Caught in the Middle

by Gayle Roper

  I automatically rolled into a ball, protecting my hurt arm, while I tried to breathe through the pain. I wanted nothing more than to lie there and cry, but I could hear footsteps racing in my direction.

  Forcing myself to my feet, I slid behind the machine and hunkered down, still cradling my arm, forcing myself not to cry or sniffle or make any noise. If anything got me in trouble, it would be my hammering heart.

  He thundered toward me and stopped on the other side of my hiding place.

  “Come on, Merry. Let me help you,” he coaxed. “You know I only want what’s best for you.”

  I closed my eyes and shrank back into my machine. Go away! Lord, make him go away!

  There was a noise from the other side of the room, and he turned toward it. A providential mouse? Andy? Who knew and who cared!

  Thanks, Lord!

  Slowly he began moving away from me. I made myself stay still until I was sure he was some distance off. Then I peered from my hiding spot.

  I couldn’t see him, but I saw the safe area where Andy and I had walked when we came in. If I could get over there, I could find the door! I could get away and get help for Andy.

  Again I searched the darkness, but I couldn’t see my pursuer, so I ran across the open area, watching for grease, workbenches and other traps. I had come to understand, in the short time I’d been stumbling through this darkness, that Andy’s little lecture on safety was more than the ramblings of a misguided mind.

  I was running down the safe area toward the door when the lights suddenly came on.

  “Now I’ll find you, Merry,” my tormentor called.

  I had felt fairly safe in my red coat when there was so little light. Now I felt like a neon sign. Blink, blink. Here’s Merry.

  I glanced back over my shoulder and saw him at the far end of the room. He saw me at the same time and began running in my direction. I felt a surge of adrenaline, and I knew I could make the door before he got near me.

  Oh, Lord, don’t let him shoot me!

  I would have made that door if it hadn’t been for the pallet that had bothered Andy because it was sticking out into the safe area. I ran into it going full speed, cracking my shin on a piece of the steel resting on it. Pain shot up my leg, and I fell forward, striking my head on a gas canister as I went down.

  So much for escape.

  When I woke up, I was in a dark, cramped place.

  At first I didn’t realize I was confined. I hurt too much to notice. My head ached, my elbow throbbed and my shin smarted. I lay with my eyes closed, trying to determine which pain was dominant, but it kept changing. Then I shifted my weight, and my elbow definitely took top honors as I rolled on it.

  Hastily I changed position again and rested with my eyes closed for a bit longer. It was too much hard work to figure out where I was.

  And then I remembered where I’d been, and my eyes flew open. Brandywine Steel! Andy! The gunman! I had to escape!

  That’s when I realized I was confined.

  Groaning as much from déjà vu as pain, I realized that I was again in a trunk. But this time the car was moving.

  All I could think was that my next car would be an SUV with no trunk—assuming I had the opportunity to have a next car.

  The car I was riding in swerved abruptly one way, then just as abruptly the other. My elbow got another hefty crack, and I swallowed my cry. No sense letting the driver know I was conscious.

  The engine died and the car shook as the driver climbed out. The front door slammed. I heard the driver walk past, gravel crunching underfoot.

  I waited until I couldn’t hear anything. Then I moved as quickly as I could. After my last stay in a trunk, I had vowed to never suffer the terror of entrapment again.

  “You know, you probably don’t have to, at least not in a car trunk,” Sergeant Poole had told me. “Most cars these days have fold-down backseats so you can carry things like lumber or skis.” It was obvious from his face which he thought the more important. I guess if I were a cop, the slopes would seem a fine refuge to me, too, even if I were overweight and grumpy.

  I muddled around the back of the trunk, knowing that somewhere I should find a handle or a lever or a cord or something that I could pull to release the backseat. The need for speed made me fumble, but finally I felt the handle hanging down. I pulled on it with all my might and was rewarded with a faint click.

