by Debbi Mack
I liked living alone, doubted if I could abide sharing my space with anyone, but sometimes I wondered. If I dropped dead tomorrow, who would care? Maybe a few people, but ...
Still things could be worse. What if I were Melanie? Apart from my problems, maybe that was one reason I was so interested in finding her. She was all alone like me—probably scared shitless and in over her head.
Was that where I was with Ray? Over my head? I felt a wave of self-pity wash over me.
“Damn it,” I said. “Snap the fuck out of this.”
It was time for drastic measures. I marched straight to the fridge and went for the chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. Unfortunately, the carton contained about two spoonfuls, tops.
“Shit.” I sighed. I didn’t really want to go out, but unless I provisioned up, my next dinner was going to be a shriveled hot dog that I probably should have thrown out months ago or another Lean Cuisine. Plus, I needed that ice cream, for medicinal purposes.
I grabbed my purse and headed out. As I walked, I realized a car was pulling up beside me. It had a garish hood ornament. The Lincoln’s back doors were already open and two men were coming at me when I turned to run. I didn’t get far. They each took an arm and dragged me toward the car, one clapping a hand over my mouth before I could utter a peep.
My head felt light, and my stomach had that hard knot you get before you throw up. My pulse raced. I squirmed, but they had my arms locked in place. I kicked as hard as I could, connecting with one guy’s knee. He yelped in pain and his grip on my arm loosened enough for me to wrench free and scratch the other one’s face. As he cried out, his hand dropped from my mouth, although he continued to hold my other arm tight.
“Help!” I hollered at the top of my lungs. I tried to pull away from him. “Help!”
More noise, talking, footsteps behind me. Somebody grabbed my shoulders. Before I could yell again, I got a punch in the gut. I couldn’t breathe, talk, or move.
“Bitch,” a man said, as they dragged me into the car.
Someone blindfolded me, and we took off.
Chapter SEVEN
––––––––
By the time I recovered my wind, they’d gagged me and tied my hands behind my back. The rope was tight, making my wrists hurt. Having my arms stretched back was awkward, forcing me to use muscles I’d not used in ages. The car’s air conditioning was on full blast. I was freezing and sweating like a pig. On the whole, it was not an ideal arrangement.
They took me somewhere. I can’t tell you where. I can’t even tell you how long it took. A blindfold takes away all sense of place and time. Being terrified doesn’t make things much better.
When we finally got to wherever the hell we went, they guided me out of the car with hands gripping both my arms. We marched a few yards, then stopped. I heard the jingle of keys. No one spoke.
A door opened and we went inside. The floor was hard and the only sound was the faint echo of our footsteps. We walked until we reached another door. More walking, then up a short flight of steps. Despite my fear, I was amazed at how well my other senses worked, taking up the slack caused by the blindfold. First, a hard floor, then a carpet, now bare floor again. The place felt warm and stuffy, but maybe I was just nervous. The guys holding my arms were firm, but not rough. Not gentle either, but they had no reason to be rough—yet.
They maneuvered me around until I felt something against the back of my knees. One of the men grunted something like “siddown” in my ear. I complied with gratitude. My legs shook. Sweat dripped from my armpits and my stomach was jumpy. I desperately hoped I wouldn’t vomit—especially with the gag on.
They bound my legs and took off the blindfold and gag. I was on a stage, facing a dark theater, squinting into two blinding white spotlights. When my eyes adjusted, I could see empty seats. What had I expected, a full house?
“Ms. McRae.” A disembodied male voice, electrically amplified, boomed from the dark.
I blinked and waited for more.
“Ms. McRae,” the voice repeated in an implacable and monotonous tone. “It’s good to meet you.”
I didn’t trust myself to say anything, so I nodded.
“I’m sorry about the inconvenience. It’s important you know we’re serious.”
No shit, I thought. I licked my lips, but my mouth had gone so dry it was a wasted gesture.
