Murder on the Run

by Medora Sale

  The living room of the suburban townhouse was no longer brightly neat. Opened newspapers were scattered over the floor; grease and egg yolk congealed on plates scattered about the room. Various items of clothing lay where they had been taken off, and the television set flickered on, unheeded. He was sitting on a large chair with the walnut-veneer coffee table in front of him. Beside him on the floor were his coloured markers in their plastic case. He pushed the table out of the way, went out of the room; down the three steps, he made a right turn into the kitchen. The table was covered with more dirty dishes. A carton of milk sat, warm and sour-smelling, on the counter beside a dirty frying pan and some used coffee cups. He reached into the cupboard and took out the last clean glass, put it down, and reached into the refrigerator for a large bottle of Coke. When he turned back to the counter, there was no space to put the bottle down; with a gesture of impatient rage, he swept the counter clear in a welter of flying glass and sour milk. He put the bottle down, and there was no longer a clean glass waiting. He hit the counter with the bottle, and then stood, trembling, clutching the bottle in both hands. Finally, he walked carefully over to the far cabinets, his feet crunching on broken glass, and carefully lifted down a dusty tumbler from what was obviously a “good” set, poured his Coke into it, and returned to the living room.

  His last failure still rankled. Not since the very beginning had he been humiliated this way, and he was sure that it must have been a matter of insufficient preparation on his part. He would pick a site tonight and, tomorrow, would inspect it carefully. Friday was plenty of time to act. He could certainly wait until Friday. He picked up his red marker and started to wave magic circles above the map. He chose, he rejected, he chose again. Finally he took out his yellow marker and made a little dot beside a green space. Then he took out his operations notebook and jotted down a strategic route. When he finished he leaned back in his chair and stared at a spot on the wall above the draperies, his mind empty of conscious thought, but filled with flickering, garish images.

  Amanda strained her ears to pick up what was going on but heard nothing except the distant hum of traffic. After what seemed an interminable time, the garage door was thrown up once more, the door to the car opened and slammed, and the key turned in the ignition. She had been lying with her face pressed into the space under the front seat, choking on the fine dust of the floor, terrified of moving lest she attract Jimmy’s attention once again. The garage must have been built on a dirt laneway of ancient and epic disrepair; with every enormous bump her head jerked and she scraped her nose against the seat back. Finally they reached pavement again and the car maneuvered along the uneven streets, screeching to halts and spiraling in an endless series of turns. They finally pulled up with a nauseating bump. The door opened once again.

  “It’s about time you got here. Christ! Where have you been? And what in hell were you doing? Listen, if you were messing around—”

  “Don’t worry,” said Jimmy soothingly. “I wouldn’t mess around without giving you your chance, too, Rickie baby. Anyway, I had to make a couple of phone calls that took me a little longer than I thought. We don’t want to do this too soon. It’d be better to wait until everyone’s gone home to bed anyway.”

  “Wait! Shit, Jimmy, I have to go on duty at eleven. It’s going to look pretty funny if I don’t turn up on time. And I want to take a shower before I go on.”

  “A shower! You’re kind of weird, aren’t you? I mean, thinking of showers right now.” Jimmy’s voice was light and mocking now. “Well, here we are.”

  “Just a minute. I’ll move the barricade.”

  “Isn’t that going to look funny?”

  “Naw. The guys who patrol around here always move it. And half the time they don’t bother putting it back. It just has to be moved for the next car. No one will notice.” The car door opened, cold wind blew in; then it shut again, and the car bounced downward.

  The car crept slowly onto what must have been dirt or grass. It bumped its way cautiously along and then gently stopped. “Okay.” Jimmy’s voice was clear, authoritative now. “We get her out of the car onto the grass. Untie her and take off the gag. There’s a big rock under the seat on your side. Got it?” There was a murmur in reply. “Okay. As soon as she’s untied, we toss her in the bushes and bash her head in. And don’t screw up. Just a minute. You see anyone?” There was a pause. “Okay, let’s go, and don’t waste any time.”

