by Mia Kerick
“How well did you know Dom DeSalles?” I ask. We’re stretched out on our backs with our hands behind our heads, on individual double beds, more or less watching television. At some point last night we found a station that shows live, and previously recorded baseball games pretty much 24/7. Baseball is just the game we need to help us pass the time. Not too angst-filled, unless there’s a bench-clearing brawl, which is rare. It makes decent background white noise if you want to talk or sleep, but also a sport that can engage your brain, when necessary.
“Not very well. We’ve had a few classes together because we’re both in the business program. And the internship last summer.” He turns onto his side so that he’s facing me. “I invited him to sit with me in the cafeteria to eat lunch—every day of the first week of the internship—but he didn’t even look at me, let alone reply. So I gave up and just hung out with other guys from my department.”
“Who did he eat lunch with?”
“He sat alone, but the weird thing is, he seemed pissed off at me… like I’d rejected him or something.” I once again notice that Liam is huge… imposing, even when lying on a bed. “The guy doodled a lot.”
“Doodled?”
“Yeah… he was always drawing in this spiral bound notebook. He kept it pretty close to his vest, but whenever I walked by and glanced down he was drawing weapons—guns and cross bows and stuff like that—and people lying injured on the ground. I just figured he had a vivid imagination and pushed it out of my mind.”
I close my eyes to absorb the meaning of his words and I hear that familiar sigh from across the room.
“I should’ve done something. But I just shook my head and walked away and … my failure to act might’ve got a whole lot of innocent people killed.”
“You couldn’t have stopped this, Liam. He probably had it all planned out right down to the very last bullet.”
He is silent and flips onto his other side to face the wall. “I’m gonna try and catch a few Z’s, man.” My best guess is that he’s feeling guilty.
“Okay. Maybe I’ll do the same.” I don’t make a move to roll onto my side; I just close my eyes and wait for sleep to come.
And wait.
And wait.
Sadly, I’m getting used to sleep’s refusal to show up when I need it. But part of me is thankful for my inability to sleep. Ever since I was a kid, when something weighed heavily on my mind, I’ve been plagued by nightmares. Even if I’d watched a particularly disturbing horror movie, or eaten too much ice cream too close to bedtime, my dreams reflected it. So it’s probably just as well that I can’t fall asleep.
***
“Don’t shoot her! Leave us alone!” My own screaming wakes me up. “Don’t! Please… don’t!”
Within a split second I’ve been scooped into strong arms. I’m still bracing myself, ready for the explosion and the pain and the anguish, but instead of agony, I hear a voice. “It’s over, Jase… you’re safe. You’re safe now.”
I want so badly to stay safe and warm beside this fortress that now shelters me, but I can’t. I struggle to free myself from the protective, addictive arms. “But Ginny! My Ginny—she’s dead! He shot her and… and her head fell to the side… I could feel it drop onto my shoulder…. And there was warm wet stuff on my face… It was Ginny’s blood splashing out… I think it was coming out of her ear, but maybe it was coming out of her temple where the bullet… where it went in and….” Although my eyes are wide open and I’m staring at a textured beige ceiling, I don’t have a clue where I am. Neither do I know why I’m shaking… but I’m shivering like when I was five years old and I climbed out of the warm bathtub and ran down the chilly hallway, wet and naked, to my bedroom to find my PJ’s, and Mom yelled irrationally, “You’re gonna catch a cold, Jason—mark my words—you’re gonna catch your death!”
“You couldn’t help her, Jase. There was nothing you could do.” His voice is deep and rumbly and familiar, his arms are thick and sturdy, and his presence is steady and so very dependable—it’s all I want, and just what I need. “She died instantly.”
Those words are just too difficult to hear, although I recognize their truth. “Where are we?”
“In the safe house… the hotel the police put us in to keep Dom from finding us.”
I turn onto my side and nuzzle into his chest. Like a baby animal reconnecting with its mother, I breathe in his scent. I roll around until I’m placed perfectly in his arms. “Why do I need you so much? Why am I addicted to your arms and your voice and your sound and your smell?”