“You do realize that?”
I worked my mouth again and managed to say, “Yes.” It sounded like I’d swallowed ground glass.
“Good. Let’s get down to business then,” the robotic voice droned on. “It would be good to do this quickly and painlessly, don’t you agree?”
He could have been talking about killing me, for all I knew. I said, “Yes.”
“Where is Melanie Hayes, Ms. McRae?”
“I don’t know.”
“What was that?”
“I don’t know.” In my peripheral vision, I sensed a presence. A big, heavy, muscle-bound presence.
“Is that your final answer?”
Had I been kidnapped by Regis Philbin? “I just don’t—”
Suddenly, I was facing left, my cheek stinging, but I hadn’t turned my head—someone had turned it for me. The slap had come fast and from out of nowhere.
“Where is she?”
I tried to catch my breath. “I ... don’t know.”
Another slap, harder this time. The lights were making my eyes hurt. My head throbbed.
“Where is Melanie Hayes?”
Again, I told him I didn’t know. I got a punch in the ribs. Then another.
“Where is she?”
I shook my head. It hurt to breathe now. Another hard slap followed by a punch in the gut. I gasped for air.
“Stop that,” the voice commanded. “Give her time.”
The muscle man stepped back. I got my time. Then the voice said, “What’s your business with Bruce Schaeffer?”
How the hell had Schaeffer gotten into this? “Wanted to ask him some questions.”
“About what? What sort of questions?”
“Thought maybe he might know where Melanie is.”
Pause. “I’m not sure I believe you.”
Hands pulled me from the chair and threw me to the floor. My head hit with a bang. A kick landed in the kidney region of my lower back. I howled as an electric current of pain shot through me.
“What did you talk about, Ms. McRae? Be specific, please. I want details.” The voice boomed relentlessly.
“I asked him if he knew where she was,” I gasped. “That’s all.”
“Why would he know?”
“It was a hunch.” I said it fast, trying to get it out before the next blow landed. “I’m trying to find her. The police are looking for her. That’s all.”
I braced myself, waiting for something worse to happen.
The voice was silent. Finally, the man said, “Did Melanie Hayes leave anything with you?”
“No.”
“Nothing? Are you sure?”
“No. She didn’t give me anything.”
“You lying bitch. Talk.” This from the muscle man, who kicked me again and again. He slammed me onto my back and with one arm pinned my shoulders down and sat astride my thighs, smashing my bound hands into the hard floor. He stared at me with eyes as devoid of warmth as a shark’s. A deep scar ran down his left cheek.
I heard a metallic snick and a switchblade moved into view above my face.
“Tell us, you filthy, lying cunt. Tell us or I’ll cut your fuckin’ eyes out.” The knife hovered over my left eye, then moved in closer.
I whimpered.
“Stop that, you idiot.” the voice ordered. “Get off her right now.”
I lay there, ready to piss my pants, thinking about spending the rest of my life mutilated or blind. I didn’t dare move or breathe. I wanted to pass out.
“I said get off her,” the voice commanded.
The muscle man finally withdrew the knife an
d got up. He seemed reluctant.
I gasped for breath. My body shook uncontrollably.
“If you’re lying, Ms. McRae—”
“I’m not,” I said in a strangled voice. “I swear.”
A long pause. The muscle man continued to stand over me, a dark silhouette against the spotlights. The only sound was his heavy breathing.
“All right. I think you’re telling the truth. If I find out you’re lying ... things won’t go so easy next time.”
With those words, I knew I was going to live. The blindfold and gag went back on. They untied my feet, helped me up, and half-walked, half-carried me to the car. My head ached where it had hit the floor. The ride home was silent and took forever.
They stopped in front of my building, helped me out, untied my hands and left before I could get the blindfold off. Again, I didn’t get the tag number.
I was right about one thing—the Mob didn’t kill unless it had to. What I hadn’t anticipated was they might beat the crap out of me.
