I couldn’t tell how old he was, but I could tell that he was drunk. I also knew that he was dangerous. His eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep and had the unsteady gaze of a man who’d stared into the bottom of too many bottles and seen only his own sense of grievance. His face was pitted and disfigured by old acne scars, and for a minute I thought that he was wearing makeup, but then I realized that it wasn’t eyeliner, but the shadow of an incipient shiner. Apparently this member of the Monarchs’ court, instead of spreading merriment and good cheer, had been fighting. Judging from the length of lead pipe he clutched in one hand, my guess was that so far he’d managed to come out on top.
“Where the fuck is he?” he shouted, running the words together. It was hard to understand him over the steam-engine gasps of my own panicked breathing. »
“Who?” I demanded, startled by the sound of my own voice, which was thin and tremulous with fear.
“Who the fuck do you think I came here to see, you dumb cunt, King Kong? Your husband!” He started looking under the couches and behind the furniture, singing, “Come out, come out, wherever you are so I can smash your face in—” He staggered suddenly, as if the floor had lurched unexpectedly beneath him, then regained his balance and straightened up with elaborate care. Under other circumstances the whole thing might have been comical— for example if I happened to have an Uzi in my purse. But today there was nothing harmless about his inebriation.
“Jeff’s not here right now,” I said like some demented secretary. “He’s just stepped out. Perhaps you’d like to have a seat and wait for him?”
“Where the fuck did he go?” he demanded belligerently, turning around to take in the room. “Did he have to stop at the bank and count his money? Did he run out to pick up some more fucking caviar?”
“I expect him back soon. May I get you a drink while { you’re waiting?” I inquired in my new role as lady of the ' house.
“Sure, whadyagot?” he asked, wandering the room un- steadily, picking up objects and setting them back down at random. I wished desperately that he’d just put down the pipe. I also wished the police would hurry. Fear had robbed me of my sense of time. I had no idea whether it had been ten seconds or ten minutes since we’d first heard the sound of breaking glass.
“What would you like? We have beer, wine, or perhaps you’d prefer something harder?” I asked, trying frantically to remember where Chrissy and Jeff kept their liquor.
“What, no champagne?” he demanded unpleasantly, as he wheeled around, arms extended, taking in the room. Without even noticing he knocked a pair of Herend rabbits from an end table with his lead pipe and just went on talking, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he’d broken anything. “A place like this—I’d a thought champagne’d come out when you turned on the goddamned faucet.”
“Let me go see,” I offered, I hoped casually. “Perhaps there’s a bottle in the back of the fridge.”
Stepping gingerly over the shards of shattered china, I began making my way into the kitchen. Three more steps and I would have been home free, but the Jester grabbed me just short of the door, jerked me roughly by the arm, and pulled me violently toward him. In his other hand was a silver-framed photograph he’d picked up from among the dozen or so clustered on a console table. It was a wedding picture of Chrissy and Jeff. He held it up, adjusting its distance to his face as he struggled to get his eyes to focus on the picture. Then he held the photograph up to my face before he let it drop to the floor.
I made a move to get away, but he yanked me closer. “Who the fuck are you?” he demanded in an ugly voice. “What do you mean?” I asked stupidly.
“Don’t you play games with me!” he shouted, shaking me. I tried to break free, but his grip was too tight and the silk of my blouse was too sturdy to tear. “Who the fuck are you?”
“My name’s Kate,” I said. “I’m house-sitting for the Rendells while they’re out of town.”
“Bullshit!” he spat. “That is complete and utter bullshit!” His eyes darted around the room, taking in the pair of tea cups Chrissy and I had left on the coffee table for the first time. On his face I saw the flickering realization that he and I were not alone. “Get your ass down here, now!” he shouted to the house at large. “Get your ass down here now before I beat the crap out of her.”
“I told you, there’s no one here but me,” I protested in as loud a voice as I dared, praying that Chrissy could hear the warning in my voice and stay where she was. Even if he decided to get rough, I figured I could hold out until the cops showed up. I must have been watching too many movies.
