Taking Stock

by C J West

  She strode as fast as she could without breaking into a trot.

  Her heart thumped in her chest and her feet yearned to run as she listened for the man behind her. A car door slammed two blocks away. Nothing moved nearby, there were no voices to run to, or from. She slipped her bag off her shoulder, clutching it in her hand as her feet touched the grass. Surrounded by shadowy hiding places, the attacker could be herding her toward a dark building or a parked car and a waiting accomplice.

  She stopped.

  She remembered the walk, Brad’s walk. It was him behind her somewhere and he knew what she’d been doing in the office tonight. All the things going wrong around her had him in common. The break-in, her name on the access records, the erased tapes, the disappearing notes. Brad had everything to lose and he was protecting himself by blaming her. If she disappeared, he’d have a convenient scapegoat. He could even take credit for solving the theft.

  She looked over her shoulder to see how close he was, but he wasn’t there. She spun all the way around in the gloom, but he was gone. There was no time to wonder where. He was lurking nearby, sneaking ever closer.

  Sprinting past her favorite bench, she jumped into the garden. Through rows of dormant bushes, up on top of a four foot cement wall, she jumped. She fell through the air, legs extended beneath her, both hands on her bag. The drop was farther than expected. She landed feet-first. Her knees buckled, toppling her forward down the ramp, leaving her sprawled on the concrete, looking down at empty parking spaces. She hopped up and in one step regained her balance and turned her energy loose, accelerating into a full run into the one place she knew Brad wasn’t hiding, the dark garage.

  The heavy bag flopped against her hip as she darted down the ramp. Her strides lengthened as she crossed the empty floor and raced down another ramp to the level below. Halfway down, she froze and stood still against the cold concrete wall. She stifled her breath down to soft shallow puffs of air. Her heart pounded and her lungs ached for more oxygen. Click. Scratch. Click. Scratch. Footsteps approached from above. Erica shifted her feet and eased down the ramp. The stairs were on the opposite end of the garage.

  A patch of loose sand launched her sneaker down the slope, stretching her legs wide. The grating, scratching noise echoed through the damp musty air. She scrambled, regained her balance, and stopped long enough to hear the footsteps hasten toward her. She ran down two more levels, farther away from her pursuer, but deeper and deeper underground where she’d eventually be cornered. The bag was getting heavy now, too. The weight was slowing her pace and her shoulder ached. On the next floor, she decided to hide. She sprinted along the outer edge of the garage and lay down in a cluster of cars. Minutes passed. Each shallow breath brought more dust and dirt to choke her. With each passing second, she cursed herself for not getting on the elevator and riding up to freedom on the surface.

  She waited.

  Footsteps approached from the ramp. Erica hoped it was someone coming for their car, but patrons would use the stairs or the elevator not the ramp. She peeked out from underneath a bumper and saw Brad searching the parking area with a black gun in his hand, his face lit by weak fluorescent lights. He methodically checked inside and underneath each car, making his way down the row on the opposite side of the garage.

  When he disappeared behind the little building that housed the elevator, Erica saw her chance. She lifted her bag and snuck toward him, hiding behind the building as Brad passed on the other side. At the end of the row he spun around and peered down the line of cars. He didn’t notice the eyes behind the blue sedan.

  There were few cars in the garage at this hour, but thankfully enough of them were clustered around the elevator to hide her movement. Brad moved slowly, venturing to each and every car on the floor, even those parked off by themselves. His thoroughness made his progress slow and predictable. Erica slipped behind a black Volvo against the far wall. Brad had already checked the area once. She wouldn’t give him reason to return.

  When he circled the small elevator building, Erica could hear his growls and frustrated curses. She waited until he searched halfway back to the ramp and then slipped between the cars, scooted to the elevator bank, and eased inside. She pressed the up button, counted to five, and pressed the down button. She stood in the center of the little room ready to jump though whichever pair of doors opened first.

  A motor started somewhere below, the cable lifting a car toward her.

  Trapped, the wait seemed endless. If the elevator came now, Brad would be at the far end of the garage with no chance to stop her. If it took much longer, he could intercept the elevator on a floor above. If he did, she’d be trapped in a four-by-four stainless steel coffin when the doors opened.

  The room she was in wasn’t much bigger. The concrete wall hid Brad and Erica from each other. He searched out there somewhere and she was trapped inside with no idea where he’d moved since she last saw him. The end walls and doors were mostly glass with a thin metal sheet underneath. She backed up against the concrete and switched her head back and forth from one glass wall to the other, watching the width of the garage. The enclosure muffled the sound of Brad’s footsteps. She’d entirely lost track of him and could only hope he was on the ramp to another floor. Freedom would be here soon.

  Ding.

  Brad, by chance, had circled back to re-check some cars in the center of the garage and the ringing bell called him like a hungry animal. Erica stepped up, poised to dive inside at the first possible instant, not knowing he was rushing toward her.

  The heavy car settled in place on the other side of the doors.

