Point Blank

by Diane M. Campbell

  Just one door. That’s all I need, God.

  I hurried to the far side of the car but, as usual, God hadn’t heard me.

  Biting my lower lip, I stared at the cold, gray sky. A snowflake landed on my face. Terrific.

  I leaned forward, my forehead against the door glass. Were there any options left? I was out of ideas. Then, through the car windows, I saw someone march around the corner. Brock, hands rammed in his coat pockets, strode directly to the bus station. I dropped to crouch behind his car, thankful he hadn’t looked my way. Then, rising slowly, I peeked around the metal pillar dividing the front and back windows. He was peering through the bus station window, his back to me. His shoulders dropped, he pulled out his phone, and turned around to face the SUV.

  I pulled down to get my head below the windows. Was I fast enough? Eventually, I’d have to peek again, but how long should I wait? Could I see under the car? A quick glance told me, even with the higher clearance of 4-wheel drive, it wasn’t feasible.

  Then I heard footsteps crunching pebbles on the street as he approached the car. My heart raced. He would easily find me here, hiding from him, and I had no courage for a confrontation.

  His footsteps stopped. He spoke to someone on the phone. “No, I’ve only started looking.” The close proximity of his voice startled me. He must be standing right on the other side of the car.

  “I’m not going through all that again with you, Tyler.” His voice rose, clearly agitated. “Don’t worry. I’ll find her.”

  Brock’s tone of voice made my insides clench. While he listened to the other side of the conversation, my heartbeat pounded like a drum in my ear. Though crouching nagged my sore hip, I didn’t dare move for fear of being detected.

  “Listen, I’ve done everything you asked, haven’t I? Besides, I don’t think she remembers anything, otherwise she’d run straight to the cops.”

  He’s saying I would go to the police? He talked to the investigators already—told them I fought with Abbi. Why would I go to the authorities if I remembered anything?

  Then Brock shouted at his phone, making me pull my head lower. “She hasn’t! Now stop worrying. I told you I would take care of her, and I will. I’ll talk to you later.” He kicked a tire for emphasis, and the car vibrated against my shoulder.

  I’d never heard him so furious before. What would happen if I had to face him again?

  More snowflakes fell, clinging to each other and swirling in the icy breeze. Brock clicked the door-lock button on his key fob and opened the driver’s door. Was he about to drive away? Would he see me crouched on the sidewalk in his rear-view mirror?

  He rummaged in the front seat and the glovebox for a minute, then got out and slammed the door. As he walked away, I exhaled a long-held breath. Leave it unlocked, I willed with my eyes pinched shut. I reached for the handle as he walked away, but the locks clicked before I lifted the latch.

  When the horn chirped in acknowledgement, I wilted to the sidewalk. Nothing ever went right for me. I was on my own, and I needed a plan.

  Falling snow continued to swirl under the gray skies, while I slumped against the car door, unable to coax myself out of the gloom.

  Apparently, I was a problem—one Brock said he would “take care of.” But what kind of problem could I be? My neck hairs stood on end. Was this the real reason why he drove so far to meet me at the inn? Why he questioned me? Why he pressured and argued?

  Maybe he was trying to decide whether or not I remembered … whatever it was I was having trouble remembering. And it was something he believed would make me go to the police.

  A shiver ran through me, but it wasn’t the chill of the car door against my back. Maybe I should go to the cops, but what would I tell them? That I might be in danger? That I didn’t know why? That something happened, but I couldn’t remember it?

  They might not throw me in jail—it would be a psych ward instead.

  Where else could I get help? The consignment shop clerk had been sympathetic, but what could I ask of her?

  I could ask for a place to hide. A place to tuck away until the evening bus.

  What if Brock kept up his search all day? What if he were waiting at the bus station tonight? Would he let me get aboard? Would he make a scene by dragging me away to his car? And if he did, would anyone help me? The whole scenario sounded outrageous, but my panic refused to subside. Having overheard Brock’s angry conversation with Tyler, the prospect of encountering him had only grown more ominous.

