Reluctant Witness
By Sara M. Barton
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously in the context of the story. They are in no way representative of real life and any resemblance is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 Sara M. Barton
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the authorized publisher, Sara M. Barton, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Dedication
To the birds, the bees, the butterflies -- our winged friends who work their magic on the ground and in the air.
Without them, there would be no coffee to awaken our senses, no chocolate to sweeten our days, no cinnamon to spice up our lives. The world would indeed be a poor place to be....
Acknowledgments
F. Rue “Gull” McDougall’s publishing assistance was invaluable in bringing this tale to life. Jayne E. Austin’s grammatical governance was inspirational for this author. Dino Marino’s constant revisions to my manuscript kept me on my toes. I thank you all.
Part One: On The Run From Contract Killers In The Catskills
Bicknell’s Thrush (Catharus bicknelli) was discovered on Slide Mountain in the Catskills in the late 19th century by Eugene Bicknell. A rare, secretive songbird endangered by the loss of its native habitat, it appears to adapt well to commercial reforestation efforts, which may encourage breeding and survival of the species.
Chapter One
“Wait here.”
Those two words were the only ones spoken to me as I shivered in the frozen night air, standing coatless and terrified. Even as the emergency responders poured into the park, they weren’t interested in me. They were trying to rescue the woman in the submerged car, the one who didn’t escape. They worked frantically to free her from her metal prison, but as the minutes ticked on, I knew it was useless.
“Put this on,” said a passing firefighter, handing me a jacket, dark and stiff, made of nylon. Hurriedly, I slipped my arms into the sleeves and pulled it around me. It came only to my knees and did little to protect my stocking-covered legs. My long, wet hair was heavy on my shoulders, and I was torn between keeping it under the coat and leaving it exposed to the cold night. I sighed heavily as I watched him run, a man on a mission. I could have told him he was too late. I could have saved him that cold trip into the frigid water. After all, I had been locked in that car for the last three hours.
“Pull it up!” shouted a voice from behind the monstrous emergency vehicle at the edge of that all-to-real nightmare on the shore. I could hear the rattle of a chain as it clanged against the gears on the motorized pulley, fighting the weight of the Toyota Corolla. The icy surface of the pond broke apart once more as the vehicle was yanked out. Huge chunks of ice thumped and thudded against one another. “Get the jaws!”
Frantically, the army of rescuers got into position and began to saw away the twisted metal. I pulled the borrowed jacket closer as I watched, stomping my feet in a feeble attempt to prevent frostbitten toes. A moment later, they had the body free and they loaded it onto the stretcher. The crowd fell away, until there were only four figures working fiercely in the narrow beam of light to revive the limp, lifeless form. The pallet was carefully carried to the waiting ambulance, one man still pumping hard with chest compressions as the others maneuvered it into the vehicle. The engine roared to life the second the heavy doors slammed shut, and with a rumble and loud beeps, the emergency vehicle backed up. The driver pulled a u-turn before steering it onto the road out of the park. A moment later, the siren split the night with an ear-deafening warning as the medical truck headed for the highway.
“Ma’am?” A hand touched my elbow and I jumped, startled by the unexpected contact. “Come with me. Let me drive you to the station for your statement.”
I couldn’t see the man’s face, although I saw the glint of wire-rimmed glasses in the dim light. He was taller than me by a foot or so. From the sound of his voice, I guessed he was in his forties. Why did he make me nervous?
“Ma’am?” He said the word again as I felt those fingers on my elbow, but this time he didn’t let go, even when I tried to shrug him off.
“Don’t touch me,” I told him, recoiling in fear.
“I’m trying to help you,” he insisted, his voice silky smooth, and I almost believed him, until he wrenched my arm behind my back.
“Let me go!” I screamed. “Let me go!”
“What’s going on?” I heard a distant voice shout.
“Help!”
“Hey!” another voice called out. “Stop right there!”
“Nothing to worry about, fellows,” said the man in a confident tone. “I’m a cop!”
“So am I...New York State Police. Let’s see your badge,” demanded a man behind us. “Nice and easy, pal.”
“How about a little professional courtesy?” the stranger asked as powerful spotlight split the darkness with a beam of white light and landed on us. He winced, hand to his face. For a moment, I thought he was trying to hide from his fellow law enforcement officer. “Take my word for it. I’m a cop.”
“I have a better idea,” the uniformed trooper with the flashlight announced. “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine. Here’s mine.”
He pointed to the badge pinned on his chest, but I thought it unnecessary. After all, I could see the New York State Police cruiser some fifty feet away. “Number 143. Where’s yours?”
“I don’t want to release my prisoner,” my plain clothes captor informed him warily. “She might try to flee.”
Prisoner? That didn’t sound good to me, especially since I couldn’t recall breaking any laws. If anything, I was the victim, given that I had just kicked my way out of the trunk of that Toyota. Do you know how hard it is to find the release switch in the darkness, as the icy water begins to creep in through the crack between sedan body and trunk? Trust me, it’s maddening, especially when your fingers are numb and your blood is almost the consistency of a Slurpee.