  The back door opened. Amanda was frozen silent with fear. “Jesus,” whispered Rick. “She’s awful quiet. Think she’s dead?” A hand felt for her throat, pressed down on her jugular.

  “She’s alive.” Hands grabbed her everywhere and dragged her, scraping and banging her against the sides of the car until she was clear of it and then flung her onto the grass. She felt an intolerable tugging of the constraints on her ankles as they were sawn away by something. Her legs fell slightly apart. “Here. Take the knife and get her wrists and the gag.” Jimmy’s hand fell on her thighs again and flipped her pleated skirt up as Rick hacked away at her wrists and yanked the gag from her face. Blood surged painfully through her arms as Rick carefully moved them into a more natural position.

  “Would you quit that, you bastard. Someone’s going to come by here and that’ll be the end.” She felt herself being lifted by the shoulders. “Grab her feet, you creep, and let’s go.”

  “Have you got that rock?”

  “How in hell am I supposed to carry her and the rock? I’ll go back for it when I put her down.” Amanda took her first deep breath in hours. If she had a chance, it would be now. She sagged artistically in their grasp until she felt Rick start to loosen his grip on her shoulders. “Here, this’ll be good enough. Drop her.”

  As they dropped her, she flung herself sideways and rolled, landing on her shaky feet and hands; she was just able to push herself up. She staggered two steps, got caught by some bushes, thrust them aside fiercely and plunged forward, helplessly, down the side of an abyss.

  Chapter 9

  Amanda was sitting on a large bus that was traveling over an enormously high, arched bridge. The bus skidded suddenly and swerved, and then turned into a huge recalcitrant pony that bucked and threw her off its back and down toward the deep blue-black water beneath. She plunged miles and miles through the blackness. Her mouth felt dry and muffled, stuffed with thick black cotton wool; her head buzzed and echoed and her stomach heaved. Then she was awake and aware only of a stabbing agony in her arm and shoulder. Memory trickled back slowly. She knew she must be very quick, and very quiet, but she couldn’t remember why. From up above her she became aware of furious whisperings and muted scuffles. That was it. She had fallen and left them up there. She remembered it all now. She must have passed out when she landed. How long had she been unconscious? It felt like a very long time, but if they were still up there discussing her, it couldn’t have been for more than a few moments.

  It was time to explore her position. She was lying on her left side, with her face very close to some slimy-feeling substance and with something very hard pressing into her spine. Gingerly, she wriggled her toes, and then tried to move first one leg, then the other. They both seemed to function. She tried to dig her toes in to push herself upright, but her shoes caught on something that gave and left her with nothing under her feet but empty air. The movement caused a rustling from the branches and twigs she had dislodged.

  “I heard her move,” hissed a voice from above. “She must be all right.”

  “Go back to the car and get the flashlight out of the trunk—the big one. The keys are in the ignition. Quick!”

  Panic seized Amanda once again. She had to get away from here before they came to get her. She tried to move her whole body, but it was clear that she was too tightly wedged; by the feel of things she was between a very unyielding tree trunk and the damp bottom of a gully. Automatically she put her hands down and tried to lever herself up. The throbbing
pain that she had been living with for the last few minutes rapidly changed into excruciating agony. She gasped and felt tears pouring down her cheeks. She stopped and rested, panting with shock. Think, Amanda, she screamed silently to herself, think! You have to get yourself out of here. Push with your other hand. She scrabbled around in the dirt to get her right hand under her and pushed. Nothing happened. She never had been able to do push-ups in gym class, and one-handed push-ups were simply impossible. Suddenly there was another noise from above, and a huge beam of light began to move back and forth around her. She had to get away from here. Move Amanda, you idiot, you twit, you . . . She couldn’t come up with the words needed to spur herself on.

  “There she is—down there. See?” The hiss chilled her.

