Unmanned

by Lois Greiman

  “What did you tell—” I rasped, but he was laughing again.

  “Jesus, you’re easy. I’m just kidding.”

  I may have snarled a little into the phone. “But you are leaving.”

  “Sure.”

  “Soon?”

  “If I didn’t know better I’d think you were all hepped up to get me out of here.”

  “You don’t know better. When are you going?”

  “Soon as I get an airline ticket.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You could fake disappointment, you know.”

  “No, I couldn’t. See you tonight.”

  “Yeah.” He laughed, then: “Hey, sis?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “If you pick up some fettuccine, I’ll make chicken alfredo.”

  A minute later, I dropped the phone into its cradle.

  My brother…cooking. Obviously the world had gone mad. My afternoon clients confirmed that notion.

  I stepped out of the office at 5:57, left Harlequin in the car as I wandered into Vons. The supermarket was relatively slow. I found the fettuccine noodles, grabbed a gallon of milk and a few other staples, such as M&Ms. I had started through the checkout just as my cell phone rang.

  “Hey, babekins.”

  I had forgotten I’d ever called Solberg, and couldn’t dredge up a lot of enthusiasm at the sound of his voice. I felt drained and tired and carnivorous. I put the Snickers on the rotary belt.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yes.” I straightened, rolled my neck, picked up the Sugar Babies. “I’m fine now.”

  “Yeah? Everything work out all right?”

  I drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I think so.”

  “So you can tell me what’s going on now?”

  I shrugged, retrieved some Heath bars. “Looks like it was some guys with a grudge against Pete. But Rivera got them.”

  “Holy monkeys, I was afraid it was something like that.”

  “Why?” I shuffled the Milk Duds onto the rotary belt. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, when you’re messing with a psychotic like that, you gotta expect some shit’s gonna hit—Sorry. Some excrement’s going to strike the proverbial fan.”

  “Well…” I said, fumbling the phone between my shoulder and my ear and digging out seventeen dollars in ones. “Pete’s got some problems, I’ll be the first to admit, but I don’t know if I’d call him psychotic.” Although I had. Psychotic and worse.

  “I meant Adams.”

  Something twisted in my gut. The bills trembled in my hand as Vons’s teller took them from me. “What are you talking about?”

  “Adams,” he said. “Holly’s ex-husband.”

  I blinked. “Holly wasn’t married before.”

  “Not after she changed her name.”

  “You know Laney doesn’t like it when you drink, Solberg,” I said, but my voice was weak.

  “Heather Garnet.”

  I gathered up my change, trying to make light, to survive. “Ivy Opal?”

  “Heather Garnet. That was Holly’s name,” he said. “She was born in Sacramento. Seven pounds, three ounces.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” The change rattled in my palm.

  “Bound in holy matrimony on March 6, 1998, to a Gordon Adams. Or rather, unholy matrimony. He was one sick bas—Sorry. One sick puppy. There are all kinds of hospital reports. Broken ribs, iron burns, lacer—”

  “What?” My heart stopped. “What kind of burns?”

  “The reports I dug up said they looked like they’d been caused by an iron…like an ironing iron. Guess he was kind of a freak about his shirts being starched just right, and when she messed up—”

  “Are you sure?”

  He snorted. “Am I ever—” he began, but I was already hanging up.

  Shoving the grocery bag under one arm, I dialed my home phone. No one answered. I hit the END button and tried again. Pete picked up on the fourth ring.

  “Peter!” I was breathing hard, humping the grocery bag toward the car on one hip. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know Holly was married before?”

  There was a momentary pause. “Not until quite recently.”

  “Her husband was abusive. Burned her with an iron. When I was grabbed, I thought the guy was wearing a dress shirt. The sleeves were starched. Why—” My mind spun to a halt. Something was wrong. Pete hadn’t used a term like “until recently” in his entire life. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. Listen, honey, I have to go.”

  “‘Honey’? What are you talking about? What’s wrong?”

  “Good-bye, Christina.”

  “Wait. What—”

  “I love you, Pork Chop.”

  The phone buzzed in my ear. I stared at it. He loved me? He loved—

  My mind stumbled to a halt. My hand was suddenly shaky on the phone, stabbing at numbers with fingers gone stiff.