Apparently, the cop wasn’t buying the stranger’s story either. In the light of a fellow officer’s torch, I could see a determined expression on his face.
“I’m going to have to insist, since you identified yourself as a law enforcement officer.”
My captor must have recognized the look. As Badge Number 143 took two steps towards us, I felt that stranger’s hand pull me back two steps, as if prepared for flight. He spoke.
“Fine. Let me get it out,” was the gruff response. The moment I felt the man’s grip loosen, I yanked my arm away and tried to rub the pain from my muscles, but the danger wasn’t over. A second later, his fist struck the middle of my back with such brute force it propelled me forward, and as I stumbled into the trooper, chaos ensued. Three shots rang out. Bang, bang, bang. I felt something strike my ear, a thwack that stung like a hornet. Hands pushed me down as feet scrambled past me. I felt myself slipping on the slick, frosted surface, and down the incline I went, my stocking-covered legs exposed, my skirt drawn up to my crotch.
“Police! Stop!”
“Drop your weapon!”
More shots followed as I hu
gged the ground with my tobogganing body. Unable to control the wild trajectory as I picked up speed, I careened on a path that would surely send me into that broken hole on the frozen surface. All I could think of was how long it had taken me to climb up the hill, and in less than thirty seconds, it had all come undone. I was headed back into that horrifying hell. Hoping to hit the water feet first, I tried to twist myself onto my back and turn around, wildly flapping my arms like a demented snow angel. If only I could fly.
Unexpectedly, a dark figure stepped into my path, planted his feet firmly into the snow crust, and spread his legs apart. He bent over, hands extended in my direction, ready and waiting. I closed my eyes, prepared to go through that human croquet wicket at full speed, hoping I didn’t take him with me into the black water beyond, but something banged against my shoulder and then my leg. My body jerked sideways. Seconds later, his fingers tightened around the collar of my borrowed jacket as the man stood his ground and I skidded to a stop. “There you go. Let me help you up.”
Strong hands lifted me to my feet and then released me. I wobbled, still reeling from the dizzying ride. He glanced at my feet and his eyes grew wide, and then he pointed a finger in my direction. “You’re bleeding.”
“Am I?” I looked down. Red droplets spread across the snow. My frozen fingers touched my cheek. It was warm and sticky. And then I remembered that stinging sensation and reached for my right ear. “Ouch!”
“I have an injury here!” shouted my rescuer. Moments later, there was a crowd gathering around me.
“He got away,” said one cop. “Had a car in the parking lot. We’ve got an APB out.”
“Okay. She’s been shot. Put some light on it.”
“Shot?” I uttered. My head felt like it was detaching from my body. Was it shock or loss of blood? How bad was it? Someone turned my head, trying to examine the wound, and I gave up an involuntary gasp. The pain was excruciating.
“Superficial. Nothing that a couple of stitches won’t fix,” someone decided.
“Want me to run her to the hospital?” asked Badge Number 143, as someone ripped open a gauze pad and taped it to my face.
“I haven’t had a chance to question her yet,” said my rescuer. “I’ll ride along.”
“Great. I want to pop into the Quickie Mart for a snack. I pulled a double today and I’m wiped out.”
“No problem. Miss, you think you can walk to the car?” he asked. I took me a few moments to realize he was talking to me. I was too busy trying to keep my head on straight, even as it seemed to roll forward.
“Oh, geez! I don’t think she’s hearing us. Her eyes aren’t quite focused.” That sounded like Badge 143 talking.
“She’s all wet. It’s probably hypothermia. Anyone got a blanket?”
“How’d she get wet? I thought she was just a witness. Someone told me she called it into the station.”
“Maybe she went in trying to rescue the woman in the car,” someone suggested. ‘Gutsy move, if you ask me.”
“You got a purse, miss?” More men crowded around me, and the din from the clamoring voices made my head hurt so much, I thought it would split in two. “Is your car here?”
“Did you drop your phone? Maybe we can get your personal info off of that.”
“I don’t see a purse anywhere.”
“Was she with the guy who got away?”
All these questions just seemed to catch in my brain, like a thousand fireflies trapped in a nylon net, swirling around and glowing, even as I lost consciousness. One minute there was so much noise and the next, nothing.
I woke up under fluorescent lights inside the ambulance. I don’t know how long I was out, but the first thing I noticed was a warm sensation on my belly that was delightful. To my horror, I soon discovered a foil blanket was the only thing that covered my now-naked body. Three men leaned forward on the bench seat beside me, observing. I clutched the Mylar, trying to rise. Heat packs, tucked into my arm pits, dropped down, bounced off the stretcher, and fell to the floor below.
“Don’t move,” warned the paramedic, as he lifted the blanket to replace them. “It can cause a heart attack. Just lay back down and rest. We’re trying to get your body temperature to rise safely.”