  The backseat, released, opened slightly into the car under its own weight. At the same moment, I heard footsteps. I froze.

  The footsteps slowed at the car, and someone bumped against the trunk. I listened with icy fear for a key to slide into the lock. Instead there was a bump on the side of the car, and a front door opened.

  I wrapped my fingers around the edges of the backseat and tried to pull it back tightly against the trunk. I could see a halo of light around it and feel the whip of frigid air. I cringed. What if he saw the loosened seat? Or noticed my fingers? What if the seat fell forward under its own weight in spite of my attempts to hold it back?

  Crouched in exquisite agony, I listened to him fumble and mutter. I was afraid to breathe for fear he’d hear me, for fear my breath would unbalance the seat beyond my ability to control it.

  When the car door slammed and darkness returned, I slumped in relief. But when he stopped by the trunk, I tensed again. A key slid into the lock and my breath caught in my throat. I tried to remember what position I’d been in when I regained consciousness, but I hadn’t the vaguest idea. Hopefully he didn’t, either.

  I let go of the teetering seat and tried to lie flat without making a sound. I attempted to look limp even though I was strung as taut as a concert violin.

  The air whipped across my face, and I wondered if an unconscious person reacted physically to something as uncomfortable as the cold. I had no idea, so I stayed still. I could feel him staring at me and struggled against the urge to twitch. After a seeming eternity, unable to deal any longer with the vulnerability of lying there blind, I slitted my eyes.

  All I saw was a huge shape bent over the trunk, black against the black of the night. Every nightmare I’d ever had as a kid about the bad man who lived under my bed came flooding back. I was staring at evil personified.

  Then my ogre sighed as if in great pain and slammed the trunk shut. I heard slow footfalls as he walked away.

  I forced myself to count to fifty. Then I pushed against the seat and presto, change-o, I was free. The seat fell forward easily, and I slithered into the car itself. I was certain he was going to come back and grab me half-escaped, and I’d be back in big trouble. But he didn’t return, and I scrambled out the door and into the fog.

  When my foot hit the ground, my shin protested loudly and I almost fell. I grabbed the door handle to keep from falling and looked down. My shin was swollen to several times its normal size.

  I touched the injured area carefully, only to find it wet and spongy.

  “What in the…”

  It was a scarf, carefully wrapped around my lower leg, and it was wet with blood. How kind of him to wrap my leg before he killed me, I thought. With any luck, I’ve bled all over his car in thanks.

  I was surprised to find myself in the parking lot behind The News. Why had he brought me here? Why hadn’t he just shot me back at Brandywine Steel? Because he couldn’t put a gun to an unconscious person’s head? Because looking me in the face made it too hard? After all, he wasn’t a professional killer or anything.

  But I didn’t hang around to ponder the riddle further. I limped to the police station as fast as my bleeding leg would allow.

  Sergeant Poole was still on night duty, and more than efficient. In no time he had a stakeout in place behind The News and emergency vehicles on their way to Brandywine Steel to see about Andy.

  He tried to make me to go the hospital to get my various injuries cared for.

  “Don’t waste your breath,” I said. “If you think I’m going to miss the denouement of this story, you’re crazy. I’m co
ming with you.”

  “Denouement, Merry?” he said. “Give me a break.”

  “Climax, peak, turning point, final action,” I said.

  “I know what it means,” he said as he slapped on his bulletproof vest. “We cops are literate, too. I just don’t know other people who use words like that in real conversation. Go to the hospital.”

  I just shook my head at him.

  “It’ll be dangerous, Merry,” he said. “I think we have a very desperate man here, so who knows what he’ll do. Possible gunshots. You might get hurt.”

  “I’m already hurt,” I said. “And I promise to stay out of your way.”

  In the end, Sergeant Poole let me come along. His alternative was to put me in a holding cell until it was all over, and then I’d just write an article about how unfair he’d been.

  “But you’ve got to wear this,” he said, and handed me a bulletproof vest. I struggled to put the unwieldy thing on as I trailed him and several officers across the street.