  Rising slowly, I checked every direction. Brock was gone. I should have taken note of the direction he went, but maybe it didn’t matter. I had to get back to the consignment shop.

  I had nowhere else to go.

  Taking a deep breath, I rushed around the car and crossed the street to the sidewalk. At the corner of the building I paused to breathe again.

  Please don’t let him see me.

  Fighting against fear, I peeked around to the side street. All clear.

  The consignment shop door was about fifty feet away, but my feet were frozen to the ice-crusted walkway.

  No, they’re not frozen. Quit stalling.

  Another breath and I rounded the corner in a mad dash. Approaching the store’s front window, Brock’s harsh voice stopped me cold. I jerked back against the brick wall and pinched my eyes shut. No, no, no!

  Another hard line from Brock. This one, I realized, was muffled. I couldn’t catch the words. What’s more, he wasn’t talking to me, and he wasn’t out on the sidewalk.

  He was in the consignment shop.

  What was Brock doing in the consignment shop? The brick wall snagged against my coat as I slid an extra inch away from the window.

  Though his words were muffled, his voice commanded attention. The clerk’s reply sounded high-pitched. Clipped. Was she frightened? Did I dare look in the window?

  “Now! Right now!” Brock snapped clearly.

  He must have moved close to the front of the store. Perhaps in front of the register, and if I were lucky, facing away from the window. Slowly, I leaned in from the side and saw them heading toward the back of the store. In a moment, they disappeared behind the curtain. She must be showing him how she’d helped me get away.

  I didn’t dare wait for their return. I took a quick breath, bolted past the windows and down the sidewalk.

  Rounding the corner onto Main Street, I stopped and waited for my heart to slow. What now? In all likelihood, Brock would go from store to store asking where I could be found. He’d spin a tale so convincing, folks would eagerly become helpful informants. I’d seen that sort of thing in movies.

  Was there any place he wouldn’t look?

  Maybe one. The place we had already been.

  I looked toward the café. It was in the middle of the block—a few doors down from the corner where I stood. In fact, I could see their sign above the door—Piece De Resistance.

  Another French business name. What were the odds of that? It struck me as amusing—and apropos, since I was “resisting” Brock. I smirked in spite of my distress.

  Stepping away from the wall, I attempted a normal pace, taking slow breaths to stay calm. No sense flying through the door like a crazed woman.

  The bell jangled as I entered. A majority of the lunch crowd had dispersed. I looked around for our waitress but didn’t see her. Instead, a large, jowly woman called to me from behind the bakery counter. “Can I help you, miss?”

  I navigated tables littered with dirty dishes to get to the counter. “Yes, I was here earlier, and the waitress was so kind. I wondered if maybe I could speak with her.”

  The woman eyed me up and down as if I’d asked for something that violated her principles. “Which waitress?”

  “She’s about my height with neon yellow hair.”

  “That would be Hope. I think she just clocked out.” She went to the service door, cracked it open and hollered into the kitchen, “Is Hope still down here?”

  Someone called back. “Yeah, ho
ld on.”

  I stepped aside to let her help the next customer, and a few seconds later, the waitress came through the kitchen door.

  Her face lit up when she saw me. “Hi.” Her wide-eyed surprise seemed enhanced by her electric-shock hair. She took my elbow and pulled me aside. “I didn’t think I’d see you again. Boy, your guy sure got mad when he read that note.”

  “He’s not my guy. At least, not anymore.” Over Hope’s shoulder, I saw the bakery counter woman scrutinizing us, so I edged a little farther away. “Sorry to put you on the spot, but I could really use your help again.”

  “How?”

  “I need to be out of sight for a while. At least until he gives up and decides to leave town without me.” I pinched my lips together and held my breath, hoping for an affirmative reply.

  Hope’s expression brightened immediately. “Oooo, sounds like espionage! I love it!” Her brown eyes gleamed. “And I have the perfect hiding place.”

  Relief washed over me. “Thank you so much.” I glanced toward the front window, imagining Brock leaning in from the side, just as I had done at the consignment shop. We had no time to waste. “How soon can we go?”

