by Mark Murphy
She heard a gurgle and looked down again.
Amy had vomited, puke bubbling up through her lips. Mimi turned her mother's head to one side and swept Amy's mouth with a finger like they had taught her to do in CPR class. Suddenly, Amy was coughing, her eyelids fluttering.
Mimi placed her index fingers over her mother's carotid.
There was a pulse.
"Mom?" Amy said, shaking her mother.
"Mimi?" Amy said, her voice clotted and harsh.
Amy coughed a couple of times. Mimi had never seen her look so small, so fragile.
But she's alive.
Mimi wrapped her arms around her mother's thin shoulders and picked her up off the floor. She could hear her mother's breathing, could feel the rhythmic pulsations of her heart, and she had just one thought that filled her up at that moment:
Thank you.
"Mimi?" Amy rasped.
"Yeah, Mom?"
"What happened?"
Mimi hesitated, ruminating over what to tell her mother. She looked as delicate as an orchid, paper-thin and pale.
It might be too much for her, she thought.
"Someone came up behind me. They clamped something over my mouth. Next thing I knew I was here, with you, tied up on the floor."
Amy coughed again.
"God, my chest hurts," she said.
I should tell her. She deserves to know, Mimi thought.
"I feel awful," Amy said. "I don't really remember anything. I think I was outside taking out the trash. Is Daisy here?"
"No, Mom. We're not at home."
"Where are we?" Amy asked.
Mimi held her mother at arm's length and looked into Amy's bloodshot eyes.
"We're together. That's what matters. You know, I love you, Mom. I really do," she said.
"I love you, too, honey," she said, giving Mimi's arm a squeeze.
Amy fingered Mimi's hair.
"You've got vomit in your hair," Amy said hoarsely."We'll need to wash that out."
Beaming, Mimi hugged her mother again.
"It can wait," Mimi said.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine now, but God, Mom, you scared the shit out of me," she said, her lips close to Amy's ear.
"Mimi, watch your language," Amy said.
"Mom?"
"Yes?"
"You were dead. You had no heartbeat. I had to do CPR on you. I think I may have broken some of your ribs."
"You're . . . really? That really happened?"
Mimi nodded.
"So that's why my chest hurts," Amy said.
She sniffled and wiped her eyes, then looked reproachfully back at Mimi.
"That's still no excuse for cursing," she said.
"Mom, just shut up," Mimi said, her eyes filled with tears.
The rain was falling steadily now, a soothing patter that seemed to ease the tightness in Mimi's chest. The thunder and lightning had moved deeper inland. Mimi could hear waves breaking outside again and she realized that they were someplace they had to get out of.
"Can you walk?" Mimi said.
"I think so. I'm a little weak, but I think I can make it."
"Mom, do you remember what you told me about Dad? That some guy was framing him for the murders?"
Amy nodded.
"I think that's who brought us here. And I think he does not plan on us leaving."
Amy took a step. Her knees buckled, but Mimi caught her.
"I've got it. My knees are just a little gimpy,"Amy said.
The two of them moved slowly toward the front door. There did not seem to be anyone else in the house. Footprints and drag marks through the dust showed where their kidnapper had pulled their bodies into the building, but there was nothing that indicated that he was still here.
Mimi, one arm still around her mother, peered between the pieces of plywood which had been hammered over the window by the front door.
"There's a black SUV parked outside on the street. The windows are tinted and it's facing away from us. I can't see if anyone is in it."
"Your dad's car was hit by a black SUV," Amy said.
"That truck probably belongs to the guy who's framing dad. We've got to find another way out. Can you stand here fora second?"
"I think so."
Amy braced herself against the windowsill, legs spread slightly apart for stability. Mimi went over to the windows on the back of the house.
"We're on a river, high up on the bluff. We'd have to drop into the water to go out the back. You think you can swim, Mom?"
Amy's red-rimmed eyes met her daughter's. She shook her head.
"I'm too weak. I don't think I could do that right now."
Think, Mimi. What would Dad do?
