Caught in the Middle

by Gayle Roper

  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.

  “You need a doctor,” Curt said.

  “N-no,” I said. “A cup of hot coffee.”

  He looked down at me, and I suddenly felt incredibly awkward snuggled against him with his one arm around my back and his other under my knees. I pulled away and said rather stiffly, “You can put me down now. I’m okay.”

  He made no move to release me. “Are you sure?”

  “Please,” I whispered.

  I was shaky on my pins, but by sheer willpower I was able to lead the way to my desk. I kept my chin high with the hope that the tears of reaction might not flow if I acted like I was in control of myself. I arrived at my desk not a moment too soon. My collapse into my chair was not very ladylike, but I hadn’t cried and I hadn’t fallen.

  “Merry!” It was Don, hurrying over from his desk. I could see his face as he came toward me and his back in the reflection in the huge window, now a black mirror, by his desk. It was a disorienting double image.

  “Andy Gershowitz tried to strangle me.” I blinked like mad as tears threatened again.

  “What? When? Where?”

  All he needed were who? and why? and he’d have a story, I thought, but of course he knew who. It was why we needed to figure out. “In the parking lot. Just now.”

  “Don,” Curt said, “how could you have let her go out alone knowing what she’s been through and the danger she’s in?” There was a sharpness in his voice that made Sergeant Poole and me stare at him in surprise.

  Don looked coolly at Curt. “I wasn’t here when she left.”

  The two men eyed each other for a minute, something I didn’t understand vibrating between them.

  “Coffee,” I said to break the tension. “I need a cup of coffee.” The hiccuppy catch in my voice wasn’t due to my dramatic acting prowess.

  Don blinked first. “I’ll get it for you.”

  As he walked to the now full coffeemaker, I turned to Curt. “You’re missing your show.”

  He made a dismissive gesture.

  “No, no,” I said. “It’s very important. I want you to go back there.”

  He shook his head. “N
ot until I know you’re all right.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. And I was. The familiarity of the office, the warmth of the room and the comfort of three men standing around me was combining to make me feel safe. I didn’t even want to cry anymore.

  “Curt, I’m serious,” I said. “Go back to your show. This is a once-a-year evening, and you must be there.”

  Don placed my coffee on my desk. I sniffed appreciatively and watched the steam curl. My hand hardly shook as I grasped the handle and lifted the mug. I took a little swallow. It hurt. I took another. It hurt, too, but the hot liquid was just what I needed.

  “Sergeant Poole,” Curt said, “if I go back to City Hall, will you bring Merry over when you’re done talking with her?”

  “Sure,” he said. “No problem. I have to go that way anyway to get back to the police station.”

  Curt leaned over me and took my hand. “Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want to go to the doctor’s or the hospital?”

  I shook my head. “Please, no.”

  He leaned down, kissed my cheek and was gone.

  I couldn’t decide whether I felt relieved or diminished with his leaving. All I knew for sure was that he made me confused and afraid. He was too real, too big, too everything. But he cared. He truly cared, and that was probably the most scary part.

  I took a deep breath and turned to Sergeant Poole, who was watching me with a slightly sarcastic grin. I smiled sweetly and proceeded to make him very unhappy.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t see anything.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear anything.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened to the keys.”

  We were finished with our conversation, mostly because I had so little to tell him, when his beeper went off. He looked at it, then borrowed my phone. He stood quickly, unconsciously shifting his gun.

  He barely had the phone down before he was in his coat. “I’ve got to go. Trouble at the Friendship Project.”

  I nodded, thinking of the darkness out there and Andy Gershowitz.

  “You don’t have to worry,” he said quickly, reading my face. “You really don’t. We’re looking for him, and he can’t hide forever. Because of tonight, we know he’s still in town.”

  I must have looked unconvinced. After all, they had been looking for him when he grabbed me in the parking lot.

  “Eldredge,” Sergeant Poole called over his shoulder as he rushed to the back door. “Escort her to City Hall. If she goes out alone or if anything happens to her, I’ll hold you personally accountable.” He pointed a finger at Don and was gone.

  “When you’re ready,” Don said to me.

  “Thanks, Don.” I smiled and stood. I needed the ladies’ room badly. My jelly legs barely got me there and back. When I returned, Don was pulling on his coat.

  “Not yet,” I said, sinking into my chair. “My legs won’t hold me that far yet. Let me write a piece about the attack for tomorrow’s paper. It’ll get me mad, and it’ll give my tibia and fibula a chance to recalcify.”

  Don nodded, hung up his coat and returned to his desk.

  Last night he tried to strangle me. Two nights ago he tried to shoot me. And three nights ago he put a dead man in my car trunk.

  Why me?

  Previously, whenever catastrophe struck and I asked, “Why me?” I always followed that question with, “Well, why not me?” The world is full of pain and sorrow, and I expect to suffer my share.

  But now I honestly ask, “Why me?”

  Why does someone want to kill me? Why has he shot at me and tried to strangle me? Is it because I found the body of Patrick Marten? But all I did was find Patrick. I didn’t see who put him there. I didn’t see the crime committed. All I did was open my trunk and find what remained of a man who by all reports was a wonderful person.

  So, why me?

