by Julie Hyzy
BY THE TIME I GOT BACK TO THE KITCHEN-my kitchen on the ground floor, that is-everyone had left for the day with the exception of Cyan and Bucky. They looked as exhausted as I felt. “Go home,” I said.
Cyan tried to argue, but I shook my head.
“We’ll start fresh in the morning,” I said. “It’s been a tough few days, but I think we made good headway. Tomorrow we’ll turn the corner.”
The relief in their eyes made me glad I’d insisted. “What time tomorrow?” Cyan asked.
With the president in residence, we’d be preparing full meals all day. As Cyan and Bucky traded information and agreed on plans for the next morning, I had a happy thought: The president back in town meant that Tom was back in town, too. Our schedules had kept us apart for too many days in a row. I needed to talk with him. Heck, I just needed to be with him.
Fifteen minutes after Cyan and Bucky left, I was headed to the McPherson Square Metro station for my ride home.
A train pulled into the station just as I made it to the platform. Perfect timing. I claimed a seat near the door and rested my head against the side window, allowing myself to relax just a little bit. I decided to wait to try calling Tom until I was walking to my apartment building. Less chance of losing our connection than if I tried to call while racing underground.
When I emerged outside again, it seemed the temperature had dropped ten degrees. We’d been in the mid-fifties lately, but tonight’s raw air and sharp wind caused my eyes to tear. I shivered, pulling my jacket close, trying to fight the trembling chill.
I loved my jacket. Filled with down, I’d brought it with me from Chicago, where it very effectively blocked the wicked wind. January in Chicago always meant bundling up with a hat, a sweatshirt hood covering that, and big, insulated mittens. Today, here in D.C., I took no such precautions. It was just me and my jacket against this peculiarly icy wind.
With my head ducked deep into my turned-up collar and wisps of hair dancing around my face, I couldn’t see much more than my feet beating a quick pace to my apartment building. I gave up the idea of calling Tom. My right hand pressed deep into my pocket, hiding from the cold, while my brave left hand pulled the collar close to my face so only my eyes and nose poked above it.
When the clouds above me opened and the rain came, I squinted against the sharp prickles of ice that stung my face. My quick walk became a hurried trot. It was then I noticed the accompanying trot behind me. Someone else was hurrying to get wherever he needed to go. Despite the fact that I was moving pretty fast, the person behind me was moving faster.
I glanced back. A man in a black Windbreaker was closing. With it being so dark, and with the icy rain blurring the street and my vision, I couldn’t tell the guy’s age, but he had to be fairly young-or in very good shape-to be moving at such a quick clip. Wearing blue jeans and shoes that made a unique double-clicking sound as he walked-almost as though he wore tap shoes-the man kept his head down. He wore a baseball cap with a dark hooded sweatshirt pulled tight around his face. Both hands were stuffed in his pockets.
Maintaining my own hurried pace, I eased to the right of the sidewalk to let the runner go by, peering over the edge of my collar as he got close enough to pass. He was tall-maybe six foot-and if the tight jacket was any indication, he weighed more than two hundred pounds.
There was a tree in my path. I could scoot left and possibly bump this guy, or go way off to the right, near the curb.
I veered right, hoping to reclaim my wide sidewalk berth once the guy passed me.
But he didn’t.
Coming around the tree, I was forced to either speed up or slow down. He’d slowed his own pace and was now blocking my way. This was like a bad merge on an expressway.
I wrinkled my nose against the cold and eased in behind him. My apartment was just another couple of blocks away, and I rationalized that this big, bulky guy would block the wind for me.
But when I got behind him, he slowed down again. The trot lessened to a brisk walk, then lessened again to what could only generously be called a stroll.
Was this guy playing games with me? Did he not know I was behind him?
Whatever was going on, it was giving me the creeps. My building wasn’t much farther, and I’d planned to cross the street at the light, but common sense told me to change my course right now.