She looked around the room. It was virtually empty, save the duct tape and blindfolds that had been used to tie them up and the rest of the roll of duct tape their bindings came from. There was nothing she could use as a weapon. The front door and the windows appeared to be their only potential points of egress. The only other thing in the room was a fireplace and a door to the bathroom.
Mimi peered inside in the bathroom. It was tiny, claustrophobic. The fixtures had all been ripped out, leaving a brace of naked pipes jutting out of the walls and the floor like little smokestacks.
She went back into the main room. Her mother was sitting on the floor.
"Mom? You okay?"
"I'm just resting," Amy said.
"We can't go out the back because you can't swim, and we can't go out the front because the guy's SUV is out there, and I can't tell if he's in it or not. But we absolutely can't stay here," Mimi said.
She stared off into space for a moment, arms crossed. After a moment, a smile crossed her lips.
"Mom, give me a hand," Mimi said.
"I've got an idea."
33
Malcolm parked the WKKR News van on Butler Avenue, just across the road from the IGA grocery store and a block from the beach walkway at 11th Place.
A few months from now and every parking place on this road will be packed, Malcolm thought.
Today, however, Tybee was a virtual ghost town. The only person Malcolm saw was an old woman who looked like an ancient female version of Duke's Coach K. Her floppy hat bobbed as she pranced by with her Chihuahua.
He glanced at his watch.
"It's a little after 2," he said. "I'm early."
"Maybe the rain will die down some while we wait," Tina said.
"Doesn't matter," Malcolm said. "It's not like I'm trying to impress this guy with my grooming."
Tina started getting her gear together.
"I'm going to film you as you talk to him," she said.
"How are you going to do that? He'll see you."
"Dr. King, I am a professional. Don't you think I've done this sort of thing before?"
Malcolm smiled.
"I assumed you were just another talking head," he said.
"Actually, I am," she said. "But this talking head has an undergraduate English degree from Columbia University, a Master's in Broadcast Journalism from the University of Georgia, and a law degree from Emory."
"So you're a well-educated talking head."
"That I am."
"You're a little defensive about it," Malcolm said.
Tina dropped the camera into her lap.
"Let me ask you something: you're a good-looking man. Does anyone ever hold that against you?"
"Have you been drinking this early?"
"I'm serious, Dr. King."
Malcolm sighed.
"Okay, no. It's not a liability in medicine. It may actually be a help sometimes, especially with my female patients," he said.
"Well, let me paint you a picture. I'm a TV journalist. If I look bad, I won't be hired in any big-time market. That's a given. But when you are a woman, if you are attractive, it's a double-edged sword. Other women hate you and men assume you are stupid. So I have this constant battle I have to fight. Yes, I'm good-looki
ng. Yes, I'm well-dressed and wear makeup. But, no, I'm not stupid."
"Hence all of the degrees," Malcolm said.
Tina pointed a slim finger at him.
"Precisely," she said.
She picked the camera back up, affixing a telephoto lens.
"That's fancy," Malcolm said.
"Standard Sony EFP camera. I should be able to film everything that's going on when you two meet--in HD format."
"It looks heavy."
"It's about 13 pounds, but it's shoulder-mounted, so it's not that bad."
"Will you be able to hear us?"
Tina turned, opened a storage drawer behind her head, and took out a device that looked like a closed-up fan. She unfolded it, snapping its edges together, ultimately forming something that resembled a satellite dish antenna.
"This is a parabolic dish microphone," she said. "I can hear a whispered conversation from 300 yards away with this thing. It mounts on the camera."
Malcolm stared at the windshield. The rain was still falling, but the electrical stuff had all died down, and the blustering wind had dissipated. The rain was now simply washing the dirt away, washing it clean. For some reason, this made Malcolm feel better, as though something were being made right in the world.
"I'm not worried about dying," he said at last.
"What?"
Malcolm turned to look at Tina. She had placed a baseball cap facing backwards on her famously coiffed hair and looked tomboyish, though with perfect teeth and enough mascara to make her eyes look like a pair of Venus Flytraps.