  “Remember, he’s not in there alone,” I called. “That’s Don Eldredge’s car—” and I pointed to a green Taurus “—and that’s Mac Carnuccio’s car.” I pointed to a bright red Miata. “And he has a gun that he’s already used.”

  In the end, Sergeant Poole and four other officers positioned themselves behind The News. Another officer watched the building’s front door on Main Street, though no one expected our man to go that way.

  “Are you going to go in?” I asked, breathing in the night’s raw dampness as my heart fluttered in apprehension.

  “No,” Poole said. “We are not going in. That’s how people get hurt. We wait.”

  I was placed behind a car not far from the sergeant as he crouched behind an unmarked police car issuing orders.

  We had settled in for a long wait when suddenly, through the fog, came the whistled strains of “Merrily We Roll Along,” and Curt came sauntering into view like Marshall Earp on his way to the OK Corral. Only he didn’t know there was a showdown, and he’d left his six-shooters at home.

  TWENTY

  I looked frantically from Curt to the back door of The News, positive that our man was going to burst out at this very moment, guns blazing, and that Curt would get blown away in the crossfire.

  I saw Sergeant Poole move to grab Curt and haul him out of harm’s way, but I acted more quickly.

  “Curt,” I yelled. “Help. Over here.”

  He broke off whistling in the middle of the second “roll along.” His head spun in my direction, and he leaped to my aid, just as I had known he would. As he got near me, leaning down to see what my problem was, I grabbed him by the coat collar and pulled.

  “Stay down,” I hissed in his ear as he thudded gracelessly to the ground. “You just walked into the middle of a police stakeout.”

  He pulled back and stared at me in disbelief, then scanned the area, taking in Sergeant Poole and the others. Sergeant Poole gave a little salute and signaled that Curt stay low.

  “My stalker,” I whispered. “We’re going to get him.”

  “We’re going to get him?” he repeated, looking confused. He shook his head as if to clear it. “Why’d you call for help?”

  “To get you out of the way. I didn’t want you to get shot.”

  “You didn’t?” He looked ridiculously pleased.

  “I don’t want anyone to get shot,” I said primly, studying my hands.

  He grinned. “Right. Now explain all this to me in a sensible manner that I can follow,” he instructed. “What are they doing? What are you doing? What’s going on?”

  “Nothing special.” I knew he was going to be mad when he heard the whole story. I would outrage all his protective tendencies and be unrepentant about doing so. “I just got put in a trunk again and I decided I was tired of it, so I got the police after him. And he shot Andy. And he tried to kill me those two times.”

  “Wait a minute, Merry. Just who are you talking about?”

  I told him.

  He looked at me with agitation and suspicion growing in his face. He zipped right past the information, even the identity of the stalker, and tackled me, as I had known he would. “When I left you this morning, you didn’t know any of this.”

  “Right,” I agreed. “I learned it all this evening.”

  “At your ‘business meeting’?” He pronounced the last two words in verbal quote marks.

  “Ah. You found my note,” I said. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

  “Which is undoubtedly why you worded it so blandly.” He was so angry his voice shook.

  “You’re darn right, buddy,” I said, tired of his righteous indignation. “I got a chance to meet with Andy, and you weren’t going to keep me from going.”

  “Andy? Alone? Just you and him? You’re crazy!”

  “Maybe, but have I got a story!”

  “Merry! What’s wrong with you?” Curt hissed, grabbing me by the shoulders. “That’s exactly what you promised me you wouldn’t do!”

  I looked him in the eye. “Oh, no. You asked me to promise, but I never did. I never would. I may be a coward in some areas, but never in the area of a story.” I pushed his hands away.

  “You can’t go running around, risking your life like you were in a movie or something!”

  “It’s my life! I’ll risk it if I want!”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s mature.”

  I scowled at him. The last thing I wanted to deal with was his sarcasm.