I shot over to the curb and waited for a pair of shiny headlights to pass before racing across the street. My heart pounded as I skipped up the far curb. I chastised myself for my anxiety. Just my imagination working overtime again. I knew I had a paranoid streak, but the truth was, that paranoia had come in handy more times than I cared to count.
I pulled my collar close again, and tried to make out where the guy across the street had gone. The sleet was heavier and the cold seemed to worsen with every slash of rain against the dark cement. I couldn’t wait to climb into my flannels and pull a cover over my chilled limbs. I couldn’t see the opposite side of the street, but I took comfort in the fact that it meant he couldn’t see me either.
Just the same, I resumed my trot. A moving target is harder to hit, as Tom always tells me. I smiled again at the thought of calling him. With any luck, he’d brave the elements and we could snuggle under those covers together.
My smile vanished when I heard the double-clicks again. Behind me. No way.
I was about to turn to see what I already knew-that the bulky guy was back-but by the time my head twisted over my shoulder, it was too late.
In a searingly hot second, he kicked me in the left knee. I shouted, both in pain and surprise. Unprepared for the attack, I flew facefirst to the sidewalk, my arms coming up just in time to break my fall. Even as I went down screaming, I prayed my hands and fingers wouldn’t be hurt. They were my life, my livelihood.
The bulky guy didn’t break stride, didn’t turn.
Once I was down, he broke into a full-out run and was gone.
“Hey!” I yelled, noticing belatedly that my purse was gone. “Hey!” I said again, but by then I knew it was futile. I tried sitting up, but in the cold my knees felt as brittle as glass. At the same time, my palms burned from where I’d skimmed the sidewalk.
I shouted after him. “You big jerk!”
A soft voice next to me. “Are you okay?”
I felt a tug at my elbow. A small man hovered over me. Even from my seat on the wet sidewalk, I could tell he was shorter than I was. He pulled at my elbow again, trying to help me stand up. When I tried to get my footing, I slipped and sat down hard in wet dirt.
“Ick,” I said, wincing as I struggled to my feet. “I’m okay.”
“You are sure?” The man’s voice held the touch of an accent and now that I stood up, I got a better look at my would-be rescuer. He was of Asian descent with hair so short as to be almost invisible. Although I couldn’t peg his age, I guessed him to be on the far side of fifty. “What did that man do to you?” Using just his eyes, he gestured toward an idling car. “I was driving past and I saw him push you down.”
I wiped my face with the back of my hand, trying to compose myself. The past several days had crushed the very energy out of everyone at the White House. But this was too much. After everything we’d been through, I shouldn’t have to deal with this. Not today. I stared after the jerk who’d grabbed my purse, fighting overwhelming despair. All my ID was in there. Everything. I’d have to jump through a hundred hoops tomorrow just to get into work. I shook my head, then realized the little guy was waiting for me to say something. “I’m okay. He kicked me. Stole my purse.”
“I am so sorry.”
“Yeah,” I said, blinking against the rain. “Me, too.”
“I am Shan-Yu,” he said, stepping forward.
“I’m Ollie,” I said, responding automatically, thinking that I’d prefer to limp home in a hurry rather than stand in the sleet and chat. My mind was furiously trying to process everything that had just happened, but ingrained politeness kept me steady.
Shan
-Yu gestured again with his eyes, keeping his hands together low at his waist. “May I offer you a ride?”
“No, thank you,” I said, slapping my backside to release the dirt that crusted there. It hurt my hands, so I stopped immediately. “I live on the next block.”
“As do I,” he said, then mentioned his address.
“That’s my building, too,” I said.
He smiled. “Please, it would be my pleasure to help you after your encounter.”
The biting rain had turned into a full-out downpour. I looked at the little guy standing next to me, his smile the only brightness in the dark enveloping rain.
“Thanks,” I said. “That would be nice.”
The Toyota Celica’s windshield wipers were flapping as we made our way over. “Allow me,” he said, and he glided ahead to open the passenger door.