It must have rained while I was gone, although it hadn’t cooled things down any. The parking lot was damp, glowing with the reflections of lights on the apartment buildings. Steam rose from the asphalt, creating an outdoor sauna.
For one panicky moment, I thought I’d lost my purse, until I realized it hung from my shoulder. Dazed, I hobbled to my building, but couldn’t bring myself to climb the stairs. I sat down to rest. Next thing I knew, I lay on the steps, my head on my arm and my eyes closed. My body felt like one huge bruise. Every breath I took was agony. It even hurt to think.
I heard a door open and close somewhere. I considered moving. Why bother? Footsteps. If they could walk, they could walk around me.
“What the hell?”
A familiar nasal voice. I opened my eyes. I knew this guy. Mid-sixties, hair a glossy, dyed brown, brown eyes and a disgusted expression. My downstairs neighbor, Russell Burke.
“Hi.” I tried to push myself upright with little success.
Russell came around and helped me sit up. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Are you drunk?”
I shook my head. “No. Drunk would not be it.”
“What the hell are you doing lying here on the stairs?”
“Resting.” I felt nauseated again. The effort of talking was making me sick. I was thirsty, too. I needed to get to bed.
He scowled. “I hope that crazy fool who left here with his tires squealing wasn’t your date. Hey.” His look changed to one of concern. “My God, you look pale.”
“I feel kind of pale. Ha ... oh, ow.” I clutched my rib cage. “Bad move. Worst date of my life. Uh-oh.” Things spun, but I caught hold of a step with one hand to steady myself. My tongue felt like a piece of dried leather.
“Sam? Sam?” Russell’s voice sounded tinny and far away.
“No problem,” I mumbled. “Just get me a gallon of water and a bed, and I’ll be fine. Okeydokey?” I grabbed the handrail and, ignoring the pain, pulled myself up. Then I passed out.
Chapter EIGHT
––––––––
I was in the bottom of a well, looking up. It was night. I could see the stars. I was cold. I was wet. It was a long way to the top. Voices. The sound of voices echoed down the well. They made my head throb.
I tried to yell, but nothing came out.
Someone’s beeper went off. Voices and a beeper. They were driving me crazy.
At the top of the well, a woman’s face appeared. She smiled at me.
“Melanie?” I called out. “Melanie?”
A spotlight blinded me. Not again. Please, don’t hit me again. Please ...
“Melanie,” I mumbled.
“Shhh. Lie still.” Words spoken in a low and reassuring tone. Someone touched my wrist, someone with cool hands. I opened my eyes. I wasn’t in a well. I was on my back, a nurse standing beside me. She was taking my pulse. I lifted my head a bit. Curtains hung around me. Where they parted, I could see people in white coats and hospital scrubs. Machines beeped. I put my head back down.
“Hello,” I said, the word stumbling off my tongue.
“Hello,” she said. She looked me over in a way that was both appraising and concerned. She seemed to exist in a zone of calm, which she shared with me.
“Will I live?” My voice sounded bizarre and unnatural. It seemed to be out of sync with the movements of my mouth. My own voice dubbed into the movie of my life.
She smiled. “I think you have a few more years left in you.” Her voice had a Midwestern twang making me think of apple pie.
“Yay. I’m gonna live.” My voice came out in a singsong. Far away, someone laughed. Suddenly, I felt very tired. I drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
I woke up again in a hospital room, my mouth so dry, I could have sworn there was dust in it. When I tried to sit up, my head and abdomen protested. It was light out, but it must have been early evening. The TV was turned on low to Access Hollywood. Russell slept in a chair.
“Russell?” I croaked. His head snapped up, and he opened his eyes, blinking. He appeared to be as disoriented as I was.
“Oh, thank heavens,” he said. He rubbed his face, as if to wipe the fatigue off.
“How long have you been here?”
“Since the ambulance brought you.”
I felt swelling in my belly and probed it. Tender. “Where am I?”
