My heart lurched in my chest. Teddy? That was the guy from Bank Shot earlier tonight. Libby had hustled him out of four hundred dollars. Teddy sent a thug to get his money back from me? Teddy hadn’t even paid me. Why wouldn’t he have tried to get it from Libby? My phone lay on the counter to my left. I dropped his gaze and looked at it on the counter.
“That’s right, Princess. Call the police. They won’t get here in time.” This moron had obviously never heard of an alarm system. I wasn’t about to correct him and let on that I wanted to call my roommate to warn her that Teddy might show up at our door. She had won the four hundred dollars from him fair and square; he must have believed otherwise if he sent this jerk to try to get his money back from me.
My eyes darted to the clock: 12:46. I listened hard, hoping to hear sirens in the distance – nothing. I swallowed a lump in my throat, doing my best to steady my voice. “I was there; she didn’t cheat. Teddy lost. Why would he send you to get his money back?”
“That’s the thing, the money he gave you girls tonight – it wasn’t his. It was mine. You’ve got to the count of three to push four hundred fifty dollars through that drawer.”
“Four hundred fifty?”
His eyes widened as he shrieked, “You think my time is free? Give me my money back and add another fifty for me having to chase you down in this ice box, and I’ll let you live.”
Let me live? My stomach knotted as the hairs on my arms joined the fine ones at the base of my neck now also standing at attention.
I shook my head. Whatever volume I had been able to produce before evaporated: a small whisper was all I could get out, “I don’t. . . I don’t have it.”
Condescendingly he said, “That does create a bit of a problem. You’re a resourceful girl. I bet you could get it.”
My mouth opened but nothing more came out. I couldn’t tell him we had spent it already, or that Libby had whatever was left of it. I looked at the clock: 12:47. The police should be here any minute. If I could just keep him calm until they arrived, I’d be fine.
The fear I felt sharpened my thoughts when it hit me: how did this guy know where I worked? Did someone from Bank Shot know I worked here? No – none of our friends were with us tonight. Had he already stopped by my house? Would Libby have told him I was here? “Um, I could call my friend. She could bring it here.”
His answer accompanied a toothy smile: a shiny gold tooth beamed at me where one of his canines had been, “You think I’m dumb? I was already at your house. There’s no money there.”
“You were at my house? How do you know where I live?”
“I’m a resourceful guy.” If he knew my last name, he wouldn’t have had any problems finding me. Libby Googled me a couple weeks ago; she had told me all my information was posted in their directory.
Libby kept all of her money in a coffee can above the stove. Whatever had been left over after she went to the grocery store would have been in the can. If this guy would have tried to get money from Libby, it wouldn’t have been in her purse. She could have told him I had the money. “Libby can tell you I don’t have it.”
“Libby’s not going to be talking to anyone again, Princess. Now, give me my money.”
Chapter 5
The hand he had inside his sweatshirt emerged holding a gun. My hands shot into the air as if he were a typical robber. Mr. Sander’s voice echoed in my head, “It’s just money. If it’s your life on the line, give them whatever they ask for. We’re insured.” He told me that my first night on the job. Anything in the store could be replaced, but there was nothing worth an employee’s life.
The man’s voice was low and calculating when he slowly counted, “One. Two. . . “
“Wait! Hold On!” I pushed the “cash sale” button on the register and pulled a handful of twenties, dropping them into the drawer without even counting them. I did bank deposits every morning after my shift, and I knew the pile I had just given him was well over $500. I was safely behind bullet-proof glass, but, until this second, it had never occurred to me to ask how well it would stop a bullet. Libby and I had watched a show on the Discovery Channel where it said armor-piercing rounds could get through bullet-proof everything. There was no way to know what kind of rounds he had until he pulled the trigger.
His left hand reached into the drawer, groping for the cash and shoving it in the pocket of his jeans. He smiled and nodded appreciatively to me. I let out the breath I had been holding when he menacingly said, “Three.”