“I… I don’t know.”
“You saved me.” He smells like sweet mint and almonds, the best parts of nature… and I can’t get enough. I push my nose into the hollow of his neck and brace myself for his rejection but it doesn’t come. Neither does he offer to repeat our sexual interaction of the other night. I think I’m relieved but maybe it’s a disguised disappointment.
“You saved me right back. Saving you saved me.” Strong fingers tighten on my hip and shoulder, and I know instinctively that everything in my life has changed.
5
I’m so not myself that I don’t even recognize the sound of the cell phone for what it is. Instead, its shrill ring brings me back to the night in the theater when the fire alarm screamed out. Visibly startled, I look all around the bland room for a fire… or a crazed gunman. Blood races through my veins as fresh adrenaline surges.
“It’s okay, Jase. It’s just the phone.” His big palm easily finds its way to my knee where it lingers and I stare at it, wondering why the hell my heart slows back to its normal pace with this man’s mere touch. “It’s gotta be the police. No one else has this number. I can call them back when you feel better.”
We’re sitting cross-legged on the bed we’ve adopted as ours, half-heartedly playing gin rummy. Liam more or less set up camp on my bed after my major freak-out last night, for which I’m grateful. “No… it’s okay. Go ahead and answer. It might be important.”
Once again, he leans and grabs the cell phone off the night table. “Yes? Yeah… this is Liam. She did what? Jesus Christ, gimme a goddamn break!”
Liam looks markedly different than he did thirty seconds ago. His skin has paled, his expression is suddenly stressed, and his hand tightens painfully on my knee.
“Where the fuck are we supposed to go, Spader?” He isn’t smiling, so I know this is a serious question. “The fucking laundry room? You got any better ideas than that?”
The fight or flight response.
I learned about it in Intro to Psychology, an elective I took during senior year in high school. It’s defined as an instinctive response to a perceived harmful event that tells you to get the hell out of Dodge if you don’t plan to fight with everything you’ve got for your very survival. My heart pounds so intensely that I can feel it in my eardrums, and the skin of my chest and neck and upper arms prickles, as if with electricity. I leap off the bed, ready to run, entirely certain that something has gone hugely wrong in the plans to keep us safe.
“Okay, okay… we’re leaving.” Liam drops the cards he was holding and gets up off the bed but doesn’t reach for me. “Yeah, we’re going right now. We’ll meet you in the housekeeping suite.” He ends the call and stares at me. In a state of controlled panic is the perfect way to describe him.
“What’s the matter, Liam? What’s going on?” I don’t even try to play it cool. The appearance of “composed” I’ve managed to fake for the past few hours washes away like blood down a bathtub drain.
“We’ve gotta get outta here, ASAP! Jase, they think Dom knows….”
“Dom knows what?”
“He knows where we are.”
“H-how? H-how does he know? We’re supposed to be safe here!” After my outburst, I put my head in my hands and mumble what the fuck, what the fuck, over and over until I can breathe again.
“Some friggin’ idiotic news station televised a broadcast from right in front of this hotel. The report
er talked about how two terrified witnesses are being held at an undisclosed location, but this fucking hotel was clearly visible in the background. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure it out, and Dom’s damned sharp. We can’t risk it by just sitting here on our asses and waiting for Dom to show up and blow us away!”
“No…. n-no….” Any final semblance of calmness slips away, demonstrated by the rubbery wobbling of my knees. “No… this can’t be happening….” I return to repeating what the fuck because I find it more soothing than anything else I’ve tried.
“Look, Jase. We’ve gotta go. As in, now.” He grabs my sneakers from beside the bed, then shoves them into my hands. “Here… put these on. Detective Spader and a whole slew of cops are already on their way and they told me we should meet them in the housekeeping unit in the basement… in the room with all of the washers and dry—”
His explanation is interrupted by three loud bangs on the door.