“Laurel Hospital.”
“You look awful.”
He did an exaggerated double take. “You should talk, missy.”
I chuckled, then cringed. God, my throat was parched.
“You’re kind, Russell. Go home. You shouldn’t do this to yourself.”
“Who else is there?” he snapped.
He glared at me, in that disapproving way of his, then his look softened. He never stayed mad for long. “I thought it was important for someone to be here when you woke up,” he said.
“You’re a real friend, you know that?” I whispered.
He stood and walked over to me. “We all need friends.” He stroked my hair, looking at me with a mixture of concern, gratitude, and relief.
For a moment, I feared I’d burst into tears.
A nurse came in to take my vitals. She had water. I wanted to chug it all, but she made me sip it. Then a doctor joined us. He said intestinal bleeding caused my abdominal swelling. A bruised kidney was the worst of it. I had a mild concussion and a serious knot on my head. In short, I was extremely lucky.
I felt good, all things considered, until he said they’d probably keep me for at least a week.
“But I’ve got a business to run,” I said. “I can’t lie around here for a week. My clients depend on me.”
“You’re not going to be able to take care of them until you can take care of yourself,” the doctor said.
I was so exhausted, I didn’t want to think, let alone argue with the guy.
Russell stayed after the medical staff left. “Let me get together with that woman in your office. If there’s anything we need to reschedule, we’ll handle it.”
“OK,” I said, forcing myself to remember what I had on my plate for the next few days. No court dates, but there were a few meetings. “Sheila has a spare key to the office. Now, she doesn’t work for me, Russell, so don’t expect too much from her. My calendar’s on the desk. And Jamila’s number is in my Rolodex. Maybe she can lend a hand.” I lay back on the pillow, my head spinning.
“You’ve got to relax,” Russell directed. “Even after you get out of the hospital, you’ll need time to recover.”
“Jesus.” I always wondered what I’d do if this happened. Self-employed people should always have a back-up plan, someone to turn to if they’re incapacitated. I felt as helpless and small as a bug on its back, trying to get upright. I was lucky I had friends I could depend on.
The first few days were tough. Once I got off the painkillers, I started to feel better, but it was still an effort to get around. Russell brought books and magazines. Jamila stopped by a
nd offered to fill in for me on any cases that needed immediate help. While she took care of the legal minutiae, Russell cleared my calendar of meetings and other stuff for the next few weeks and looked after Oscar. It was both gratifying and nerve-racking. I’ve never felt such a lack of control.
As the week crawled by, I improved slowly. I took extended walks around the floor as soon as I could, partly out of boredom and partly to show everyone how great I was doing. They wiped me out at first, but I got stronger each time. Near the end of my stay, I won’t say I was ready to run a marathon, but I was definitely moving better. I was also anxious to return to the outside world, despite being told by the police when they interviewed me that I should lie low for the immediate future.
When the doctor told me I could go, I almost jumped for joy.
“But you’ll have to take it easy,” he warned. “Don’t push yourself, or you’ll end up back here.”
“Sure. I understand.” Nod and smile, I thought. And get the hell out of here.
Russell picked me up. My calendar was clear for the next two weeks. I expressed my eternal gratitude. When we got to my apartment, I remembered that I needed to buy food. That’s what started this whole mess, going out for groceries.
When I mentioned it to Russell, he said, “Stay here. I’ll do your shopping.”
“Russell, I can do this—”
“Shut the hell up and make a list.”
Who was I to argue? After he left, I lay on the couch and watched TV. Same as I could have done at the hospital, but somehow, it made a great deal of difference that I was home.
φ φ φ
The next day, I went to the office. I’d been out a mere week, but it seemed a lot longer. Besides, I couldn’t depend on the kindness of friends forever. I needed to check in.
Sheila stopped what she was doing when she saw me. “You’re supposed to be resting,” she snapped. “What are you doing here?”