The first blow hit me on the shoulder and sent me to my knees, the whole world instantly turning red with pain. Then he picked me up by the front of my blouse and hurled me against the wall. A picture clattered down from the wall, smashing against the floor, but the impact knocked the wind out of me and I went down like a sack of flour, oblivious to everything except the desperate struggle to suck down air.
“You better come on down before I smash her skull in!” he bellowed gleefully, warming to the task.
Instinctively I rolled up into a ball, trying to protect myself from the blows that began to rain down on me from the pipe. I had completely lost my ability to process any thought more complicated than basic survival. My entire world had been instantly distilled to two objects—my body and the pipe. I was vaguely aware of someone sobbing and realized, somewhat belatedly, that it was me.
The blows stopped as abruptly as they’d begun, but it I took me longer than it should have to grasp the significance of this. I rolled pitifully onto my side, my mouth rapidly filling with blood, just in time to see Chrissy enter the room.
“Well, lookee here,” exclaimed the Jester. “If it isn’t the queen of the Monarchs’ court. Where’s your chickenshit husband?”
“He’s on his way to L.A.,” replied Chrissy in a terrified voice. Her eyes flickered involuntarily toward the stairs that led up to the nursery as the Jester beckoned to her to come closer. As soon as she was within reach he grabbed her by her hair, yanked her to his side, and pushed her to her knees like a recalcitrant dog being taught to heel.
The Jester looked around the room as if trying to decide what to do next. I swallowed blood and probed for loosened teeth with my tongue, silently cursing the inefficiency of the Milwaukee Police Department even as I strained, hoping to catch the first faint sound of their approaching sirens. The only thing I heard was the sound of my own ragged breathing punctuated by Chrissy’s terrified whimpers.
Abruptly the Jester dragged Chrissy up by the hair, bringing her to her feet. Using his arm to put her in a chokehold he jammed the pipe into the waistband of his pants as he eased his other hand down her blouse, running his tongue across his lips greedily. Chrissy’s face was a frozen mask of revulsion.
“Stop it!” I shouted helplessly. “The police are on their way. If you don’t touch her it will be easier for you.”
For a moment I was heartened as he stopped his groping, but it was only long enough to reach his hand back under his tunic. But instead of the pipe he pulled out a gun, a pitiful little snub-nosed thing, the kind that you can pick up anywhere for fifty bucks, but deadly at close range. He jammed it into Chrissy’s neck.
“Please don’t hurt me,” Chrissy pleaded. It was practically a whisper.
“Shut up,” he snapped. “I guess if we can’t get your spineless husband to pay for his crimes, we’ll have to make do with you! Come on. We’re going for a ride.”
“Where are you taking her?” I managed to croak.
“Don’t you worry, honey, we’re going to have a good time,” he whispered into Chrissy’s ear. The look on her face was desperate, pleading. “I bet you have a real fancy car, too,” he continued almost to himself. He reached down, grabbed the bottom of her shirt, and pulled it up over her head as he dragged her blindly kicking through the door.
I struggled to my feet, still gasping for oxygen like a beached fish and trying desper
ately to fight back the dark edge of unconsciousness that threatened to overtake me. My fear for Chrissy overrode everything else. As soon as the Jester had her out of the house, he could take her anywhere, do anything to her. I remembered the terror on her face and I thought of all the bodies of dead women that turn up in ditches every day. I was determined that Chrissy was not going to be one of them.
I practically clawed my way to the library and reached for the telephone to call the police, praying to hear the message that they were on their way. The line was dead. Suddenly, I remembered Jeff taking it off the hook in the kitchen earlier that morning and sobbed in frustration and disbelief as all hope of being rescued by the police evaporated. From the garage I heard the rumble of Chrissy’s Suburban as the engine sprang to life. Desperately forcing down waves of panic, I realized that I still had one chance to stop them.