  “Rivera.” The lieutenant’s smoky voice made me feel limp, but I stumbled to the car.

  “He’s in trouble!” I stuttered, struggling with the groceries and my purse, my car keys and my nerves. “I think Adams is at my house. I’m going—”

  “Wait. Slow down.” I could hear him sit up. Could hear his chair squeak as he straightened. “What are you doing? What are you talking about?”

  “Holly was married before. Guy named Gordon Adams. I think—”

  “Don’t think, McMullen!” he ordered. “Do you hear me? Do not think. I want you to stop and sit down.”

  “She changed her name.” My hand was almost too unsteady to work the little Saturn’s popper. But the locks finally unclicked. I jerked the door open, jammed myself inside, squeezing Harlequin over as I did so. “Domestic violence victims don’t talk about it. She didn’t tell anyone. Thought she’d lost him. I’m sure of it. Pete didn’t know.”

  “Chrissy, listen to me. I’ll take care of this. Don’t go—”

  “I think Adams is in my house.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Stupid?” I shook my head. “I’m a trained psychologist. I can figure something out. Outsmart him. He’s a control freak. Needs his shirts starched or he goes berserk. I think he was wearing penny loafers when he grabbed—”

  “McMullen, listen to me. Don’t try any of your dumb-ass plans.” I heard a door slam shut in the background. “Remember Peachtree? Remember Black? Your plans almost got you killed.”

  “Yeah.” I thought about that for a moment, shivered, thought again. “But Pete said he loved me,” I said, and turned the ignition.

  “Are you in your car?”

  “He wouldn’t have said it if he thought he’d have to face me again.”

  “I want you to lock your doors and stay where you are.”

  I closed my eyes for a second and covered them with shaky fingers. “He’s a fucktard,” I whispered, then drew my hand away. “But he’s still family.”

  Feeling stronger, I shifted into drive.

  “McMullen!” I heard an engine roar to life. “I told you to stay put. Do you know what the penalty is for disobeying an officer of the—”

  I pulled the phone from my ear and heard him swear right before I clicked off. I felt cold and stiff. Harlequin was staring out the passenger window, tongue lolling, happy as a bluebird.

  A cramp hit my stomach, but I ignored it, trying to think. I was a trained therapist, a psychologist. Adams was a bastard, a barbarian, accustomed to taking by force. So what if I refused to be afraid? My hands shook at the thought. Okay, bad idea. I had to think deeper, like a professional. What had made him the animal he was? Pain? Probably. Abuse? Likely. He’d been hurt. As a child. And so he hurt in return.

  I would appeal to the little boy in him, tell him everything would be all right. That I’d find him the help he needed.

  But what if there was no time for that? What if…

  My mind was racing, scrambling around slippery corn
ers and up dangerous slopes, but suddenly my time was up. I turned onto Owens Avenue, heart beating like a bunny’s.

  I pulled up to the curb next to my garage and hugged my purse to my side. Even through the imitation leather I could feel the hard, cold steel of the pistol.

  Psychiatry be damned. He’s my brother, I thought, and slipped the Glock into my grocery bag.

  26

  I’m just an everyday kind of hero. If the everyday kind saves babies from burning buildings and looks hotter than hell in bunker gear.

  —Peter John McMullen, firefighter

  I OPENED THE CAR DOOR and stepped out, knees quaking, mind screaming to wait, to think, to hold, to run. But Mom had been madder than hell when I’d neglected to wake Peter John for school; how much worse would it be if I let him be killed in my living room?

  Still, I couldn’t seem to move.

  Harlequin squeezed past me and loped toward the front gate. The normalcy of his attitude woke some lingering demon inside me. It might have been the stupidity demon, but damn it, I deserved to have a normal life, to be happy, maybe even to go about my day-to-day business without some bastard breaking into my house.

  Leaving my purse in the car, I juggled my keys and groceries and tried not to throw up.

  The walkway crunched noisily under my soles. My breath was coming hard. I put a hand on the doorknob, and that’s when I lost my nerve completely. I froze, unable to move, to breathe. Who the hell did I think I was? Freud? Spock? Houdini? I didn’t know what Adams was thinking. Hell, I wasn’t even sure it was Adams.

