by Lisa Gardner
Seventy-five hours left to live.
What would you do?
SKY WAS PITCH-BLACK when I returned to upper earth, pushing my way through the creaky turnstile, hiking up the steps to another darker, quieter section of Boston. Street lamps did their best to combat the relentless winter night, but they’d been positioned too far apart, casting the icy sidewalk into large enough pools of shadow to make a lone female think twice. I shed the turquoise scarf, hat, and mittens, shoving all deep into my pack. Then I flipped my messenger bag backwards, pouch bouncing against my rear. No need to disguise my hip holster anymore. In this neighborhood, everyone was probably packing, and blending in was my best shot at survival.
Turned out, even snow was ugly in housing projects. The mountains where I used to live, Harvard Square where I now lived, blanketed in yards of white fluffy Norman Rockwell snow. Not here. In this section of town, snow became just another form of litter. Gray, sandy, riddled with yellow pools of dog piss and bristling with discarded straws, Big Gulp lids, cigarette butts. You didn’t look at this kind of snow and think of Christmas lights, cheerful hearth fires, or mugs of hot cocoa. You walked by these piles and figured even Mother Nature was an unforgiving bitch.
I set off, following a map I’d committed to memory to find an address I’d never written down. Another precaution rolled into a precaution.
Sidewalks weren’t empty. In an inner city neighborhood, they never are. I walked by groups of hulking black teens, baseball caps worn backwards, down coats four sizes too large, chests gleaming with gold chains. Some were laughing, some were smoking. Some were already pushing and shoving, maybe in jest, maybe not.
They all looked up. Started. White chick, on their streets.
I smiled at them. I put my finger to my lips. I exhaled softly, Shhhh.
And just like that, they quieted, stepped away.
I think it had to do with the look in my eyes. One each of them recognized, most likely contemplated every single morning when standing in front of his mirror.
You want to know what it feels like to having nothing left to lose?
Liberating.
Intoxicating.
Dangerous.
6:02 P.M., I acquired my target.
Seventy-four hours left to live.
What would you do?
TOMIKA MET ME IN THE FOYER. She had the kids bundled up so thickly only their eyes, brilliant white, appeared against their dark faces. Michael, the older boy, had a red backpack. Mica, the four-year-old girl, clutched a blanket and a teddy bear. Tomika carried the rest, two black duffel bags slung over each shoulder. Eight years of marriage, twenty-six years of living, condensed into two midsized travel bags.
I faltered. My foot, coming over the threshold, missed. I stumbled, caught myself in the doorway.
Then I did something curious even for me. I exhaled, so I could watch my breath form a misty trail in the ice-cold night.
That satisfied me. Made me feel that the scene was exactly right.
“Has he called?” I asked softly.
“Five minutes ago.”
I glanced at my watch, set a mental deadline. “Let’s go.” I held out my arm, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world for nine-year-old Michael to loop his hand through it. I smiled down at him. He gazed solemn-eyed back up at me, and again, the scene felt right.
Tomika had called dispatch for the first time six months ago. Usual story. Drunk, angry husband, tearing up the place. Usual results. Police showed up, talked her husband down; she refused to press charges.
But six weeks ago, Michael called the hotline. Their mother had gone out, leaving him and his little sister alone with their father. Now they were huddled in the closet, trying not to be seen or heard because other men were over and had gotten to arguing and one had pulled a gun and Michael had grabbed his little sister and jammed them both into the back of their parents’ closet and he didn’t know what else to do.
I did what comm officers do. I asked questions, I got answers, I dispatched several officers to the scene, and I kept Michael on the line. Forty-five minutes that call lasted. We sang silly songs. Exchanged knock-knock jokes. Michael and Mica even taught me some ghetto slang to improve my street cred.
By the time the first of my officers had arrived, the men were gone, and Stan grew pissed off at having a patrol man on his doorstep. Officer Mackereth, Tom, had been on duty that night. He’d done good. Never mentioned Michael or Mica, two frightened kids huddled with a phone in the closet. Just said he’d responded to reports of an argument in the neighborhood. Had Stan seen or heard anything?