Three single ominous terrifying thuds that bring back memories I have not yet fully grasped, let alone dealt with.
And I know as well as Liam does that not a single soul with the exception of the police has a clue that we’re here. Detective Spader even told housekeeping, “the boys in 312 won’t need no cleaning service.” And didn’t he say that the police would always identify themselves when they knocked?
Our gazes meet; we both know who has come to call.
Where Liam’s brain seems to be on the same path as mine, I slide into my typical immobilized panic mode, staring at the door with one sneaker in each hand, while he springs into action. “We’re gonna have to use the window.”
Pop-pop-pop….
Is that the sound of actual gunfire or am I reliving Friday night as I have so often in my nightmares?
I think I might cry out, “Not again!” but who can be sure in times like these?
Then I hear it: a strange sing-song, maybe even cheerful-sounding, male voice calling to us from behind the door. “I told you I’d find you… and unlike some people, I keep my promises.” I have no idea what he means by that, but he seems to find it funny. He laughs and the sound is warped and creepy and disconcerting. “Just like my old man always says, a man is only as good as his word.”
I fumble with my sneakers. “Jason—forget the damned sneakers! Get your ass over here now!” He’s standing by the window, pushing out the screen. “Now!”
I shake my head hard hoping it will help me to get with the program and, still barefoot, I drop the sneakers and move to the window.
Pop-pop-pop….
The door splinters in several places. I can see through to movement on the other side, which seems unreal. Moisture dribbles down the side of my chin as I’ve lost my ability to swallow.
Liam grabs me roughly and shoves me through the open window, just as he pushed me through the trap door to the orchestra pit several nights ago. I know he’s following because I can feel his heat behind me on the landing of the narrow fire escape. My forearm is gripped tightly and I think of fingerprint bruises. And of how lucky I’ll be if I live to see the evidence of Liam’s second show of heroism in small dark bruises up my arm.
Déjà vu and then some, huh?
Pop-pop-pop….
One bullet hits the inside window frame, another flies right through the open window and whizzes past my head. It occurs to me that if I just stand still I can join Ginny… wherever she is now. I cheated death once, but apparently the Grim Reaper has my number and—
“I’m not leaving you here, Tripp! I didn’t leave you then and I’m not gonna leave you now!” Liam’s piercing dark eyes are wide with fear and something else… something like resolve. I allow myself to be dragged in his wake, to the creaky stairs, and then down.
The shooter—Dom DeSalles, minus all the threatening black clothing of Friday night—is now leaning out the window that we climbed from no more than fifteen seconds ago. Minds are funny things, and right now mine is thinking that this version of Dom, in a bright red Nike “Just Do It” T-shirt and messed up dark curls, looks like he just rolled out of bed. But instead of a teddy bear, he’s clutching a handgun… it’s black and silver and I realize that, aside from in sports shops and outdoor magazines, I’ve never before seen one close up. And never before in the light of day have I seen a gun pointed directly at my head at the distance of ten feet.
I’m helplessly spellbound by the sight of my intended assassin. Dom is transfixed by me in an entirely different way. His eyes are unnaturally round; the whites seem to diminish the size of his eyeballs. And he’s smiling—not so much a happy grin, but rather a satisfied, “I told you so” leer.
Silently, he aims the gun at my head, even squinting in concentration. Instead of running, I dutifully brace myself, unwilling to get shot without being ready for it. But before I hear the deafening cracks of the first of three well-aimed shots, accompanied by the blinding pain of having my forehead ripped apart by scorching metal, I’m tackled and slammed to the ground. Liam is at first on top of me, but he scrambles to his feet, and is more than willing to pick me up, push me in front of him, and shelter me by curving himself around my body. A mutual stumble and fall to the bottom of the rusty stairs puts us momentarily out of Dom’s line of fire. Surprisingly, probably to all three present, Liam and I have made it to the hotel parking lot relatively intact.
Without thinking, I scan the nearly empty lot for a cherry red muscle car, but I don’t see it, and then I remember that we were delivered to this “safe house” in unmarked cop cars, not in Liam’s supercool wheels.
