by Jeff Gunhus
Allison smiled. “Speaking of your bar, I think you owe me a beer.”
She never heard Charlie’s response. Wasn’t sure if he did respond, or if his mind froze along with hers at the sight of the red brake lights in front of them. All noise disappeared as the Durango crested the rise in the bridge. The storm faded away; the music on the radio dissolved. In fact, she didn’t hear another thing until Charlie started to scream.
Her right foot pumped the brakes. Everything in slow motion.
She knew it wasn’t going to be enough. Not with the wet road. Not going downhill.
Why were you going so fast? What the hell were you thinking?
The world moved to the rhythm of the windshield wipers.
Whirr-thunk
Red brake lights everywhere. Traffic stopped. People out of their cars.
Whirr-thunk
Some kind of open-bed truck with construction equipment on it. They would hit that first.
Whirr-thunk
Sideways. They were sliding sideways now. Looking across Charlie’s body, through the passenger window. There’s the truck.
Allison’s own screams filled her ears, competing against the twisting metal from the impact. There were explosions everywhere around her. The air filled with smoke. Someone had a blanket over her face, trying to suffocate her.
Air bags. It’s just the air bags. Relax, Allison. Relax.
Almost immediately, the pressure eased and she could breathe again. She pushed the air bag away and that’s when she heard Charlie screaming. There was fear in the sound, enough fear to go around, but the pain was unmistakable. Something was very, very wrong with Charlie.
Allison clawed Charlie’s air bag away.
“Charlie, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“My leg! My fuckin’ leg! Jesus Christ.”
Allison felt the tension roll away. Charlie was hurt but he wasn’t dead. Dying men didn’t speak, they just kept screaming. Allison had heard those screams before and she knew the difference.
“Hold on. Let me see it.”
She unclipped her seat belt and leaned over to Charlie’s body. Quietly she said a prayer of thanks that the good people at Dodge decided the 2004 Durango should have both front and side air bags. Without the silk bag now deflating against the shattered passenger-side window, she was sure the rainstorm would be washing parts of Charlie’s brain down Bay Bridge right now. Instead, the air bag had done its job, and they were just dealing with some minor issue with his leg.
But lifting up the front air bag, she immediately saw it was worse than she thought and something no air bag in the world could have prevented.
“Charlie, you have to promise me something, all right?”
“Aww, Jesus, it hurts! What’s wrong? What’s wrong with my leg?”
Allison got in his face. “Listen, you’re going to be all right. I’m going to get help, but I want you to promise me something before I leave.”
“What?”
“Promise me that you’re not going to look at it. Promise me, Charlie.”
“Shit, I promise! Just get help, all right?”
“OK. I’ll be right back. Don’t look down.”
Allison crawled back into her seat and out the door. People were already crowding around the car, asking if she was all right. She glanced up the bridge. Other people were already running up the rise with flares to warn approaching cars.
A little late, guys.
A sudden scream from inside the Durango told her that Charlie had broken his promise and looked down. The side-impact air bags had protected Charlie’s head but hadn’t done anything about the metal spikes hanging off the back of the open-bed trailer. Several had penetrated the door and skewered the Durango like a sausage at a cookout. Two of these two-inch wide bars had pierced Charlie’s leg, effectively stapling him to the car. It looked to Allison like the metal spikes were embedded in thick leg muscle, and blood loss was a big risk. He needed immediate attention. She shivered, thinking about what would have happened if the metal spikes were only a foot or two higher.
An ambulance siren cut through the storm raging around them. She made sure people around her knew Charlie needed help, then ran over to the passenger side, pulling her belt from her jeans to use as a temporary tourniquet.
“I looked down!” Charlie struggled to say when she appeared at the door.
“I figured. Looks nastier than it is. Ambulance is on the way but we need to stop the bleeding.” She leaned into the car with the belt in hand. “This might hurt a little.”
Charlie squinted against the pain as she slipped the belt under his upper leg and then cinched it tight. He jammed his head into the headrest, blinking back tears.
“Hang on, Charlie,” Allison said, taking his hand. “Help’s coming.”
CHAPTER 3
It was after ten before she called for a cab to take her back to her room at Governor Calvert House, a historic bed-and-breakfast in town. Charlie had insisted she go home. In fact, he had insisted that he be able to go home as well, but the docs at Anne Arundel Medical wanted to keep an eye on him overnight. The gashes in his leg were sutured and it would be a while before he was playing in his Friday night basketball league, but considering how close he came to being skewered, he was in pretty good shape. She had refused to leave at first, the guilt from driving too fast in the rain wearing on her. But after Charlie all but begged her to leave, she gave in.
Reluctantly, she took a cab for the short ride back into the historic district of Annapolis. The bed-and-breakfast was located on the cobblestoned road that encircled the colonial statehouse, a beautiful building that was still home to Maryland’s state legislature. With a red brick exterior, white-pillared front, and whitewashed portico, the capitol was the cornerstone of a town that seemed frozen in the eighteenth century.