  Brad’s head popped into view. He raised the gun over the roof of a brown sedan and the instant it settled, the gun kicked up with a flash and a muffled roar. The wall of glass between them shattered as the first bullet passed through. Shards of glass rained down on the worn carpet. Erica dropped to the floor, smacking her knee and elbow on the tiles that outlined the small room. Brad fired again and again leaving no time to aim between shots. Erica clutched her bag to her head, and rolled away from the elevator hoping there was something solid enough inside the bag to slow the bullets.

  Her ears rang with the reverberating reports as she huddled at the base of the concrete wall, lying flat and clutching the bag at her head. The bullets stopped. Shattered glass covered the floor. The contents of her bag were strewn all over from her rolling. She couldn’t see Brad beyond the waist-high, solid wall and she couldn’t hear anything over the high pitched ringing in her ears. She wanted to run, but Brad could be waiting for her to step outside. She crouched low and waited as the doors vibrated.

  The scraping of the clip was barely audible and Erica didn’t recognize the sound. Her eyes swung from door to door wondering where Brad would appear. The elevator doors slid open and as they did, the bullets started again. Pairs of bullets pierced the thin metal walls beneath where the glass had been. The first two tore through the worn rug, ricocheted up and lodged in the door jam of the elevator. Two more skipped right through the room and into the parked cars beyond, shattering the remaining glass in the door behind her.

  Erica wondered how many bullets Brad had. They were coming slower now. He was being more careful. She peeked up and saw him pull the gun down and rush toward her between two cars. As he did, she took two running steps and leaped across the floor, landing halfway in the waiting elevator. She dragged her legs inside and heaved on her bag strap, hauling it past her so fast it smacked into the rear wall. She frantically pressed the lobby button from her knees, pressing hard as if that would close the door faster. A bullet whizzed by and clanked as the doors finally started to move. Erica hurled herself into the corner, protected from the bullets by the concrete wall and several layers of steel. Two more bullets clanked inside the far end of the elevator, leaving dark, round holes in the shiny metal. The remaining bullets struck the sealed outer doors as Erica was lifted away.

  The ride up was slow, but Brad would be delayed when the next e
levator arrived, heading down. He couldn’t beat the elevator up four flights of stairs. She got off, hobbled up the ramp and outside on a sore knee. Several streaks of blood oozed through her tattered pants where the skin on her kneecap had been. She jogged off gingerly toward Faneuil Hall ignoring her burning knee and aching shoulder. The pain was forgotten when she saw a brown and white cab at the corner of State Street. She waved frantically, crawled inside and the cab sped away.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Carlos scrawled the cab’s plate number then flipped open his phone. “Hey, Boss,” he said.

  “What’s going on?”

  “He chased her into the P.O. Square garage. In eight minutes I counted fifteen shots.”

  “Fifteen?”

  “Could’ve been more. They came fast,” Carlos said, shaking his head in disbelief. “She’s hobbling, looks like she fell, but he didn’t score a hit.”

  “Fifteen shots and she’s moving? Where is he?”

  “She bolted into a cab. He’s scrambling ass for his car.”

  “How’d she get away? He run out of ammo?”

  “Don’t know. You want me to do her?”

  “No. I don’t want you guys cowboying around the city. Let’s leave this one to Brad.”

  “He missed her fifteen times – Indoors!”

  “I know. He’s useless. Anyone else hear the shots?”

  “Nothing’s moved here for a while. Can’t say for sure no one’s camped out down there, but I doubt it.”

  “Good enough for me. What about cameras?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Go down to there and check it out then report the trouble. Make sure there’s nothing to lead the cops to him or her. I don’t want cops attached to either one of them in case we need to make a move. If he whacks her great, but I’m not expecting miracles. Just try and keep him out of jail.”

  “Got it.”

  Carlos couldn’t understand why he was cleaning up after Foster rather than chasing the girl. Foster was more trouble than he was worth, but Carlos didn’t protest. That didn’t play with the boss. Carlos walked downstairs shaking like a frightened office jockey, scared by the commotion and ready to cling to anyone who could protect him.

  The scene looked like Brad had been firing a machine gun. Ten shell casings lay in a group on the concrete about forty feet from the elevator. Eight more were scattered ranging from twenty-five feet to as close as ten feet from the glass door. Brad must have been running and shooting. Carlos got on his knees and searched around every tire to be sure he had them all. He couldn’t do anything about the slugs, but the gun was untraceable.

  Every pane of glass was smashed out of the elevator lobby. At least four cars had been hit. Luckily no cameras filmed the shooting spree. He picked up some make-up and business cards from the carpet where the girl had fallen. He stuffed them in his pockets and went back upstairs wondering how Foster could miss her in that tiny room. He’d hit everything else.

  Erica fished ten dollars from her wallet as the cab double parked on Marlborough. Brad couldn’t have beaten the jerky stop-and-go of the cab driver across town, but Erica nervously scanned the dark sidewalks for him anyway. Two young kids wobbled along in search of their next drink oblivious to Erica watching them through the glass. Farther up the block a more calculating figure leaned against a brick entryway. This man was waiting for something. His head was in shadow, yet she could tell he was intent on the happenings up and down the street.

  The cabbie knocked the plexiglass for his fare. Her eyes shifted from the cabbie to the form outside and back.