  “That’s not her. Damn those goddamn green clothes they wear. They’re impossible to see. Keep looking. She must have fallen somewhere close to here.”

  “There’s a path over there that goes down to the bottom of the ravine, Jimmy. We’re better off down there. Let’s go.”

  “Wait. You go. Take the flashlight. I’ll stay here until you get under me. Otherwise we’ll never know where she went down. And stay there until I get down.”

  Rick’s heavy footsteps moved away at a rapid pace. For a few moments, anyway, they wouldn’t have that light near her. She couldn’t push herself with her feet; her knees were too wedged-in to be of any use; she couldn’t lever herself with the one arm that worked. She reached out ahead of her. There was ground, steeply sloped, but solid; her hand caught a branch. She gave it an experimental tug and it held, at least for the moment. She pulled frantically and her body moved out of its vise an inch or two; she retched with the pain. She pulled again, moved another few inches, and her body turned at the same time, ever so slightly. For a moment she could think of nothing but the pain. Then she heard Rick’s ponderous footfalls, this time below her. I must get my knees under me. I must. Come on, Amanda, pull—to hell with the arm, pull! She yanked again, moved another six inches, heeled dangerously over on her left side now that the tree trunk no longer provided support, and lay there sobbing in pain.

  “Hey, Jimmy. Where the hell are you? She’s somewhere up above me, but I can’t see exactly where.”

  “Just a minute. I’ll be right down. Shine the goddamn light back on the path.” More sounds of feet, lighter, this time, and faster. “Shine the light on the path, you idiot.” A crash and scuffle. “Not in my goddamn eyes you bastard, on the path.”

  Desperate, Amanda clutched her branch and slowly drew one knee forward. It found a niche to rest in, and she brought up the other knee, positioning it carefully against her old enemy, the tree trunk. With a heave she was in a more tenable position. Not exactly on all fours—her useless arm was dangling painfully. Nancy Drew would have improvised a sling at this point, and then probably some sort of defensive weapon. Amanda could almost smile at the idea.

  From her more upright position she was able to look around her and try to figure out where she was. Far below her she saw the powerful flashlight beam illuminating the path. Dizziness washed in and then receded as she realized just how high up she was. Then the light stabbed the darkness around her once again. They must both be below now. The beam traveled over the steep slope beneath, slowly and regularly, sweeping back and forth, starting way ahead of her and moving back over every inch of ground. With each horizontal sweep it moved higher and higher. She crouched to present as small a target as possible. Suddenly it was level with her, up ahead, throwing the rough terrain into dramatic relief. She saw that she was on a narrow ledge that ran level for about fifteen or twenty feet and ended in a tangle of thick undergrowth, probably another fissure in the surface of the slope. Then the light caught her. It moved on, then stopped. It moved back.

  “There she is. Way up there. See that white? It’s her. She must be hurt—she isn’t moving. Let’s go.” With ferocious scrambling and muttered curses they launched themselves at the slope.

  The din made by two full-grown men hurtling up a steep wooded slope in the dark hampered by a large flashlight that bumps and crashes is impressive, and certainly adequate to cover the noise made by a terrified and rather small fifteen-year-old girl crawling rapidly along a fairly level ledge. Amanda tried very hard not to think of the height and sheerness of the drop beside her; she wished fervently that her functioning arm had been on the other side to save her in case she started to fall, but terror pushed her on regardless. She moved at a sort of crouching run, steadying herself with her good hand every step or two and falling down on her knees for support every five or six steps. It was a surprisingly speedy method of getting from place to place. Suddenly her hand reached for the ground and encountered nothing but a handful of small branches. She moved her knees up to the edge and felt over. It was another bottomless pit as far as she could tell, but it was the only place to go. Soon those two would have made it up to the ledge and would start searching for her again—they had the advantage: four arms, four legs, and a light. She waved her arm back and forth over the void until it encountered something solid—a branch, or perhaps a sapling, growing in the cut. She turned around and flattened on her belly, edged herself over, feet first, reached out and grabbed the branch. She slid, slowly at first, then faster; the branch snapped in her hand and she landed with a sickening thud on her feet, then sat down, suddenly.