  But then I imagined Pete’s baby-to-be. A girl with dark eyes and a loopy smile. A girl needed a daddy, even if it was Peter John.

  I shoved my key in the lock, prayed for fools and hapless psychologists, then thrust my way inside, jabbering something nonsensical and casual.

  I tried for “Hey honey, I’m home” but may only have managed the “Hey.” My voice fell like a rock into the silence.

  Harlequin brushed past my legs and loped inside, ears flapping.

  I reached for him with one hand, heart thumping in terror. I should have locked him in the car, left him outside where he’d be safe. Where—

  But then I noticed it: the weighted silence. It lay in the house like a time bomb, waiting, ticking off the seconds. Not unlike a hundred silences from my past. Silences that preceded dead vermin, sheep droppings, and raucous troglodyte laugher.

  Could it be? Could he possibly be playing me again?

  And then I heard it—the coup de grâce—an almost silent moan slipping through the house like a ghostly whisper.

  I ground my teeth. I had heard that moan before, and each time I’d been duped. There was no real reason to assume Pete was in danger. Just as he had not been in danger the last dozen times he had made me look like a blathering idiot.

  Harlequin hadn’t come racing out of the living room, tail between his quivering legs. I thought about that. And then I heard it, the faintest snigger of laughter.

  It was all a damned hoax!

  I gritted my teeth, remembering all the humiliating instances of missing thumbs and popped eyeballs. And suddenly I knew the truth. I was a patsy again. The fucktard knew I was jittery. Knew I was scared shitless. And he was playing on it. Next thing, I’d be slamming down sheep turds and praying to the porcelain god.

  “Damn it, Pete!” I swore, and tried to snatch the gun from the celery bag, but the stalks refused to give way. The whole bag came up. I tried to shake it off as I stormed toward the living room.

  But suddenly there was a scraping sound and “Chrissy, get out!”

  And then a man stepped into view. It took an instant for me to recognize him as the strawberry guy from the grocery store. Blond hair. Rocking body. Nice clothes. Perfectly groomed. Gun rising.

  Gun!

  I snapped the celery up to shoulder height and pulled the trigger. Life exploded in a sharp spat.

  Adams staggered back and bounced against the table.

  I heard feet pounding from the living room, but Adams filled my sights. He stumbled backward, struck the wall of the dinette, and slid onto his ass, legs straddled, eyes wide with shock. Blood trailed along the wall behind him. He looked down at his ruined shirt, then at me. I watched him slowly raise his gun, but I was frozen, mesmerized by the winding trail of blood on my eggshell paint. How would I clean that? What did one use to remove—

  But a noise like thunder interrupted my meandering thoughts, and then something hit me. The gun-loaded celery bag flew out of my hand and into the hallway. I screamed as I crashed onto the floor. Ready to die, to bleed, only to realize that Pete had rammed into me. We were both sprawled on the linoleum, half-hidden behind the counter, but a chair accompanied us. My mind reeled, taking in the duct tape half torn from his mouth, confining his wrists. His face was bruised, one eye swollen.

  “Pete,” I hissed, but a bullet zinged through the kitchen. Something shattered. I shrieked and covered my head, but Peter was yelling something, giving orders.

  “Get over! Holy fuck, move your ass,” he bellowed.

  My brain broke free. I scrambled deeper into the kitchen on hands and knees. He tried to do the same, but his wrists were still bound to the chair arms. Reaching out, I took him by the shirtfront and yanked him forward. Another bullet pinged into the cupboards over-head.

  Pete was swearing. I was either praying or crying. Maybe both.

  “Damn female!” someone snarled. It could have been anyone.

  I needed a weapon. A gun, a dog, a lieutenant. All gone. I was trapped in my kitchen, where—

  Knives! The thought stopped the breath in my throat. My cutlery was so close. In the drawer just above my head.

  “I’m going to kill you. Going to kill you and your adulterous brother.”