Even as he said that, he was checking my heart with a cold stethoscope. I shivered in the sudden draft, but a moment later, that delicious warmth found me again, when he added another couple of Insta-Hot packs, this time on top of a cotton blanket.
“We don’t want to burn you,” he smiled, patting my covered shoulder. “Sorry, but we had to take off your wet clothes. Can you tell me your name?”
My name? I actually paused to consider this. What was my name? Why couldn’t I recall it? Think hard. You know this. Picture it in your mind. You were named after a flower. Genus Calendula officinalis. Pot marigold. The common, ordinary garden variety planted in flower boxes and beds across America.
“Marigold. My name is Marigold.”
“She must be worse off than she looks,” said the man who had rescued me from that disastrous downhill trip. I could see him now, with his crinkled eyes and gray hair. He was dressed in street clothes. “She thinks she’s a flower.”
“Maybe she was without oxygen longer than we think,” said the second paramedic. “What was the response time?”
“Six minutes,” my rescuer informed him. “Dispatch took the call at 10:07 and we arrived on the scene at 10:13. We still don’t know how or why she was wet.”
“Trunk,” I muttered, even as I found myself nodding off. “I was in the trunk.”
That was the last thing I said before I lost consciousness.
Chapter Two
How long was I out? I blinked, suddenly alert to the eerie silence. Was I dreaming? Glancing around, I took in the details. No, I was in a hospital bed in a darkened room, feeling toasty now, with only a soft glow from an overhead light by the built-in cabinet. The glass door to the hallway gave me an uninterrupted view of the uniformed hospital staff moving about in the nurses’ station. I was thirsty, my lips parched. As I tried to sit up, I heard sounds close by. The creak of a hospital lounge chair as its wooden feet scraped the floor. Footsteps.
“Hey, you’re awake,” said Badge 143. “You want me to call the nurse?”
I nodded, unexpectedly feeling teary-eyed. I wanted to cry, but nothing came out. I was woozy, so I eased my head back onto the pillow as he pressed the call button.
“Yes?” said a disembodied voice through the speaker.
“She’s awake and she needs something, but she’s having trouble speaking.”
“The nurse will be right in.”
A tall man in blue came in, followed by a short woman with a cart and a smiling physician in a white coat with a clipboard.
“Welcome back to the world of the living. How are you feeling, Ms. Doe?” Dr. Kuthrapali asked me, her smile bright and cheerful. I licked my lips and tried to find my voice, but the only thing that came out was a groan. “Not to worry. It will take some time to get you back up to speed. We’re going to take it slowly. We’ll start you on clear liquids and see how that goes. You were very, very lucky. Dr. Morton was on duty. He’s one of our best plastic surgeons, and he was able to save your ear.”
Badge 143 waited until the hospital staff was out of earshot before he confided to me that I was in the hospital under an assumed name. “As far as anyone else is concerned, you’re Jane Doe. We’re still checking on that Marigold alias.”
“It’s not an alias,” I insisted. “My name is Marigold....Marigold Flowers. I live in Lake Placid, New York. My twin sisters are named Violet and Pansy. My mother is a landscape architect. My father is a botanist.”
“For real?”
“For real. Even the last name is genuine. My grandfather, Harold Whitson Flowers, is a botanist, too. If you don’t believe me, you can look it up on the Internet. I’ve got a blog. It’s called ‘Garden Parties’.”
“Does that mean you’re in the flower business
, too?”
“Me? No. I’m a special events coordinator, better known as a party planner.”
“You’re a caterer?”
“No, I’m the one who coordinates with the caterer. I’m like a general contractor on a construction job.”
“Oh,” he nodded, “the go-to guy.”
“Exactly.” What had I been working on when that dreadful woman forced me at gunpoint to climb into the trunk? I couldn’t recall.
The next few hours seemed to be an unending stream of people poking and prodding me, with the occasional cup of clear broth or apple juice thrust into my hand. Badge 143, who turned out to be Hank Larkin, left just after midnight, when his replacement arrived. Philomena Papadopoulos was a forty-something New York state trooper. She came into the room with a thermos of coffee and a briefcase, a confident presence in her black jeans, white sweater, and Uggs.
“Hello, Jane Doe. I’m here to make sure nobody tries to get you again. You feel free to go back to sleep. I’ll be working on reports, catching up on all my paperwork for next week’s court cases.”
“Oh...okay,” I replied, wondering if I’d be able to keep my eyes open much longer. My lids felt heavy. I was teetering on the edge of unconsciousness and I found it exhausting to track her movements. She plopped her gear onto the seat in the corner of the room and strode over to my bedside.
“Do you mind if I borrow this?” She pointed to the bedside table. Her sharp gaze fastened on me and never let go. Was I a suspect? Surely no one thought I had caused that car to go into the pond.
“No, feel free.”
After wheeling it over to her temporary office, she unzipped the briefcase and extracted a laptop before she got to work, stopping only briefly to make a comment when she caught me watching her.
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