  Amanda hurt in so many places that the pain in her arm no longer preoccupied her. She sat for some time, panting from exertion and terror, listening to the now muted crashing of her pursuers. She couldn’t stay here. When they got to the edge they would simply shine their light down and there she’d be, caught. She was tired of falling downward, and so she started to crawl painfully up the crevice she had landed in. It was wet, cold, and muddy. A small stream coursed along the bottom. The pebbles, roots, and rubble under her were clawing at her knees, and her one good hand was raw from the pull of branches and twigs. The bushes were getting thicker as she moved up; suddenly she got to the point where the effort of pushing her way through the tangle of stems and branches was more than she could manage. She began to cry, long racking sobs that tore at her bruised ribs and aching throat, and she stopped moving. For a long time she remained immobile, crouched on her knees, her chest heaving and tears flooding her cheeks. Then she lay down on her good side and drew her knees up to her belly under her kilt as tightly as possible. The cry of “See that white?” still echoed in her brain, and she was determined to hide under kilt and blazer, so providentially made of ample quantities of hunting green wool. With her good hand she twitched down her skirt as much as possible, then attempted to arrange her injured arm in a comfortable position. Pain throbbed throughout every nerve, and she slipped once again into black, whirling oblivion.

  Night had fallen quietly in the townhouse in the suburbs. Oppressed by the silence and the tension, he suddenly leapt up from his chair. He could wait no longer. He leaned over and switched off the ten o’clock news. There could be nothing on it tonight that would be of any interest to him. He needed action. Perhaps the last time he had not chosen his site carefully enough. This time he would reconnoiter in good military fashion, probe the weaknesses of the enemy, and choose the best place to strike.

  He picked up the map, the pens, and the notebook, grabbed his jacket, and headed for the garage. He opened the overhead door very gently, bending over and peering out to see if anyone was watching him. All clear. He hoisted it completely, rapidly backed the van out onto the driveway, and swiftly closed the door again. He reversed onto the street with the slow deliberation that he had cultivated as a driver, turned, and set out. It was good that he was alone in the house, with no one to ask him where he was going, no one to get suspicious, no one to betray his position to the enemy. But if she was the enemy, could she betray him to it? No. She was already—that was too confusing. She was a spy. That was it. It had been a good idea to get rid of her.

  He swung on and off H
ighway 401 with the same steady caution that he always used; then he drove along a busy street, turned, and headed slowly toward a long space without housing. He stopped. This was it. But as he began to open his door he saw in the park entrance a familiar yellow car. The interior light went on as the front door opened, and two uniformed officers were captured in blinding clarity. That was close! He drew his door shut again and very gently pulled away, proceeding at a measured pace to the next intersection. He turned right, stopped, looked around, and pulled out his flashlight. He examined his map with care, and finally marked another yellow dot against another patch of green. He carefully traced with his finger the network of roads that led from one green space to the other and put his map away again. He sat motionless in the dark for a very long time, alert for the sound of pursuit, like a hare who hopes to baffle the hounds with rocklike immobility.

  At long last he turned the key in the ignition and pulled away. It was a cautious fifteen minutes from the first area to the next, and he arrived exactly within the time estimated. This time he made a preliminary reconnaissance excursion the length of the road that skirted the green space, and when he came to the small track used by the parks department for maintenance vehicles he was horrified to see two patrol cars sitting on the grass, overhead lights on, officers chatting to one another through their open windows. This was it. They had worked out his tactics, and the squeeze was beginning. He had always known that it would only be a matter of time before the enemy deduced his plan of action and tried to forestall him. His head pounded with excitement. But they couldn’t have worked out the full extent of his strategy. They wouldn’t know that he was also capable of attacking close to home. He turned carefully and headed back in the direction he had come from.