We were directly under a streetlight, and as I started around him, I turned once more to take a look at my backside. “Oh,” I said, “I can’t get in your car like this. I’ll get mud all over your seats.”
“Not a problem,” he said, just a little bit too quickly.
I turned, ready to explain again about the dirt on my backside, but the little guy’s eyes suddenly shifted. Too close to me now, he said, “Get in.”
“No, really, I-”
Before I could react, he hit me, hard, in the abdomen. I doubled over and he shoved me into the open door, pushing me down onto the seat. Neither of us counted on the ground being wet, however, and to his dismay and my delight, I slipped and fell to the ground, out of his immediate reach. Scrambling toward the back of the car on all fours, I screamed, both in terror and from the pain. “Help me!”
Every ounce of me surged out in my screams. I tried to get my footing, but he kicked me in the side. The darkness impaired his aim and it hit me only as a glancing blow. Still, it was enough to throw off my balance. “Help!” My voice carried along the wet street and I thought I heard an answer. My voice strained with effort. “Please!”
The little guy had begun to pull at the back of my jacket, and though I already knew I was no match for him, I remembered what Tom had told me about the knees-a lesson recently reviewed with the passing tap-shoe guy. With Shan-Yu’s hands gripping the fabric on my back, I wrenched sideways and lashed out at him with my foot. I connected with his knee, just as Mr. Tap Shoes had connected with mine. The little guy went down.
Fighting sparkles of pain that danced before my eyes, I made myself stand-just in time. Although he’d gone down, he didn’t stay there. In one smooth roll, he’d bounced himself back to his feet and come at me again.
I dodged him, spinning around the back of the car and racing to the open driver’s-side door. I’d thought to jump in and drive away, but Shan-Yu was too fast, too close. Just as I got near the door, I whirled to face him. He hadn’t expected that. When I ducked, he toppled over me. Scratching, biting, and screaming, I fought my way out from under him, hearing footsteps-loud ones-and knowing I had almost nothing left with which to fight.
“Hey!” someone yelled.
Shan-Yu turned long enough for me to get another good look at his face. I scrambled out of the way of the back tires as he leaped into the car and tore off down the street.
A big guy wearing jogging pants and a do-rag leaned down to me, rain pouring down his bewildered face. “Are you okay?”
CHAPTER 14
I SPENT MOST OF THE NIGHT IN THE EMERGENCY room, giving the Metropolitan Police a statement, descriptions of both Mr. Tap Shoes and the man who identified himself as Shan-Yu, and a description of the car. Two things I learned from the cops-one: The bad guy hurts you, Good Samaritan helps you game is one of the oldest in the book. Two, the tap shoes were probably special steel-toed shoes designed to inflict maximum damage on kicked opponents.
Once I’d been identified, the Secret Service was called in to find out what sensitive items I might have lost in the theft. Agents Kevin Martin and Patricia Berland showed up while my knee was being examined. I was moved to a room with a door so they could interrogate me in private.
“We need a comprehensive list of everything in your purse,” Agent Martin said. “I do mean everything. Even personal items you believe may have no significance.”
I came up with the best recollection I could. In addition to my ID, I had keys: for my apartment, my car, and a number of them for the White House. The two agents were not happy. “I have some notes, a few recipes…” Oh, God, what a mess. “My Metro pass…” I named everything else I could think of, including personal female items that made me blush when I listed them.
They asked me if I thought I’d been targeted specifically. “No,” I said, then stopped. “Wait…”
“What?”
“The guy in the car,” I said, thinking aloud. “He told me he lived in my building.”
The two agents exchanged a look. “Was this before you told him where you lived?”
“Yes,” I said, warming to the subject now. “He rattled off the address of my building, so that’s why I believed him-but he came up with the address first. He must have known where I lived.”
We talked a bit longer, both agents peppering me with questions designed to jog my memory.
“Keep all this information to yourself when you’re back at the White House,” Agent Martin said when the interview was over. “When do you plan to return?”
