to offer.
The lobby was empty. So was the theater.
“Take a seat, Ms. Night,” said an unfamiliar voice.
I looked around, side to side, then up to the balcony. A short man in a rumpled coat stood by the projector.
“This is for your viewing only. Technically what you are about to see belongs to the Pennsylvania police department, but Lieutenant Allen informs me that it pertains to you, so, as a courtesy, we will show you this footage. Once. It is his assumption you have not yet seen it.”
“What’s this all about?” I asked.
“Take a seat, Ms. Night,” said the booming voice again.
I felt like Dorothy, commanded by the invisible Wizard of Oz. Tex stood next to the white-haired stranger and nodded at me. I slid into the end seat of the sixth row of the theater.
A grainy image filled the screen. At first I didn’t know what I was watching. And then his face came into focus, staring into the camera, sitting in a brown leather chair that had at one time been my favorite chair. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, converse sneakers with his navy blue windowpane suit and light blue polo shirt.
Brad Turlington.
The married man I left behind in Pennsylvania.
As his voice fed through the theater’s speaker system, my stomach turned with the cruel humor of making me watch him, larger than life on a twenty-foot screen. I wanted to get up and run out of the theater, but on so many levels, I couldn’t. I was paralyzed—no, crippled—both emotionally and physically, and this was the person who’d inflicted the deepest pain of all.
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