  “My shift is over. C’mon. You can hide in my apartment. I live right upstairs.”

  The bakery lady, packing a box of eclairs for a customer, kept her eye on us as Hope took me through the kitchen doors again.

  I tugged her arm. “Do you think she’ll tell Brock I’m here with you?”

  “Celia? I doubt it. Besides, I don’t think he’ll come back.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He left without paying the bill.”

  Whoa. I pulled back. Brock enjoyed waving around money when he had the chance. My departure must have shook him even more than I imagined. “Sorry. I’d be happy to pay you but my money is…”

  Hope dismissed my concerns with a wave of violet-manicured fingers. “We’ll worry about that later.”

  At the back of the kitchen, we exited into the same vestibule where Hope had shown me out the back door before. This time, though, we climbed narrow stairs in the opposite direction up to a landing flanked by two doors. She waved off the one on the left. “That’s an old storage room, but this—” She swung the other open with a flourish. “—is my humble abode.”

  Humble was putting it kindly. My new friend was apparently all about personality and rather little about housekeeping.

  Straight ahead was a small kitchen with a breakfast bar, sink, stove, and counters, all buried under stacks of dirty dishes and the remnants of prior meal preparations. I forced my face to not react as I followed her in. She went to the sofa at the far end of the room and shoved aside piles of discarded clothing from the arms and cushions. A few hangers were strewn about too, which suggested her morning routine might consist of trying on everything she owned. The rest of the living area held a variety of less-distinguishable piles and stacks of boxes.

  The sofa slumped in front of a wide bay window, the only source of natural light in this elongated multi-purpose room. A pair of mismatched armchairs sat at either side, burdened with books and papers. Behind me, a short hall led back from the entry door, undoubtedly to a bedroom and bath.

  Once she’d cleared the sofa cushions, Hope knelt on them and pulled the curtains aside to widen the view. “Look. You can see all of Main Street from here.”

  Bracing my hands against the sofa back, I leaned toward the window. “You’re right. This is so nice of you, Hope. I don’t know how to thank you. I only wish I knew what to do next.”

  Hope propped her elbows on the sofa back and poised her chin in her hands. “Well first, you could tell me your name and why you’re breaking up with that hunky guy.”

  Right. Hunky and dangerous. I straightened and pulled back from the sofa. “Sorry. I’m Penny Doyle from Clearmont.”

  “Hey, I’ve been to Clearmont before. Nice town.” With a sudden jump-twist, Hope spun around, plopping onto the sofa cushion with a practiced finesse. She leaned to pat the cleared space beside her. “Have a seat.”

  “Thanks.” I sat next to her and pulled my feet up under me, Indian-style, to avoid the floor piles. “I’ve been away at college in Arizona. I was heading home for a visit during semester break, but things have gotten complicated.”

  “Don’t they always?” She matched my dismal tone, but then immediately popped up from the sofa and went to her refrigerator. “Want a soda? Or juice, maybe?”

  Her quirky energy made me smile. “Sure, thanks.”

  “I’m sorta feeling like … guava-pineapple. How about you?”

  I giggled because she did a little shimmy in front of the fridge door when she said “guava-pineapple.” Immediately, a strong wave of déjà vu washed over me once again. I had seen that shimmy before and giggled. I was sure of it.

  Hope closed the refrigerator and stepped toward me. “Penny?”

  “Huh?” My insides had begun to quiver, though the sensation was already fading.

  “I’ve got some O.J. too, if you’d rather.”

  I couldn’t tell her about the déjà vu. She’d think I was crazy… or crazier. “Guava-pineapple sounds great. Thanks.”

  She poured some into the last two glasses on the shelf beside the fridge and brought them over. “So…” She handed me one and held the other overhead while carefully wedging her narrow hips into a gap among the piles on the arm chair. “What happened between you and Mr. Wrong?” The book stack beside her teetered, so she propped her elbow on top. It kept her drink held high, as if she were posing for a regal portrait.