"If someone told me that I was being marched off to my death, but that my wife and daughter would be safe, I'd be okay with that. That's all I want. I'd die for them without any qualms whatsoever. I've seen death. Dying doesn't scare me at all. But grief does."
"You're not going to die," she said.
"It's not me that I'm worried about," said Malcolm.
The tears came without warning. It was like a tornado dropping out of a clear blue sky, the vortex tearing his heart from its moorings and ripping it to shreds.
"Oh, God. What if they are already dead? What if this . . . this asshole has killed my wife and my daughter?"
Tina placed a hand on his shoulder.
"They're going to be okay," she said.
"I want to kill him," Malcolm said. "I want to grab this guy by the throat and make him pay for all of the suffering he's caused. But if I do that, I may never see Amy and Mimi again. And I . . . I . . ."
Malcolm buried his face in Tina's shoulder. His nose pressed against her collarbone.
"Did I tell you that Billy's wife was pregnant?" Malcolm said, pulling away from Tina so that he could see her face.
"What . . . you mean the woman he killed? Your friend's wife?"
Malcolm nodded.
"Birkenstock, or whatever his real name is, told me so on the phone. He killed Billy's wife and took out her uterus. He looked at the fetus—looked at it!—and then fed their unborn baby to a bunch of alligators, along with the rest of her."
Tina turned away toward the passenger side door of the van.
"I think I'm going to be sick," she said.
"That's the kind of monster we're dealing with," Malcolm said.
The rain had slacked off further. Malcolm looked at his watch.
"It's 2:30. I'd better get going. I'd rather be early," he said. Tina hoisted the camera onto her shoulder.
"One shot for the road. To set things up. Just say what you're here for and what you're going to do. Is that okay?"
Malcolm nodded.
Tina turned the camera lights on.
"Action," she said.
"Hello, I am Dr. Malcolm King. I've been framed for a series of murders I did not commit. The real killer has kidnapped my wife and daughter and has threatened to murder them. I'm going to meet with him on the beach here on Tybee Island, Georgia, so that I can save my family. Ms. Baker, here, is going to film the whole thing."
"God bless you, Dr. King," Tina said from behind the camera.
She put the camera down.
"That last part wasn't exactly professional," Malcolm said, opening the driver's side door.
"That last part wasn't for the camera. That was from me. From the heart," she said.
Tina kissed him on the cheek.
"You're no killer, Malcolm King. I'm as certain of that as I am sitting here breathing."
"Thank you for everything, Tina."
"It was my pleasure," she said, clasping his hands in her own.
"God bless you, Malcolm. Now let's catch ourselves a killer."
34
"I think it's big enough," Mimi said. "There's no flue."
Rain spattered her face as she craned her neck, gazing up through the chimney at an overcast sky far above.
"I don't think I can go in there," Amy said. "I get claustrophobic."
Mimi stood up and wiped her soot-stained hands on her shirt, leaving two black prints.
"Mom, please listen to me. This guy is coming back. He may even be outside already, waiting in that SUV. Although I don't know why he's not done it yet, I am certain that he plans to kill us. We've got to get out of here. And if we can't go out the front because he might be waiting there, and can't go out the back because it's over water, then the chimney is the best way out. He'd never expect that."
"I may be too weak to climb that. God, my chest hurts like hell."
"That's why I made these," Mimi said.
Mimi held out her hands. They contained two silver-looking spirals of duct tape wound tight. Each one had a cloth loop at one end.
"I made a couple of ropes out of duct tape. We'll wrap these under your arms. I'll go first and then help pull you up."
"What if I get stuck?"
"Mom, come on. I'm bigger than you. If I can get up there, you can."
Amy was silent.
"It's our only shot, Mom."
"Okay," Amy said at last, sighing.
Mimi wrapped the duct tape rope under her mother's arms, then wrapped it around her own right hand twice so that it wouldn't slip. She entered the fireplace head first, wedging her shoulders in among the bricks and using her legs to propel her upward.