His finger pulled the trigger, and I saw the muzzle flash. Inside my robber-proof cage, the bullets ricocheted off the glass as one giant mark puckered the glass. At least three hit the glass before I was able to react. I threw my hands over my head and sprawled onto the floor. Images of my life began assaulting me. I saw myself playing with my sisters on a merry-go-round. . . baking a cherry pie with Mom. . .riding the school bus holding my pink Hello Kitty backpack . . . a slow dance with Dad at my cousin’s wedding . . . hundreds of images flashed before my eyes. My hands were jammed hard over my ears, trying their best to keep the sound out. He kept firing. The sound of the bullets ricocheting off of the thick glass were deafening. I lost count on the number of shots. It seemed as if they would never stop, and time had slowed down for them to echo on forever.
The shots finally stopped. I didn’t dare look at the shooter’s face. For all I knew he was reloading while I was paralyzed with fear on the floor. There was a ringing in my ears as I heard the man’s muffled words shout at me through the window. “The next time you see me, you better hope I’m in a good mood, Princess.”
The lottery machine, which I hadn’t heard at all before the assault, was the only sound in the room. Some hypnotic computerized voice announced the upcoming jackpot as I lay there on the cool tile floor, my body shaking like a teenager after a six-pack of Red Bull. What had just happened? He wasn’t trying to hold up the store: he had come here looking for me.
I scrambled to my feet, crouched down below the counter so I could steal a glimpse of the pumps. His Nova was gone. My hands trembled as I fumbled for my phone. I called Libby’s phone number – no answer. When her voicemail came on, I nearly shouted into it, “It’s me! Are you okay? Some guy just came to the gas station! Oh, my God, are you okay? Call me as soon as you get this!”
A police cruiser eased into the parking lot: lights on, no siren. I stood upright, my whole body quaking, trying to make sense of what had just happened. The cop shined his spotlight throughout the parking lot, as if looking for a criminal to pop out of a shadow and say, “It’s me! Arrest me!”
Why was he still in his car? I started to feel sick. I looked through the glass directly in front of where I had sat. One giant mark puckered the glass: my finger touched the dented glass from the inside. Each shot he had fired had been exactly where the previous one was – he was trying to create a hole so he could shoot me. The enormous puckered hole was where my chest would have been, had I not been cowering on the floor.
A second police cruiser arrived. His spotlight was also fully lit and scanning the dark parking lot. Both policemen seemed to be in no hurry whatsoever. After what felt like a union-break, both exited their cruisers and talked briefly together between the two cars. What in the hell were they discussing? Couldn’t they see the enormous bullet mark in the glass? Shouldn’t they be asking if I were okay?
Slowly, the first officer to arrive walked toward my window. He calmly asked, “You triggered an alarm?”
My finger pointed to the puckered glass, “Uh, yeah, there was a robbery.”
In a none-too concerned tone he asked, “Have you phoned the owner?”
Mr. Sanders? Shit, I hadn’t thought to call him. “Not yet.”
“We’re going to need him down here or at least talk to him on the phone.” He pulled a notepad from his pocket, “What’s your name, miss?”
“Candy Kane.”
He wrote down my name, then looked up from his notepad with a raised brow. He wo
re the same look I got from everyone when I introduced myself. Sheepishly I responded, “I know. My mom had a strange sense of humor.” My sisters both got normal names – I was the one who got screwed. Dad told me he left the hospital to go home to take care of Kim and Carly, and when he came back the next morning, she had already filled out my birth certificate.
The police officer smiled empathetically at me, “Don’t feel bad, mine named me Charlie.”
I looked at the name tag on his uniform, displaying the last name “Brown.” His humor gave me some relief from the fear camping inside me. I confessed, “I’d rather be a cartoon character over a Christmas decoration.”
He smirked, “Maybe, but to make it worse, she gave me a beagle when I was six – guess what his name was.”
Despite my fear, that made me laugh. “No way! Snoopy? She didn’t dress you in a yellow shirt with black zig zags, did she?”