I raced to the front hall where I’d left my briefcase and my purse and scrabbled frantically for my car keys. Then I peeled out the front door, my heart pounding in my chest, terrified that I was already too late.
The garage was at the back of the house, at the end of the driveway, accessible only by passing under the porte cochere that was set just beyond the circular drive at the front of the house where my ancient Volvo was now parked. I leapt behind the wheel, knowing that if I could somehow block their passage up the driveway, I could at least prevent him from hitting the open road with Chrissy.
I turned on the ignition and debated waiting until the car phone flickered on, flipped over to roam, and located its signal, but decided against it. I didn’t have enough time. Instead, I waited just long enough to hear the approaching engine of Chrissy’s Suburban. Then I slammed my foot on the gas.
I bought my Volvo station wagon while I was a third-year law student, shortly after Russell and I became engaged. We chose it because, in the days before air bags, it was considered one of the safest cars on the road. Now, of course, it was on its way to becoming a rusted-out junker. On the other hand, Chrissy’s Suburban was the largest and most modern sports utility vehicle on the market. Equipped with antilock brakes and dual air bags, it also weighed close to six tons, a fact that I was strangely cognizant of as I slammed my foot on the brake, bringing my car to a stop sideways directly in front of hers.
I braced myself for impact as Chrissy T-boned me with her Suburban. I heard the crumpling of metal and felt the Volvo shudder and give way under the impact. The windshield cracked and disintegrated into a cascade of pebbly glass. My chest hit the steering wheel and my horn sounded in protest. I heard the pop of Chrissy’s air bags, and I was out the door in an instant, propelled by adrenaline and thoughts of the gun.
I pulled open the passenger door of the Suburban as the Jester cursed and struggled against the air bag. I grabbed him by the leg, the first appendage I was able to get hold of, and pulled him out of the car. I wrestled him to the ground without knowing where the gun was. Whether consciously or by blind instinct, Chrissy managed to shove the lead pipe along the seat so that it fell out with a clang and rolled toward me along the driveway.
The rest happened quickly, actions taken without thinking and only processed later. I remembered the cold of the asphalt beneath my knees, how small rocks dug into my skin, the way the front of the Jester’s vest was stiff with dried ketchup that was suddenly mixed with blood as I took the pipe and hit him across the face with it.
The aftermath of crisis is a fertile ground for farce. Chrissy wrestled with her air bag like a character in a cartoon, desperate to be free of the car and to reassure herself that the baby was all right. As she raced into the house I shouted at her to put the phone back on the hook and telephone the police. The Jester lay crumpled and unconscious at my feet, now rendered pathetic and ridiculous. The gun lay beside him on the driveway. I gave it a tentative kick with my foot to make sure that it was out of reach should he come to and was appalled to discover that it was a toy.
I paced the driveway, still tasting the adrenaline in my throat and unable to be still. After a while my injuries began to declare themselves and I realized that I was getting cold. Chrissy came out and brought me a jacket, reporting that the baby was only now just beginning to wake up from her nap, having thankfully slept through all the excitement. Time passed and the Jester started to stir, so Chrissy and I dragged him back into the house and trussed him up using a roll of duct tape that she took from a drawer in the kitchen.
Police or no police, the baby needed to be fed, so Chrissy stepped over the now squirming body of the Jester to get her bottle from the refrigerator and warm it in a pan on the stove. I found a bag of frozen peas, which I applied to the nasty bump that was developing at the back of my head. The peas had defrosted and the baby’d been fed, burped, and diapered before the police finally deigned to show up.
They were two beefy officers in starched uniform shirts and wearing wedding bands. One of them had a thick mustache I suspected of being perpetually wet on the bottom from his lower lip. The other had a weight lifter’s build and a blond crewcut that taken together made him look like a poster child for the master race.