“Tomorrow,” I said. Glancing at the clock on the wall over his head, I amended. “I mean, today.”
Although they attempted to talk me out of returning in the morning, they didn’t forbid me to do so. Their grudging acceptance might have been due to my spirited explanation of the difficulties of getting the residence together for the holiday opening. Or, it might have been my nonstop pleading. Mostly I think they just wanted to shut me up.
From the doorway, I heard a familiar voice asking for me.
“Tom!” I called.
Tall and muscular, Tom looked even more handsome tonight than he usually did. He wore his customary Secret Service apparel-a business suit-but his hair was tousled as though he’d raced the whole way from the president’s side to come see me. He edged around Agents Martin and Berland, acknowledging them with a nod. “I’ll see Ms. Paras home,” he said to them.
Kevin Martin’s mouth twitched. “Yes, sir.” He turned to me. “Are you comfortable with Agent MacKenzie escorting you home?”
At this point, despite my aches, I was all smiles. “I’m perfectly comfortable,” I said.
Agent Berland was either in the dark about my relationship with Tom, or she pretended very well.
“Good night, then,” Martin said. “We’ll be in touch.”
As soon as they were gone, Tom came close. He started to put his arms around me, stopped himself, and gently gripped my shoulders with both hands. “Are you okay?”
“Better now,” I said. “God, you look so good.” I started to reach around to hug him, but he held me at arm’s length.
“I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.”
“I’m willing to risk it,” I said, and pulled him close.
Yeah, it stung, but the hug was worth it.
I brought him up-to-date on the altercation that landed me in the emergency room, with him shaking his head the whole while. “Ollie,” he said, “you’ve got to be more careful.”
He was right, but I hated being told things I already knew. “I thought I was.”
“Remember last time.”
I shuddered when I thought about the terrifying incident right before I’d been promoted to executive chef. Tom took my reaction as an invitation to lecture me a bit more. Not that I blamed him.
“Those of us associated with the White House have to be extra vigilant.”
“I know. I just can’t imagine why anyone would target me.”
“And that’s why the criminals have the upper hand. Because no one expects to be attacked.” With a pensive expression, he skimmed his fingers along the side of my face. “I wish I wasn�
�t on duty tomorrow.”
“I wish you weren’t either.”
Once all the hospital paperwork was complete, Tom helped me to his car. He had keys to my apartment, which allowed us to get in, and he’d arranged for a locksmith to meet us there. Amidst a lot of drilling and scraping-annoying my neighbor till two in the morning-my apartment was outfitted with spanking-new locks.
“Here you go, miss,” Lou, the weary locksmith, said as he dangled the keys in front of me. “Good, solid brand I put in. You’ll really enjoy these.”
Enjoying locks was not something I anticipated, but I thanked Lou and tumbled into bed the minute he was gone. Tom insisted on staying with me, and I finally relaxed with him stroking my cheeks and forehead. Thank God for kindness in this world, I thought, and drifted safely off to dreamland.
“OH, MY GOD,” CYAN SAID WHEN SHE SAW MY hands the next morning. “You can’t work like that.”
“I know,” I said. “What horrible timing, huh?”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Like there’s a good time?”
She had a point.
“One positive thing,” she said, as we got started. “Turns out the president and Mrs. Campbell are out all day, after all. That’ll take some pressure off.”
I hated delegating every task, but I was faced with little choice. Although I had no open cuts-that would have banished me from the kitchen completely for the duration of my healing-I wore an Ace bandage on my left hand and a splint on my right ring finger. The doctors told me I’d bruised my left ulna and jammed the finger on my right. Nothing debilitating, but bandages were hardly sterile when it came to working with food, so I found myself more the executive and less the chef for most of the morning.
Just as we started to hum, Gavin strode into the kitchen and came straight to me. “What happened last night?”
I’d taken to keeping my fingers clasped behind my back except when working at the computer. The move prevented me from inadvertently “helping” my colleagues.
“You mean this?” I asked, bringing my hands forward. “How did you find out?”