It was tight.
It was tight, but she steeled herself and took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the smoky scent of burnt wood that leached from the blackened bricks.
Look up, she thought. Look at the sky, Mimi. Keep focused.
She ignored the needle-sharp pains that still lingered in her shoulders, just boxed it up and shipped it away. It was what she always had done in cross-country during the last mile when her body wanted to quit and screamed at her to give up, give up, give up.
She never did.
She would not now.
Realizing what was at stake, Mimi imagined that the chimney was a birth canal, a journey she must take to get on with her life, and she pushed herself up, wrapping the duct tape even more tightly around her fist as she climbed.
Minutes later, she was pulling herself out of the chimney. A few of the bricks were crumbling, but the edges held. She could see the black SUV lurking on the street, silent and cold, like a shark waiting to gobble up its prey. It was facing away from them. He wouldn't be able to see them unless he got out of it.
"Mom?"
"I'm here."
"Come on up. I'll pull to help you."
Mimi pulled the rope taut, bracing her heel against the base of the fireplace.
"Mimi, I . . . I can't do this. It hurts too much."
The rope went slack.
"Mom, come on. Let's get out of here!"
"I can't."
Another band of rain was coming. Mimi could see it, a gray curtain drawing across the horizon, an army of wraiths moving relentlessly across the marshland and down the creek from the ocean.
"Mom, we need to help Dad. Dad needs us. There's more rain coming, and I'm not sure I can hang on up here. I need you to come up the chimney now."
<
br /> The rope went taut again.
"I'm coming," Amy said.
Mimi pulled, arms aching, as the rain hammered away at the tin roof, making it as slick as oil under Mimi's feet.
Amy's rain-soaked hair was a matted pelt on top of her head as she emerged from the chimney, hands gripping the makeshift rope so tightly that her nails dug into her palms.
"God, Mom, you look awful," Mimi said.
"Thanks, dear. I've had a rough day."
Mimi looked over the edge of the roof. It was about twelve feet to the ground. There were a couple of friendly-looking tea olive bushes beneath the eaves.
"I think I can get us down here using these ropes," Mimi said. "I'll loop them around the chimney and we can lower ourselves down."
Mimi tied the two ropes together to make one long strand and tested the rope's strength. It held.
"Okay, you first," Mimi said. "I'll follow."
Mimi braced the rope while her mother lowered herself to the ground. She then followed her mother down. As her shoes reached the tops of the bushes, the silver rope snapped. Mimi toppled into the tea olives, legs sprawling, snatching at twigs and branches as she fell.
"Are you okay?" Amy said.
"I'm fine," said Mimi, brushing herself off. She pulled a few wet leaves from her hair.
"Well, ladies, this is quite a surprise. Almost like Christmas, except you came up out of the chimney instead of going down into it," said a voice behind them.
It was a man's voice.
Mimi whirled around, prepared to fight to the death.
35
Malcolm walked down Eleventh Place alone.
The rain had slackened into a steady drizzle, the moisture soaking slowly into him as he walked toward the beach. The dull seashell roar of the ocean surged and ebbed just over the dunes, and the tarry odor of wet asphalt intermingled with the familiar salt tang of the sea.
He thought of Amy and Mimi. His chest ached dully, as if a giant millstone had been lashed to it.
The frenzied whirlpool of thoughts in his mind carried random memories to the surface like flotsam: Amy, a princess in her lace wedding dress, looking so beautiful that Malcolm felt unworthy of her. And then Amy's pregnancy, at long last—life made anew from the two of them, a miracle kicking around in Amy's swollen belly. Mimi, a red-faced baby swaddled in a hospital blanket, bawling away as Amy held her in her arms in those first few precious minutes of life. Mimi's hysterical laughter on the family trip to Yellowstone a few summers back when a huge buffalo plopped down in the road in front of them and went to sleep. Amy, playing Concentration with a deck of cards against residents and attending physicians alike—and beating the entire surgical department unmercifully.