Allison fell in love with Annapolis the first time she visited. Even as a teenager, she was attracted to the timeless quality of the place, the way the row houses stood vigil over the passage of years like ancient trees too important to change. She remembered her father driving carefully through the narrow streets, pointing out landmarks from travel guides he read on the flight out from California.
“There, Allison, there’s the governor’s mansion. They open that up at Christmas and anybody and everybody can walk in, shake the governor’s hand and have a glass of punch. How about that? Over there, that’s the state capitol. Actually, it was the capitol of the United States for six months when the Congress was moving from city to city. Not many people know that, you have to figure.”
That was her dad, Mr. Trivia. And, in Annapolis, he was in historical footnote heaven. Where did Washington resign his commission as head of the Continental Army? Annapolis. Where was Kunta Kinte of Roots fame brought on land? Annapolis. Where was Navy hero John Paul Jones buried? Annapolis, of course. The United States Naval Academy, to be exact.
And that was why she had been in the car with her dad. To see the academy. To see what it was all about.
Two years later, they were in the car again but heading in the other direction. Not smiling like on that first day together, but her in tears and him barely holding it together. By then she had seen the academy. And she was leaving it behind her forever.
Only that wasn’t really true, was it? She was sleeping a block away from the main gate. Closer to it than she’d ever thought she’d be able to stand. But she was really no closer to or farther away from the Naval Academy than she had been since she drove away that day with her father. The past was like a bill sent in the mail, chasing after her whether or not there was a forwarding address. Allison’s memory of the academy had proven its staying power. Fourteen years and still going strong.
Goddamn place.
The cab pulled into the valet spot in front of the bed-and-breakfast, and Allison crawled out with some effort. Her
entire body was stiff now that the adrenaline had released its hold on her. She felt like her bones had been shaken out of place by the force of the impact. All she could think of was a hot shower and a long night’s sleep. But she wouldn’t afford herself that small luxury. She still had work to do.
She turned to the valet. “Do you think I could load you up with these bags?” Allison dropped her shoulders and let her camera equipment slide to the ground. “I’m in room eight.”
“Sure thing. I’ll take care of it.”
She reached in her pocket for a tip, but the valet shook his head. “That’s all right, Ms. Davenport. I’m happy to do it for you.”
She smiled, so tired that she almost forgot she was using Davenport as her name. “Right, thanks. I appreciate it.”
Sucking in a deep breath, Allison leaned forward to get her momentum going in the right direction and headed down Glouchester Street for the short walk to McGarvey’s. Charlie called in to let them know he was all right, but he asked her to stop by anyway. Little did he know that she had to go by there, whether she wanted to or not. She’d grown fond of the people at McGarvey’s. After the night she’d had, she was actually looking forward to being around some friendly faces.
Besides, it was the least she could do for the kid. She had, after all, denied his advances, kicked him in the balls, and almost killed him, all in one day. At least he had a great story to tell next time his buddies talked about the worst dates they had been on.
Allison McNeil: bad date specialist. Wasn’t that what Richard had said to her when she broke things off with him?
Oh well, she thought, Lord knows it’s the truth.
McGarvey’s had become a regular hangout since her arrival a week earlier. Lunch each day and a few drinks at night before turning in already made her something of a fixture around the place. Of course, some fixtures blend into their surroundings, like beige furniture or seldom-used ashtrays stuck in the corner. A young, friendly blonde woman with striking blue eyes and girl-next-door looks is hardly the kind of thing that blends in. And it wasn’t Allison’s goal either. Her goal was to stand out. Not too much. But enough to get noticed.
When she pushed open the first of the dark, wooden double doors, she could tell people inside saw her coming through the windows. Courtney, a young brunette with a shirt a few sizes too small, opened the second door for her before she could do it herself and ushered her to a chair at the bar as if she were pregnant and ridiculous for being on her feet.
“What are you doing here? Are you all right? Is Charlie OK?”
“Calm down, Courtney. Give her a chance, will ya?” It was Mick O’Donnell, the manager/father of the McGarvey’s crew. He’d taken a paternal liking to Allison when she first arrived. For some reason, he assumed that “freelance photographer” was the same thing as being broke, so her bill usually ended up half the amount it ought to be. A few of the other waitstaff huddled around her, waiting for her to speak.
“Charlie’s doing great,” she announced.
Everyone nodded and grunted their approval. It was the same news Courtney had heard Charlie give over the phone, but somehow hearing it from someone in person made it real.
“Tell us the truth, Ali.” Mick smirked. “He cried like a baby, didn’t he?”
Allison shook her head. “No, no. He took it like a man. Not a word.”
Mick clapped his hands together. “Attaboy, Charlie.”
A girl pushed her way from behind the first row of people. Allison recognized her but didn’t know her name.
“What happened? Weren’t you paying attention?” she demanded.
Silence from the group. The words came out as an accusation and lingered in the air for a few seconds before the chorus could react to her.
“It was an accident.”
“Yeah, just an accident. Lay off, all right?”
But Sarah was staring Allison down, unmoved by the protest around her. Intuition kicked in, and Allison understood what was going on.
She’s Charlie’s girlfriend, or wants to be. Look at how she hates me.