  TWELVE

  Don accompanied me to City Hall as requested, but it was a stilted and somehow uncomfortable walk. Not that Don said anything wrong or critical. He was just distant and formal, almost like we’d never met and he wanted to keep it that way.

  “Aren’t you coming in?” I said when we reached the front door.

  “Nope,” he said, shaking his head. Snow dusted his hair and the shoulders of his navy coat and sat in the folds of his meticulously arranged scarf. “I’ve got stuff to do.”

  I got the strong impression that getting away from me was at the top of his to-do list.

  I watched him walk away in the falling snow, puzzled. I hate it when I don’t know what’s going on, not just because I’m a nosy newspaper person, but because I hate to step into sensitive areas when a little information would prevent it. And there was definitely something sensitive between Curt and Don and something odd in Don’s recent attitude toward me.

  With a shrug, I turned and entered City Hall, a wonderful old mansion dearly loved by everyone who didn’t have to work in it with its poor heat and poorer lighting. But its wooden paneling and balustrades, its carved wainscoting and dramatic staircase made a lovely setting for an art show.

  The Brennan Room itself was really a large foyer rather than an actual room, and the great chandelier (turned off most of the time for economic reasons) shed a warm and sufficient glow over the gathering.

  People milled around, talking with each other and looking at the pictures hung all around the walls and on fabric partitions scattered throughout the room. I recognized several people from church and some from local city government, but the majority were strangers to me. Frankly, I was surprised to see so many here with the weather so terrible.

  In the far corner, a duo played classical music on a piano and a flute, their sweet sound a soothing background to the murmur of scores of conversations. A table with a snow-white cloth and a Christmas centerpiece held frothy red punch, cookies, crackers and cheeses.

  Spotting Maddie and Doug Reeder coming in the door, I waved and grinned. I always grinned when I saw them because they looked so incongruous together. Doug was at least six and a half feet tall and as thin as he was tall. Maddie was a little above five feet, not really overweight, but not starving, either.

  She raised her hand, her wave to me an empty-handed ringing of her E bell. She said something to Doug, who bent down, way down, and gave her a peck on the cheek. Then she worked her way to me through the maze of people while he veered off toward Curt.

  I indicated the room, the people and the pictures. “I had no idea it’d be this big a deal. I’m impressed.”

  Maddie nodded. “Local boy makes good and all that. What’s the matter with your voice? Getting a cold?”

  “I sound that bad?”

  “I’m sure people will still talk to you,” she said kindly, “but you do sound sort of froggy. Like you’re about to cough in everyone’s face.”

  “I promise not to do that,” I said. “And I’m fine. No cold. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  “What?” she said, grabbing my hand. “Tell me now. When it comes to information, I’m into instant gratification.”

  I hesitated and she said, “What? What? Did Curt rescue you again?”

  “Again?” I raised my eyebrow. “Did he rescue me before? I don’t think so. We were equally involved. We both hid under the car.”

  Maddie shrugged, her long hair rising and falling with her shoulders. “If you say so.”

  “I do.” I smiled. “We tried to call you about one o’clock last night so I could stay at your place. Curt didn’t want me to be alone. He didn’t think it was safe.” I paused but honesty compelled me to add, “I didn’t like the idea much, either.”

  “I should say not. And we weren’t home.” Maddie’s face showed her chagrin.

  “Hey, you didn’t know I’d need you. It’s okay.”

  “But I feel so bad. Doug had to see a client early this morning in the town where his mother lives. It’s about an hour from here. We drove up last night after bell practice, and I spent the day with Mom while he attended to bu
siness. We just got back a few minutes ago. I barely had time to comb my hair and check The News for the latest about your body. I couldn’t believe it when I read about the shooting.”

  “It’s not my body,” I said.

  Maddie shrugged. “It was in your car.”

  I didn’t think she could hear the gnashing of my teeth. I hoped not, anyway. It would probably be considered impolite.

  “So where did you stay last night?” Maddie asked.

  “In my apartment.”

  “Alone?”

  “Of course alone.”

  “I’m surprised Curt let you.”

  “He didn’t want to. He tried everything he could think of to prevent it.”

  “Sounds like him.”

  “Is he always so—” I hesitated, looking for the right word.

  “Pushy? Intense? Forceful?” Maddie grinned. “Yes, he is. Why do you suppose I spent all that time kicking him in the shins when we were growing up? But he’s also a good guy, which is why I’m surprised he let you stay alone last night.”

  “He really didn’t.”

  “He spent the night at your place? I think I’m even more surprised at that!”

  “He spent the night in the parking lot in his car!”

  “What?” Maddie’s squeal was so loud several heads turned our way. “So he did rescue you!” She was obviously enthralled with the idea. She probably read romance novels on the sly.

  “Protected me, maybe,” I said in the cause of accuracy. “But not rescued.”

  Maddie looked disappointed, so disappointed that I said, “But he did rescue me today.” I told her my trunk story.

  She listened with growing horror and reached out to pull my scarf gently aside. The bruises were coming along nicely, if her face was any guide.

  “I’m fine,” I assured her as I rewrapped the scarf around my throat. “Really.”

  I don’t think she believed me.

  “You’ll stay at our house tonight, won’t you? I’ll be insulted if you won’t. I’m serious, Merry. You can’t be alone another night, and Curt can’t keep sleeping in his car.”