  “Listen to me, Merry—” and up came his index finger “—you can’t keep on like this! It’s dangerous.”

  “And you can’t keep telling me what to do!” I yelled, swatting at his finger, choosing to ignore the truth in his comment.

  “Will you two shut up?” Sergeant Poole could barely get the words out through his gritted teeth. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’re on a stakeout here.”

  I looked an apology, then turned back to Curt and whispered fiercely, “You can’t tell me what to do!”

  “Somebody’s got to!” Curt spat, his finger right under my nose in the most infuriating, patronizing manner. He clamped his lips together and took several deep breaths. Then he repeated, suddenly gentle, his face pained, “Somebody’s got to.” His index finger lost its rigidity and slid softly down my cheek.

  Dirty fighting, I thought as I closed my eyes to deal with my sudden vertigo.

  “You’ve got a huge bruise, you know,” he said.

  “I do?” I lifted my hand to my cheek and rubbed. “No, I don’t. It’s only grease from when I fell and slid along the floor. Here. Smell.” I held out my hand.

  He took my hand and before I knew what was happening, pulled me into his arms. He nuzzled against my cheek and sniffed. “Um, you’re right. Grease. A soft, feminine fragrance to please a discriminating man.”

  “Get away,” I cried, pushing him back. “You’re hurting my elbow.”

  “What’s wrong with your elbow?”

  “I cracked it when I fell and got the grease.”

  “Merry!” He reached out and took my elbow gently in his hands.

  “Dr. Carlyle, I presume,” I said snippily to cover the pain that flashed through me from fingertips to shoulder.

  “It feels like a balloon!” He was horrified. “You’ve got to get to the hospital and get that treated.”

  I nodded. “Sometime soon.”

  “Merry!” He moved in close as if he wanted to slide an arm around my shoulders, probably preparatory to grabbing me and carrying me off whether I wanted to go or not.

  “Be careful,” I cautioned with a sweet smile. “You’ll get blood on your clothes.”

  “Blood? Blood!” He stared, at a temporary loss for words.

  “Blood,” I said, and pointed to my wrapped shin. “I fell over a piece of steel when I was being chased. After he shot Andy. But he wrapped it in his scarf. Nice, huh? Wrap it up before you shoot her. Chivalry.”

  Curt reached to unwrap the wound and see what he could do abou
t it. “Boy Scout,” he said. “Lots of first-aid training.”

  “Don’t,” I said, putting a hand on his. “I don’t want to know how bad it is until I can get it cared for.”

  He turned his hand over and grasped mine. Poor man. He was falling for me, and I was driving him crazy. Seemed only fair. His concern and affection were scaring me to death.

  “Did you sell Mr. Harrison the picture?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “For the full amount?”

  He nodded again, and we sat side by side, hand in hand, leaning against a parked car, the fog seeping into our clothes, the damp ground slowly chilling our seats.

  After a few minutes he said, “You’re spunky.” He paused. “I’m not sure I like spunky.”

  “I definitely don’t like it,” I said. “It rhymes with chunky and clunky.”

  He drew a line down the back of my hand with his thumb. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know,” I said gently.

  “How about perky?” he offered after a bit.

  I shook my head. “Rhymes with turkey.”

  “Feisty?”

  “Feisty’s nice. I like feisty.”

  He smiled lopsidedly. “I guess I’ll have to learn to like it, too.”

  Good grief! An adaptable man! Now I was truly terrified.

  More time passed while I wondered how many women held hands with men trying to like feisty, and all while they were on a police stakeout.

  “Did he really shoot Andy?” Curt asked suddenly.

  “You were listening!”

  “Of course.” He seemed surprised. “I always listen to you.”

  “Then why do you keep singing ‘Merrily We Roll Along’?”

  “Because I can’t help it. I never knew anyone before who had whole songs written about her.” And he smiled.

  “You are ridiculous! And yes, he really shot Andy.”

  “How badly?”