They were so completely unapologetic about the delay that I was immediately convinced that it had been deliberate. Obviously the mayor was not the only city employee who was out to punish the Rendells. A week ago the police would have raced to Chrissy’s house if she’d called to say her kitten was up a tree. Today it took forty-five minutes, a call that there was an armed intruder in the house, and even then when they finally arrived, they were barely able to conceal their contempt.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” said the one with the mustache, looking around. His name tag said Grubb. His partner’s name was Schumacher. “Bet you had to sell a lot of football tickets to pay for it,” he said, swaggering up to Chrissy and peering over her shoulder into the house.
“So,” said Schumacher, casually plucking a toothpick from his breast pocket and inserting it into the corner of his mouth. “I understand you claim to be having some sort of problem.”
“A deranged fan broke into the house and held us at gunpoint,” reported Chrissy.
“Now why would a Monarchs fan want to come to this house?” demanded Schumacher insolently from beneath his crewcut.
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” I suggested.
“You mean he’s here?”
“Tied up in the kitchen.”
“Well then, he couldn’t have been particularly dangerous if all it took was two women to overpower him,” his partner observed condescendingly.
“You’d better believe I’m tough enough to cause you plenty of trouble if you don’t knock it off and start doing your job,” I snapped, mentally drafting my complaint against the Milwaukee Police Department. Deutsch wasn’t the only person who could file a lawsuit in this town.
Grubb walked up to me until he was so close that his chest brushed against mine and I could feel his nightstick against my thigh. I never realized how much easier it was to act tough when you were wearing a badge and carrying a gun.
“What’s your name?” he asked, stretching himself up to his full height in order to better look down at me. I could see the pores in his skin and smell the onions on his breath from lunch.
“My name is Kate Millholland,” I said. “I’m the attorney for the Milwaukee Monarchs. Normally my opinion is very expensive, but I have some advice for you that I’m offering for free.”
“What’s that?” sneered Grubb.
“Go and take a look at your prisoner. We tied him up and took away his gun, but if he croaks at the scene while you’re standing here treating us to the tough-guy routine, it’s going to be your ass, not mine.”
“I’ll take you to him,” said Chrissy. She was still shaken and had no stomach for games.
Grubb spent a couple more seconds exuding testosterone before he decided he’d made his point. I suppressed a yawn. Then we all trooped into the kitchen.
The two officers took one look at the Jester and immedi
ately radioed for the paramedics. I had to admit that he didn’t look very good, though I guessed I didn’t either. A quick peek at myself in the door of the microwave revealed the portrait of a lawyer who looked like she’d just crawled out of a Dumpster. Chrissy, on the other hand, looked infuriatingly perfect. Not only did her new role of damsel in distress suit her perfectly, but she must have found time to put on fresh lipstick while I was busy icing down my bruises.
Of course, the paramedics were there in two minutes flat. While they ministered to the Jester, Detective Schumacher made a desultory attempt at taking down our statements. They say that a lack of outrage is an outrage in itself. For Chrissy, his lack of interest, much less sympathy at what she’d been through in her own home, must have felt like a second violation. It certainly didn’t help that we could hear the EMTs tenderly ministering to our assailant, lifting him onto a stretcher, and assuring him that they would take good care of him.
When they were finished, Detective Grubb came looking for me. He found me in the living room pacing back and forth while Chrissy sucked up the pieces of Herend into the Dustbuster.
“I thought you might like to know that I’ve advised Mr. Koharski that he may want to press charges for assault.”
“Who is Mr. Koharski?” I demanded.
“The gentleman you assaulted with your vehicle, savagely beat, and then tied up.”
“You and I both know that’s ridiculous,” I countered, seething inside. “We’re talking about a man who broke into a private residence and committed felony trespass and assault.”
“That may be your version,” he replied. “But right now it’s your word against his.”
It took under a half an hour for Chrissy and me to pack up everything she and the baby needed and load it all into the back of her Suburban, less if you didn’t count the time I spent stuffing the blown air bags back into their compartments and taping them into place with duct tape. The decision had been reached with almost no discussion. The police had sent their message. Chrissy was not going to spend another hour, much less another night, in that house.
Rough Trade Page 16