  I pressed the rim of the glass against my chin a moment, inhaling citrus while I considered how much to tell. “We’d been arguing on the drive up here. That’s all, really. I decided I’d rather go the rest of the way home on my own.” I took a sip of the juice and licked my lips. “All I want now is to get on the bus going to Clearmont tonight. But Brock…” I stopped. Telling more might cause the whole can of worms to gush out.

  “Let me guess. Brock thinks he knows better than you.”

  Bullseye. She was right—at least partly. Except for the whole sordid tale of the missing student, the New Year’s Party, the police investigators, the fight, my bruises and the lapses in my memory. That part was all too much, so instead of explaining, I nodded.

  “But wait. That can’t be the whole story.” She leaned forward to study my face, leaving the stack of books beside her in peril. “Something’s changed since you walked out during lunch. Now you’re scared.”

  I bit my lips, and hot tears sprang out onto my cheeks. How could I tell her? “Really. I just need a place to stay until the bus arrives.”

  She nudged a pink slipper off a tissue box near her feet and pulled a couple sheets out to hand me. “Well, that’s easy. You’ll stay here.” Taking a slow sip of her juice, she stared me in the eyes, then took a deep breath. “But you and I both know that might not be enough.”

  “No. Probably not.”

  Hope edged forward in her chair. The tower of books took on a Pisa-style slant when she reached out to place her free hand lightly on my knee. “Look, I realize it’s not my business, but I’m ready to go all-in on helping you find a solution. Okay?”

  I dabbed at my nose with the wadded tissue. “Thank you.” Hope’s offer might have sprung from her captivation with thrill-seeking adventures but, for the first time since leaving Brock, my growing anxiety receded a step.

  Hope stood and set her glass on the chair arm. Pacing the room slowly, she tilted her head up and tapped her widespread fingertips together, like one of those TV detectives getting ready to announce the killer’s identity. “So the situation, as I have gathered so far, is…” She spoke with an exaggerated air of affluence that reminded me of a British aristocrat, complete with hand flourishes. “We have an ex-boyfriend who isn’t accustomed to being rejected. Am I right?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “We also have a suitable escape route in mind which will be monitored by said ex-boyfriend. The
re is a solution, of course. We must focus our attention to think this through creatively.” She paused to pick up her juice and took a regal sip. Finally, spinning toward me with dramatic flair, she resumed her own voice. “Did I mention I was a theater major?”

  We both broke out in giggles.

  Over the next half hour, I ended up telling her the whole sordid tale. She was a good listener, nodding and waiting patiently while I piled each layer on top of the previous one.

  At the end, she said, “Wow. That’s a lot to handle.”

  I looked aside. “Sorry to dump on you.”

  “No, that’s okay. I just wish I had some pie to offer.”

  “What?”

  She shrugged in answer to my surprise. “Pie fixes everything, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “Oh, yes. Everything.” Her composure held momentarily, then burst into another giggle.

  I wanted to laugh with her—pretend life was light and breezy. Like pie could cure everything. But that wasn’t the truth, and I had to say it. “Too bad it can’t solve this.”

  Hope took a breath. “Yeah, you’re right. I get it.” She took our empty glasses and added them to the pile in the sink. “So what do you think would solve it?”

  Only one thing came to mind. “I have to find a way to get on the bus without Brock knowing.” I leaned forward, resting my chin in my hands. “But how on earth do I accomplish that?”

  We were both quiet for a moment. Then Hope’s eyebrows rose. She pursed her lips and leaned back against the edge of the counter. “So… I have this idea…”

  Hope’s idea involved transforming me into someone unrecognizable with the magic of theatrical wardrobe and makeup. The notion had merit, but as I surveyed the garment piles surrounding us, theatrical wasn’t the first word that sprang to mind.

  Hope must have seen my hesitation. She resumed her upper-crust accent and eccentric flourishes. “Oh ye of little faith. Follow me,” she said, with a dramatic spin. Marching to the back of her apartment, she stopped at her bedroom door and flung it aside with a grand upswept gesture. “Ta-da!”