Pop-pop-pop…. Pop-pop-pop….
“Get behind that truck, Jase!” Liam again drags me to my feet and pushes me in the direction of a shiny, white Ford Tundra. Apparently still coherent, my brain reluctantly sends the orders to my legs and I manage to step behind the vehicle. But my heart isn’t invested in this second escape from the crazed gunman determined to kill us for no reason I can see. I curl up into a tight ball, reminiscent of the fetal position I formed on the theater floor before Liam found me. I’m so far less than the measure of a man—I’m weak and scared and… and surprisingly less disappointed in myself than I’d have predicted.
Pop-pop-pop….
Liam hasn’t curled up on the pavement beside me, though. He’s standing behind the truck, shifting around and seemingly trying to keep an eye on the madman. “Shit! DeSalle’s climbing out the window!” He shakes me until I release myself from the fetal position that I so consistently form in my nightmares, and, as of late, in my reality. “Get ready to run, ‘kay?”
I’m supposed to run through this parking lot, dodging bullets that have my name written on them? Really?
“And when you run, you gotta kinda zig-zag.…” He gestures awkwardly with his arm, movements that are meant to explain. “Don’t run in a straight line. He’s not a great shot, so chances are good he’ll miss us!”
Chances are? For some reason, the words make me want to smile; they strike me as whimsical and romantic, which this situation certainly is not. My mind is apparently separating from the here and now because it’s way too much for me to deal with. I wonder apathetically about our odds of surviving this sunny Tuesday morning in the parking lot of the Sleep and Stay Hotel.
“Sleep and Get Frigging Shot At” is a much more fitting name for this hotel. I suppress a senseless giggle and coil my body into the tiniest of circles.
“He’s climbing down the stairs…. We’ve gotta frigging run!” Liam tugs on my forearm, trying desperately to uncurl the tight ball into which I’m now locked. “Jason! Man, you’re coming with me… like it or not you’re coming with me!” He pushes on my shoulder and scratches at the side of my legs in an effort to uncoil me, but I’m too caught up in the hollow sound of the shooter’s footsteps as they approach us, to do so much as move an inch.
“L-leave me here… just g-go… go….” Beneath the truck, I can see a pair of black and white Nike LeBron Soldiers—nothing but the coolest of shoes for the guy who’s g
onna take me out—coming closer and closer. “Liam… please… leave me here….” Something is seriously wrong with my brain, and I know it. I’ve shut down because I can’t cope. But Liam shouldn’t have to die here with me. “Go on… run, Liam… I’m okay with it.”
“I’m not leaving you,” Liam replies, all panic suddenly absent from his voice, and replaced with cool resignation. With a shake of his head, Liam drops to his knees and bends, covering me almost entirely with his bulk.
Pop-pop-pop….
Next thing I know, the parking lot is filling with police cars, sirens blaring. And there’s a big van and SWAT guys and soon Liam is pulled off me and I’m being dragged away behind a hulking policeman and his protective shield.
As I make my graceless exit from the chaotic scene, there’s a clamor of angry shouting, orders and threats from what I can make out, and then I hear a single gunshot coming from the shooter’s direction.
Pop!
“Liam! Liam! Liam!” I hear my own voice screaming.
Part Two
July
6
“All I’m saying is that you aren’t the same—never have been—since that thing happened in April.”
“That thing” is how Mom refers to the theater shooting.
“And if you’d just listen to me for once in your twenty years, you’ll transfer out of that hillbilly college up in the sticks of Vermont and enroll in the far superior college in your very own home town.” She’s standing over my usual spot on the couch, shaking a wooden spoon at me, as this debate erupted halfway through her making the double-chocolate fudge brownies she’s so proud of. “You can live at home, and I can keep your laundry clean and cook for you, too.”
“Mom… I’m okay. I’ll be fine when I get back to Batcheldor.”
“Fine like you were the first or the second time that whacko tried to shoot you dead?”