  “Change of plans.” She gave him Gregg’s address in the North End.

  He hesitated, annoyed with the delay, but he must have sensed the fear in her face because he turned around and sped away without complaining.

  Erica dug for her cell phone. She chose the speed dial for Gregg’s house, but didn’t dial. Brad knew about Gregg and he’d have ways of getting his address. He could probably get her mother’s and Gregg’s parents’, too.

  They turned off Storrow closing in on Gregg’s place. She let him approach knowing she couldn’t get out. She needed someplace safer.

  Her mother had taken her to a shelter once when she was four. They’d escaped her father for a week while the bruises on her mother’s face healed. Erica never understood why she brought them back into that house. Years later Erica volunteered in the shelter to counsel other young women not to make the same mistake. Some had listened.

  She dialed the number her mother must have dialed frantically all those years ago, a number Erica spent a good many nights answering.

  “Safe Haven Crisis Center. Do you have an emergency?”

  “I’m safe at the moment. Is Jan in?”

  “Jan Tripp? She hasn’t worked the hotline for six years. Who’s this?”

  “Erica Fletcher.”

  The woman didn’t recognize the name. “Erica, do you need help?”

  The cabbie pulled over and looked back. “Fourteen seventy-five, Miss.” He eyed the rear passenger’s side door expectantly.

  “I need a place to stay for a few days. Can you connect me to Jan?”

  Fifteen minutes later Erica stood outside a house that had the amenities she’d come to expect. There was an eight-foot stone wall surrounding the property with wrought iron spikes on top to discourage angry husbands. The cars were either in the garage or around back to keep them out of view from the street. There was a police station two blocks down, though this did little to calm Erica’s nerves after seeing her name on the security computer.

  The gate buzzed. Erica let herself in and closed it securely behind her.

  Jan opened the front door and gave Erica a solid hug. “They say history repeats itself, but you’re the last person I expected to show up here in the middle of the night.”

  Two inches taller than Erica, Jan was substantial, though her muscles had softened with years. Her expression was as serene as Erica remembered. She eyed the bloodstained hole in the knee of Erica’s pants and then reached a hand toward Erica’s elbow, sour at the way she carried it.

  “Tell me this isn’t what it looks like,” Jan said, as she closed the thick wooden door and engaged the deadbolts.

  “I wish it were that simple.”

  Shock registered on Jan’s face when she turned. They both knew the tangle of emotions that surrounded being beaten by someone you loved. They’d both lived the horrifying reality and volunteered to help other women overcome hopeless situations. She knew what Jan was thinking, but Jan had never been shot at by her boss.

  Jan led Erica into the living room doubtful anything could be more horrible than domestic abuse. Maybe she was right.

  Erica described her last few years working for Brad, the break-in at her apartment, and her discoveries tonight with Stan. When she replayed her frantic run through the parking garage, Jan understood that she was lucky to be alive. She had nowhere to turn. Brad wanted her dead and he knew how to find everyone close to her. The police would probably join the chase in the morning and there was nothing she could tell them to make them understand. She hadn’t had time to find the proof she needed. At least she was safe for the night.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Brad burst out of the elevator and dashed over empty parking spaces on his way to the ramp. Halfway up, the cool air hit and he slowed before exposing the gun hanging by his side. A driver revved his engine and disappeared before Brad’s eyes reached street level. The bushes were still, the sidewalks empty. He listened for sneakers jogging away. She’d go for South Station or Faneuil Hall. He couldn’t decide which way she’d choose, and he couldn’t hear her footfalls. She’d gotten lucky.

  Down Congress and back into the park, he scoured the shadows with the gun ready. He needed to find her, get rid of the gun and get away from all those bullet holes downstairs.

  The benches and shrubs around the fountain were clear.

  Someone turned the corner at Franklin and walk
ed down Pearl toward him. Brad doubled back over the grass into the park. He ducked behind the bushes, stuffed the gun into his waist band, covered it and kept walking. They passed each other with a row of fruit trees between them. Brad hastened down the path wondering if the man had been drawn here by the shots or if he was just heading home.

  Had someone called the police?

  Brad couldn’t risk waiting.

  He hustled through the park, over three blocks and up three flights of stairs to his car. He thought he heard tires squealing toward him several times before he hit the gas and took off in the Corvette. He accelerated for the first four blocks, hitting fifty on Congress, running the red as he cut across two lanes onto State, barely squeezing inside the curb. He heard the sirens for the first time on the narrow streets around Washington. Dozens of squad cars descended on the scene he’d left. He dropped down to the speed limit and cruised along Tremont toward Back Bay.

  The lights were off when he parked half a block from Erica’s window. No sign of life in the apartment. Coming here was a waste of time. She wasn’t crazy enough to come home alone. She’d go somewhere else. Gregg’s probably. If she was upstairs, being parked out here was admitting his guilt to the cops when they showed up. He had to do something fast. She knew about the scam; she knew it was a program and she knew it was him running it. Seeing him in the garage cleared up any doubt she had after coming up empty with the video tapes. At least right now she couldn’t prove anything. She was frustrated in the office because she didn’t find what she was looking for, but she was very close.