“No comment. Just remember, as bad as it gets, it could always be worse.” I liked this guy. I hated all the stupid jokes I had heard growing up, but my childhood had to have been a cakewalk compared to his. Officer Brown turned his business voice on and asked, “You want to tell me what happened tonight?”
“You want to come in out of the cold?” He nodded and I let him in. I relayed everything from the time the guy had first pulled up until I was on the floor; I omitted the part about owing him money and what he had said about Libby. He took notes and asked a few questions. When I mentioned the part about him knocking out the security cameras, I added, “It shouldn’t matter, though. I zoomed in on the guy’s license plate, and I know I got a few pictures of his face. All the camera footage is backed up on the internet. He bought gas with a credit card, too; it was the last purchase on pump one.”
Officer Brown stopped taking notes and asked, “Can you show me the surveillance footage from here?”
“You got a computer in your car?” I knew he did – I could see it on his dashboard. I reached for the rumpled up piece of paper Scotchtaped to the wall behind the tray of cigarettes, scrawled down the information on a clean sheet of notebook paper, and handed it to him. Go to the website and use those credentials. The guy pulled up after 12:30; you’ll be able to see all four camera feeds.”
Officer Brown took the piece of paper with all the info on it. “I’ll go take a look. Pull up the credit card information for me and notify the owner.” I locked the door behind him as he returned to his car.
I picked up the phone, wanting desperately to try calling Libby again. His words echoed in my head, “Libby’s not going to be talking to anyone again, Princess.” He knew where we lived. He’d already been there. If I told the cops, they’d know this wasn’t a regular robbery. Instead of calling Mr. Sanders, I tried Libby’s cell – it went to voice mail again. She’d been sleeping when I left, and she always turned her ringer off at night. Maybe the man was just trying to scare me.
Before I’d gotten up for work, she had called for me. Was she trying to wake me up or had she been calling out for me to help her? My stomach lurched at the thought that Libby may have screamed for my help and I ignored her. No, I had seen her before I left the house: she was sleeping. . . or was she?
I racked my brain trying to think of someone I could call to go check on her. It was after 1 AM. Who would answer their phone this time of night, then be willing to go to the house? I’d locked the house up before I left, or had I? I’d been in such a hurry, did I leave the door unlocked?
Officer Brown was in his squad car – I wanted to get his attention, but my feet were planted. They didn’t want to leave the security of my booth. I eased myself around the counter and made it as far as the thick glass double-doors. My hands were shaking so hard I looked like a Parkinson’s patient.
“Get it together, Candy,” I told myself. Reaching for the heavy metal deadbolt, I turned it a quarter-turn and cracked the front door open. Officer Brown hadn’t noticed that I’d budged, so I stood in the cracked doorway and shouted, “Excuse me!! Hello???”
The officer looked up from his computer, but made no effort to get out of his squad car. I motioned for him to come to the door. It was freezing outside, so I didn’t blame him for wanting to do as much investigating as possible in his car, but I kept waving until he slowly exited his sedan. I held the door open for him to join me inside. “Hey, that guy, um, he said something that bothered me.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t remember exactly what he said, but it was something about seeing my roommate and me at a bar.” That was close to the truth. “I tried calling her, but she’s not answering. I think she’s probably sleeping, but do you think someone could check on her?”
For the first time since his arrival, a look of concern flashed in his eyes. “Did you recognize him?”
“No. I mean, I don’t remember seeing him, but he was. . . I don’t know. Could someone see if she’s okay?”
Less concerned than he had been a second ago, he asked, “If you didn’t recognize him, what makes you think he knows your address?”
I shook my head, “I don’t remember exactly what he said, but he knew my roommate’s name. We live alone, and she isn’t answering my calls.”
“What’s your address?”
I gave it to him. He didn’t waste any time asking for a car to be dispatched – he radioed my address in from the radio’s microphone that he wore on his shoulder. When he turned his attention back to me, he asked, “You’re sure she’s at home?”