After that, Michael started calling more often. Sometimes just to talk. Because nights were long in his house, and who cared about monsters under the bed when the real thing was passed out drunk on the family room sofa? He worried about his mom. He was terrified for his sister.
After the last recorded call, three weeks ago, Social Services had paid the family a visit. As Michael explained to me days later, Stan rounded up the family and sat them before the caseworker. They were to answer all questions openly and honestly. While Stan stood there and glared at them.
The moment the social worker left, Stan got out a hammer. He broke all of Tomika’s fingers, then four of Michael’s, then two of little Mica’s. No one, he informed them, would be dialing the phone ever again. Or next time, he wouldn’t be getting out a hammer—he’d get out an ax.
It had taken Michael twenty-four hours to work up the courage to dial 911 with his pinkies. Then he’d had to wait another two days for it to be my turn on graveyard shift. If anyone ever listened to that recorded call, it would sound like a little boy, playing with the phone, looking for his mother’s number. It would sound like an exasperated dispatch officer finally rattling off a number to appease the child.
That it happened to be the dispatch officer’s own prepaid cell was just because, of course. What other numbers do you know off the top of your head?
Michael and I took our conversation off-line, where his mother, Tomika, joined the party. Then I liquidated my entire savings accounts, all forty-two hundred dollars, to buy a woman and her two children brand-new IDs, to cover first and last month’s rent plus security deposit on a new apartment, and to pay for the bus tickets that would get them all there.
Seventy-three hours and thirty minutes remaining.
What would you do?
I ESCORTED TOMIKA, MICHAEL, AND MICA to the bus stop. It would take three more exchanges to get them to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, but Tomika had an old girlfriend there, who’d set her up with job. New names, new life, new opportunity.
Tomika was crying.
“I love him,” she said, then brushed her cheeks with hands thick with finger splints and white bandages.
“He’ll kill you.”
“I know.”
“He’ll kill your children.”
“I know.”
Michael had his arm around his little sister’s shoulders. His expression, as he stared at his mother, was resigned.
“Mommy?” Mica finally spoke up.
Tomika glanced down at her daughter, sobbed harder. “I swear I won’t go back. I’ll be strong. I’ll take care of us, baby. I promise, I’ll take care of us.”
Given the state of her splinted fingers, I helped her organize the new IDs in her purse. I opened her wallet, withdrew her old driver’s license, slipped in the new one, made with the help of one of her Facebook photos and J.T.’s friend. In thirty seconds Tomika Miller became Tonya Davis. I wrapped my turquoise scarf around her neck, slipped dark sunglasses over her eyes, and added a bright hat to cover her uptucked hair.
For Michael and Mica, we had something simpler in mind. Michael gained a wig, becoming the seven-year-old sister, while Mica’s ponytail was summarily cut off, turning her into a four-year-old younger brother.
Later, at the bus stop, should Stan Miller ask questions, no one would know of a lone woman with an older son and younger daughter boarding the
bus. They’d only witnessed two women and two children who climbed on together, with an older girl and younger boy. I handled all the tickets again, so Tomika could keep her bandaged hands hidden inside her coat. Another question Stan might think to ask, but no one in the bus depot would have the answer.
At the last minute, I got back off the bus, mentioning I’d forgotten something, would catch up later.
Right before exiting, I leaned down and slipped a prepaid cell, recently purchased from Wal-Mart, into Michael’s pocket. It was programmed with a single number—my own. I whispered in his ear, “Call me. Anytime. I’ll be there, Michael. I’ll be there.”
Then I was off. Five minutes later the bus pulled away, Tomika Miller and her two kids getting a fresh start in life.
Until the first time it grew too tough, and Tomika gave in to the urge to call her husband. Or broke down and told her story to a friend who’d tell a friend who’d tell a friend who’d tell Stan Miller. Or Stan himself managed to track them down.
Maybe this time, Stan would bring that ax. Maybe this time, Michael would call me, begging, pleading, screaming desperately for help.
Maybe it would be after 8 P.M. on January 21.