“Yes, Sarah, I feel awful. I should have been going slower.” She wanted to say more, maybe explain what had happened, tell her how she had done her a favor by teaching Charlie a few manners, but there was no way to say it. Sarah turned and marched off.
Mick wrapped an arm around her and whispered in her ear, “Don’t worry about that one; she’s a little sweet on Charlie is all. We were all a little worried.”
“Me too, Mick. I was too.”
Mick smiled, and Allison had a flash memory of being around her grandfather, such comfort, such easy familiarity. How was it that she had known these people for only one short week and could feel like she belonged with them? And how would they react when they found out the truth about her?
“Hey, Stan!” Mick shouted. “Get this girl a beer on me, right?”
Allison was about to protest and head to her rendezvous with a tub of hot water and freshly pressed cotton sheets, when she caught sight of the man at the other end of the bar. Her stomach turned over and an adrenaline rush surged through her.
“Thanks, Mick,” she said, her voice shaking. “That sounds great.”
“You got it, Ali. All right, everyone back to work. I don’t want to see anyone bothering this poor girl. Let her drink her beer in peace.”
With a chorus of groans, the little crowd melted back into the restaurant to bus tables, deliver hot plates, and collect tips from wealthy tourists. Allison took two long drinks from her beer and tried to figure out how she was going to introduce herself to the attractive man who she had just noticed noticing her.
CHAPTER 4
The issue took care of itself within a few minutes. The man stood up and walked toward her. Allison watched him in the clouded mirror behind the bar to make sure he wasn’t just getting up to leave.
Even though Allison had spent hours studying the photographs she had of the man, she took in his appearance. Unlike the first day she saw him at the bar when he was in jeans and a loose collared shirt, tonight he was dressed in full corporate conservative: dark tailored suit, white shirt with French cuffs, shoes buff-polished so that they even picked up the dim lights in the bar. The allowance to casualness was an undone top button and a muted blue tie nudged down a few inches from his neck. Where this made some guys look like a cheap knockoff of a Dean Martin lounge act, the man carried it off.
The man’s face was more rugged than handsome, a face that said the owner had done hard time in life but had survived with stories to tell and self-confidence intact. His hair was neatly trimmed and combed back, no effort made to disguise a receding hairline. If Allison didn’t know better, she’d have guessed he was in his late thirties. He was actually forty-four, the same age as Richard, but her ex certainly didn’t possess the same animal power of the man almost standing next to her. She just wished she didn’t look like shit warmed over for this chance meeting she’d been angling for all week.
“Hi there,” the man said. “I couldn’t help but overhear about your bad day.”
Allison pushed back her hair over her ear and smiled softly. “Yeah, it’s been a tough one.”
“Mind if I sit with you?”
Direct and to the point. She liked that. But the voice in her head warned her, Don’t seem too eager. Play it cool, Allison. Play it cool.
Allison shrugged and took another sip of her beer. The man tipped his beer toward Stan, indicating two more.
“I’m fine with this one, thank you. I’m about to head home,” she said to the man when the beers arrived.
“These are both for me,” he said, smiling. “I’m sure it won’t go to waste in this place.”
“Do you come here a lot?” Allison cringed as the words came out of her mouth. What was she, twenty years old and falling back on cheesy pickup lines she’d learned in teen mov
ies? She had to be a little cleverer.
“Whenever I’m in town. I live over on the Eastern Shore but I come over for business occasionally. Sometimes for pleasure. How about yourself?”
“Short version?”
“Short or long. I’m not going anywhere.”
Allison looked away and pretended to be embarrassed by the attention. “All right, short version. Ready?”
“Fire away.”
“Freelance photographer. In town for a week now, probably here for another week or two, shooting pictures of the Chesapeake.”
“For what publication?”
Allison laughed. “Yet to be determined.”
“Ah, working on spec. Now, that takes some guts. I like that.”
“I’m not sure about guts, but it’s the way to do the work you like as opposed to the work you have to do, you know what I mean?”
“Amen, sister.”
It’s a natural flow to ask what he does for a living. Don’t ask, though. Give him room.
Allison let the silence drag out between them. Finally the man filled the gap.
“What was it like tonight?”
“What do you mean?”
“I heard you ran into a little trouble,” he said.
“The accident?”
“Yes,” the man said softly, “it sounds like it was pretty horrific.”
Allison cocked her head to the side. Her new companion’s voice had changed—a bit lower, but it wasn’t an attempt at sympathy or consolation. There was an edge to it now, an eagerness that hadn’t been there just seconds before.
“It was bad. Charlie, the kid who works here as a bartender—”
“I know Charlie.”
“Yeah, he’s OK, though. There was some farm equipment on the truck we hit. Some metal poles bored through the door and went through his leg.”
“That’s awful,” the man said in a voice that said it wasn’t awful at all, but exactly the kind of thing he wanted to hear.
Allison tried not to read too much into it. People flock to accident scenes, don’t they? It is human nature. They don’t slow down at the roadside accident to help, too much blood, worries about AIDS and lawsuits for doing the wrong thing. No, they slow down to see the damage. To look at the poor son of a bitch on a stretcher and think, Better that poor schmuck than me. It was the man’s next question that unnerved her.