“Yes. I mean, she was asleep on the sofa when I left for work less than an hour ago.” Libby slept like a rock. It wouldn’t be like her to wake up in the middle of the night and go anywhere. She was probably still on the couch where I left her. I hoped she was.
The guy was here within five minutes of me showing up. He couldn’t have done something to her, then sped over here, could he? He didn’t have enough time. The guy had to have been trying to scare me.
Then it hit me – I hadn’t seen Libby before I left, not really. I saw her on the couch – but could she have been hurt and I hadn’t noticed? I had left the house in such a rush, I really hadn’t seen her. Could he have been in the house when I was there, and he followed me here? I was in such a hurry that I wouldn’t have noticed a jumbo jet following me to work.
The second policeman joined us inside. He had been checking the perimeter of the building while Officer Brown was watching surveillance video from his car. The second officer began briefing Officer Brown, “Three of the four cameras were disabled, damage to the front window, and a shot through the windshield over there.” He was pointing at my car. “I didn’t find any other damage. You think gang initiation?”
I couldn’t help myself, “The jackass shot my car?”
Officer number two answered in a clinical tone, “Looks that way. Unless you drove here tonight with a bullet hole through the driver’s side of the windshield. The forensics team is going to need to recover the slug.”
I careened my neck to try to see my windshield over the rack of candy bars. There was a hole in the driver’s side with cracks spread out encircling it in an ugly spider web. Great, more money I didn’t have.
Officer Brown’s radio shrieked to life, “Ambulance requested at. . .” I heard my address as my ears strained to hear each word. “Female, early twenties, head trauma, lacerations to her face and hands – unresponsive. No sign of forced entry. Victim was seen through a window.” The words had crackled out through the radio on his shoulder, and my knees went out from under me. Libby, he had hurt Libby.
No sign of forced entry. Had she let him in while I was sleeping? Was he still in the house when I left? Libby had called out to me a few minutes before I was supposed to get up to leave for work. I thought she was giving me a wake-up call. Had she been calling for my help?
I ran around to the other side of the counter, grabbed my phone and called Mr. Sanders. His voice was groggy when he answered. I don’t know what all I said to him as words spewed out of me, but
I heard him say, “I’m on my way.”
The second officer guided me toward my chair as I numbly took a seat.
My body went into robot mode. The two officers asked questions as I answered one after another – but I felt disconnected. Someone asked me for the keys to my car to dig the bullet out of wherever it was lodged. I could only think of Libby. They had called an ambulance for her. What had he done and when had he done it? He had to have been right there in the house, but I didn’t see him as I rushed out the door. Would he have attacked me, too? My mind came to one conclusion: yes, he would have. I had left the house so quickly, I wouldn’t have noticed a polar bear in the house unless it was holding my car keys.
Playing pool and watching Libby take money from strangers never seemed dangerous – never. Sure, guys got pissed off lots of times, but it was more of an assault on their egos. None had ever threatened either of us before. The manicotti Libby had made me was still in the casserole dish on the counter where I had set it when I arrived – I hadn’t even had a chance to lift the lid. Raw emotion grabbed hold of me as my eyes focused on the casserole dish. She had to be okay. Trying to reason with myself, I remembered the voice over the radio had said “unresponsive,” not dead.
I described the robber, then proceeded to tell them about our encounter with Teddy and Tony earlier tonight. “They were on table four at Bank Shot tonight. Tony was a tall slender guy. He had a lot of acne. He looked my age – early twenties. His older brother was Teddy; he was shorter than Tony, muscular, and seemed to be in his early thirties. Both had dark hair.”
Officer Brown was scrawling down my words in his notebook. “My roommate and Teddy were betting on games. She took Teddy for four hundred dollars. He was seriously mad, but he paid her. The bartender working tonight was Chris. If they paid with a credit card, he might know their last name. I know Teddy used the ATM while he was there.”
His Frozen Heart Page 5