And my phone would ring and ring and ring. Nobody left alive to answer.
I glanced at my watch. 7:42 P.M.
Seventy-two hours and fifteen minutes left to live.
What would you do?
I headed back to Tomika’s old address. I headed for Stan Miller.
THINGS I DIDN’T KNOW about myself until the last year: I am, or used to be, deeply, deeply terrified of fighting back. First time my boxing coach tried to get me to spar in the ring, I couldn’t do it. Shadowboxing, sure. Heavy bag work, no problem. Speed bag, fun. But to hit someone, actually pull back my arm, then snap my fist forward, rolling my shoulder, rotating at the waist, stepping into the full velocity of the punch, committing to my opponent’s gut, kidney, chin, nose, right eye. Couldn’t do it.
I danced around the ring. Dodged, ducked, V-stepped, sidestepped, elbow blocked, swatted, did anything but throw a punch.
All those years of going along. All those years of being a brave little girl, a good little girl. I couldn’t retaliate.
My mother had trained me too well.
At the end of the sixth session, in sheer frustration, my boxing coach, Dick, a retired three-time world champion, nailed me in the eye. It hurt. My cheekbone exploded. My eye welled with tears. I recoiled, stared at him incredulously, as if I couldn’t believe he’d done such a thing.
He jabbed me in the other eye. Then the gut, the shoulder, the chin. My coach started wailing on me.
And I took it. I hunched over, fists in front of my face, elbows glued to my rib cage, and let him beat me.
Brave little girl. Good little girl.
Making my mother proud.
Dick gave up first. Walked away in disgust. Muttering at me for not fighting, muttering at himself for beating up a defenseless girl.
And that did it. I finally registered my own pain. I finally heard someone calling me a defenseless girl and I lost it.
I attacked my fifty-five-year-old, gristle-haired, battle-scarred boxing coach and I tried to kill him. I threw jabs, right hooks, uppercuts, left hooks, solid punches, endless kidney shots. I chased him around the ring, corner to corner, and I discovered inside myself something I’d never known was there—rage. Pure, unadulterated rage. And not the good old, I’m twenty-eight years old and I’m finally pissed off at my mother rage, but the better, harder, I’m twenty-eight years old and I’m finally pissed off at me rage. Because I’d taken it. Because I was a good girl and a brave girl and I went along. So help me God I went along and I went along, and I was never going along again.
At the end of the session, my coach had one black eye and one swollen nose. I had two black eyes and bruised ribs. And we were both exultant.
“That’s it!” he told me again and again, dripping blood all over the boxing ring. “I knew you could do it. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! Now, that’s boxing, Charlie. That’s committing to the punch!”
Turns out, I didn’t want to be Tomika Miller, running from shadows, constantly looking over her shoulder.
I wanted it to be January 21. I wanted to open that door. I wanted to look my killer in the eye.
And I wanted to beat the shit out of him, before plugging three to the chest. One for Randi. One for Jackie. And one for me.
I’d been a good girl once.
Now I didn’t plan on being a good girl ever again.
I ARRIVED BACK AT TOMIKA’S APARTMENT in the tenement housing unit at 8:26 P.M. I’d been told Stan’s shift as a security officer ended at seven. Usually, he had half a dozen drinks with the boys, then came home to terrorize his waiting family around nine.
Big guy. Six two, 280 pounds. Not fit. His security job involved sitting in a booth, checking ID at a major manufacturing plant. Basically, he made twelve bucks an hour to sit around and look intimidating. Which must have pissed him off, because then he returned home and threw his weight around.
According to Tomika, he was often packing and seemed to have an endless supply of firearms. Where they came from, she didn’t know and she didn’t ask. But he and his buddies liked to shoot beer cans off the rear fire escape at nights, and none of them had problems producing a weapon.
So I had roughly thirty minutes to prepare for a mountain of man who might or might not be packing multiple firearms.
My palms were sweating. My heart beat too hard in my chest.
I worked on breaking down my plan into short, manageable steps. First, quick buzz through the apartment, removing lightbulbs. Darkness was my friend, surprise my best advantage.