  There was a scraping noise. I jerked my gaze toward the sound, but Adams was hidden from sight. Still, I knew. Knew he was sliding up the wall. For a moment his footsteps faltered. I prayed he would fall, would go down and stay down. My heartbeat stuttered with hope, but the footfalls stumbled erratically toward us. A chair crashed to the floor. I jumped, and then I was on my knees, still low as I ripped open a drawer and snatched out a butcher knife.

  My gaze met Peter’s as I dropped back down. Maybe he spoke, but I couldn’t hear over the pounding in my head as I sawed at the bonds on his top arm.

  Adams was coming. I could hear him staggering toward us. Heard him click back the hammer on his pistol, and then he was there.

  Blood had soaked his perfectly ironed, button-down shirt, but he raised the gun.

  “Lestoil,” I gasped, hiding the knife behind the chair. “Lestoil’ll do the trick.”

  He was glaring over his gun. It was long, black, scary as death itself. “What are you babbling about?”

  “Your shirt…it’s probably ruined. I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I was…scared. Nervous. But your pants. What are they?” A scrap of past dialogue zipped through my brain. “Linen? Lestoil will take out the stain. I can press them. I have an iron in my—”

  “Shut up,” he growled.

  I cowered back and did as I was told.

  “Women,” he scoffed. “You’re all the same. Mouthy harlots until you’re slapped up. Then you’re all sweetness. Let me iron that for you, honey. Let me get you a beer.”

  I tightened my grip on the knife, waiting. His mind seemed to be drifting away, but suddenly he refocused, nodded.

  “Heather was the same way. Like sugar in my mouth when I met her. Couldn’t do enough for me. Couldn’t…” He smiled. I shivered. “But she changed. You all change, don’t you? Soon as you think you got a man where you want him. She was a skinny little runt of a kid. But I was good to her. Treated her like a queen. She didn’t have to work. Just keep the house clean. Make my meals. That’s all I asked. But she couldn’t even manage that.” He shook his head. “A man wants his wife looking decent when he comes home. Hair done, a little makeup, dishes properly aligned. Is that too much to a
sk?”

  I managed to shake my head. It wasn’t easy.

  “I blame her father. He left her, you know. Just like my old man left me. Because he was weak. Too weak to teach her right from wrong. To train her in the ways of a real woman. Made my job that much harder. But then she…” He gritted his teeth. “Came home one day and she was gone.” There was insanity in his eyes. “No thanks. No note. Just gone. I knew she was ungrateful. But I didn’t expect her to—”

  “You fucking—” Pete snarled, but I spoke up, jittering.

  “Some women don’t know when they’ve got it good.”

  Adams shifted his slow gaze from Pete to me.

  “I’d give up my job,” I rambled. “I’d give it up in a minute if someone wanted to pay the bills.”

  He grimaced. “And I suppose you’re willing to spread your legs for that?”

  Shit. My mind was reeling.

  “That why you were with that man by your garage?”

  “What?”

  “I was hasty,” Adams said. “I know better. Discipline. Got to be disciplined. But I thought he was him.” He shifted his eerie eyes back to Peter. “Saw the wedding announcement on the Internet. I’ve been searching for years. Holly Oldman.” He gritted a predatory smile. “I knew she had changed her name. Heather’s no genius, but even she would think of that. I did some research, though. People have trouble leaving their names behind.

  “You didn’t know that, did you?” he asked, voice congenial, eyes insane. “It’s true. They’ll usually keep something about it. Same initials maybe. I tried that, then started broadening my search. Holly…Heather. See the connection? Once I found her I wanted to go there right off. Bring home my wife. Her place is by my side. But discipline…” He nodded, teaching me. “I waited. Learned what I could about your brother. Called the fire station. Knew he was coming here, right under my nose. Do you believe in fate?”

  I opened my mouth.

  “I knew what I had to do. Knew it right off.” He took a wobbly step closer.

  “Please,” I said, and scooted a couple inches behind Pete, cowering there, hiding the knife between us, desperately scraping at the duct tape. “Don’t kill us.”

  “I wouldn’t have. Would have left you alone. Men fight men. That’s what they do. The way of the world. I could have just taken Heather. Could have walked in and grabbed her, but that wouldn’t have been right. A warrior takes care of the other man first,” he said, turning his gaze.