The instant Stan opened the door, he’d be back lit by the hall, a clear target. Best moment of opportunity would be those first two seconds, when he was caught unaware and completely haloed, while I’d be nothing but a faint shadow in the dark recesses of the living room.
My countdown to January 21 would continue. His would not.
Next step, hastily ransacking all kitchen and bedroom drawers. I found a. 22 and a tiny little ankle holster gun. I kept the ankle shooter, dropped the. 22 in the toilet. Then I discovered Stan’s tool kit and went to work. A precaution built into a precaution built into a precaution.
In the back bedroom, I left the window access to the rickety fire escape open—always good to have an additional egress, especially if neighbors responded to the sounds of gunfire by crowding the inner halls.
Nine oh one. Jittery. Not good. My own anxiety started to piss me off. Nerves? I’d been training and practicing for a fucking year. What good were nerves to me? So sorry, Mr. Killer of My Two Best Friends, but can we hold off on our confrontation for a minute, while I calm myself down? Want a drink? Want a Xanax?
Here, take two.
Fuck nerves.
I was a lean, mean killing machine.
God dammit.
Footsteps. Out in the hallway. Heavy and ringing. Thump. Thump. Thump.
My heart rate spiked. My black turtleneck constricted around my throat, and at the last second, I had to take my shaking left hand off my Taurus to wipe my sweaty palm on the leg of my jeans.
I’d locked the front door. Everyone did in this building. Now I heard the jangle of keys. A rasp of metal teeth engaging the first lock, then the second. Front door flung open.
Two hundred and eighty pounds of Stan Miller loomed in the entryway.
“What’s for dinner, bitch?” Stan boomed across the darkened apartment.
He sounded cavalier, almost like he was in a good mood.
So I shot him.
I PULLED LEFT. Don’t ask me how, don’t ask me why. But I fucking pulled my shot left. Doorjamb exploded, Stan dropped like a rock and rolled toward the kitchen, screaming. I cursed a blue streak and, through my shock and rage, realized now I was in for it, not to mention that if my firearms instructor J.T. ever heard about this, he’d kill me anyway and
spare me the miserable pain of the twenty-first.
“What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck!” Stan was yelling. “Where’s Tomika? What’d you do with Tomika?”
“Killed her!” I called back at him. “That’ll teach you not to pay your debts.”
(I was making this up. Precaution built into a precaution, right? Always gotta have plan B, and if I couldn’t kill Stan, plan B was to lead him to think that his family was dead. A man like Stan had to owe somebody something somewhere. It just figured.)
“You’re a girl,” Stan said. And just like that, he stood up in his kitchen. Apparently, being attacked by a girl didn’t scare him nearly so much.
So I shot him again.
This time, I hit his shoulder. He howled, dropped again.
I felt better about things.
Until good ol’ Stan popped back up and fired off four rounds in my general direction. This time, I dove for cover, cursing myself all over again. First two seconds. Battles are won or lost in the first two seconds. He’d been standing right there, lit up beautifully, 280 pounds of target. How the hell had I missed 280 pounds of target?
Dammit!
“Gonna hurt you,” Stan bellowed now. “Gonna find you, gonna hurt you. With a knife. Bad.”
I crawled behind the overstuffed recliner, leading with my gun, and peered out, trying to penetrate the gloom of the kitchen. Couldn’t see a thing.
Shit.
I took a second to get my bearings. Stan seemed to be doing the same, the apartment falling eerily silent. I strained my ears for sounds from the rest of the building. Neighbors yelling about gunshots, or banging the ceiling to say quiet the noise. Police sirens already screeching down the street.
Nothing.
Maybe 9 P.M. was too early for most residents of this building to be home yet. Or maybe, in a building where men routinely spent their evenings shooting beer cans off the fire escape, nobody noticed gunfire anymore.
I did. My ears were ringing, my heart pounding, my hands a shaking mess of adrenaline and fear. Even my stomach felt funny. Hollowed out, queasy, and butterfly-y. Shock, probably. Terror. Rage.
