by Zoe Burke
“Why wouldn’t Phillip say something?”
I shook my head. “Maybe he doesn’t know everything. Maybe he’s trying to protect his wife and his daughter. Hell, I don’t know, maybe he wants to shoot Nancy, too. Anyway, we have to go to the park!”
I started for the door, just as Monroe came around the corner. “Leaving?”
Mickey nodded. “Why don’t you come with us? Annabelle has a theory about where Claudia is.”
“No shit? Gee, I’m always ready to follow a well-meaning citizen around on a wild goose chase,” he sneered.
“So take us in your car and bring an officer along if you want. What’s the harm?”
Monroe paused. “Tell me about this theory.”
I did.
The four of us left the station, got into Monroe’s car, and he turned on the blinking lights and siren, wailing us all the way to Blue Lake Park.
Chapter Thirty-five
If you’ve never ridden in a detective’s car with blinking lights flashing and a siren blaring, I highly recommend it. It’s as exciting as an amusement park ride, even though when riding in an unmarked police vehicle, you should be in a situation that’s anything but amusing. Nevertheless, it’s a rush. I closed my eyes and imagined I was in an Aston Martin being driven by Daniel Craig a la James Bond, chasing after the bad guy who kidnapped Eva Green in Casino Royale. Then that made me think about the scene where she’s sitting on the floor of the shower with her evening gown on, the water drenching her and she’s upset, and Bond comes in and asks her if she’s cold, and she says yes, and instead of turning off the shower, he sits down beside her in his tuxedo and hugs her, the water still running all over them.
That’s one of my favorite romance scenes. Ever.
But now was not the time for romance. I was jolted from my escape-dream by Monroe taking a hard left into Blue Lake Park.
He parked and we jumped out, running to the place where Scranton got shot the previous night. “Where?” Monroe demanded.
All three men looked at me.
“I don’t know! Somewhere close. We have to look!”
I sprinted toward the lake, while they all scurried off in other directions.
It’s a small, pretty lake, and the sun was shining, so the water was sparkling. I saw some ducks paddling around, but no movement otherwise. I kept calling out for Claudia as I scurried along the lake.
I burst into the bathrooms, both women’s and men’s, but no luck. I rushed back out and called for her again.
Then I thought I heard something. A muffled sound. I turned around and ran to a pier jutting into the lake, stopped, and listened.
The same sound.
I saw a group of overturned paddleboats on the shore. I knew they were paddleboats because a sign said so. In warmer weather, they were available to rent for a leisurely jaunt around the lake.
“Claudia!” I yelled.
A knocking sound led me closer to the boats until it was clear. I tried to lift the boat, but it was too heavy.
“Mickey! Luis! Monroe! Over here!” I screamed. I crouched down close to the boat. “We’re here, don’t worry, Claudia. We’ll get you out.”
I was amazed she was alive, given that she spent the night on the ground, underneath a boat.
The three amigos came running and the four of us hoisted the boat up and over.
Claudia was curled up in a fetal position, shivering. Monroe quickly summoned an ambulance. Mickey and Luis lifted her up and brought her onto a grassy area, away from the lake. Luis took off his jacket and put it around her shoulders, while Mickey rubbed her hands.
Claudia looked blue. I mean it. I’d never seen an actual blue person before, other than in Avatar, but those bluebies weren’t people, and frankly, I don’t know what all the fuss was about with that movie anyway. But Claudia, she was in bad shape, judging by the hue of her face.
I squatted beside her. “Can you talk?”
She shook her head.
“Did your mother put you here?”
She nodded.
“Did you get the gun because you wanted to kill her?”
She shook her head.
Monroe stood behind me. “I’ve got a blanket from the car.” He draped it around her and she clung to it like a baby clings to its mother.
Well, that is, if the baby’s mother isn’t Nancy Bigelow.
***
After we put Claudia in the ambulance, we all piled back into Monroe’s car. He got a call on his cell before he turned the key in the ignition.
“Yeah, Dawson, what’s up?”
Monroe didn’t say another word before he hung up. But he did slam his hands against the steering wheel.
“Bad news?” Mickey asked.
“The Bigelow broad got away.”
“How is that possible?” I asked, leaning forward over his shoulder, while Mickey gestured for me to sit back.
“It turns out we didn’t use a medical transport vehicle. We had a rookie take her to the hospital in a patrol car. When they got to the hospital, he opened the back door, she got out, kicked him in his nuts, and bolted.”
We were silent, taking in this unfortunate development.
“At least Claudia is in good hands now, and I am sure you will find Nancy,” said Luis, full of optimism and what I guessed was anxiousness to go home and be done with all of this.
Monroe started the engine. “I don’t know about that.”
“The airport,” Mickey said.
“What?” Monroe pulled out of the parking lot.
“Nancy will go to the airport to get her car. Has the airport security located it?”
Monroe nodded. “Dawson said yes.”
“Did they leave it in place?”
Monroe nodded again. “Let’s go.”
I fastened my seat belt, and let the ride transport me once more to Daniel Craig–land, lights flashing, siren blaring, shower scene not suffering one bit from replay.
***
The Portland Airport really is the best airport in the country, and I’m not the only one who thinks that. Travel + Leisure magazine has voted it so, at least in recent years. It’s easy to get to, get around in, and get fed in. It has high-quality shops and a bright carpet, and live musicians play piano and guitar. It’s an airport you could imagine going to just for fun.
This visit, of course, was for anything but fun. Monroe screeched into the parking garage and pulled his car to the side. We waited while he talked to a security guard, who had been warned of our approach. Dawson was on his way, too, along with a couple of patrol cars, but we were closer and got there first.
The Honda CRV was parked on the top level, and security cameras confirmed that it was still there. Monroe called Dawson and told him to get to the lot exit, while we wound our way up to the roof. We arrived, saw the car, and stopped several parking spaces away, where we could keep an eye on it.
We sat and waited, saying nothing, until I couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Um, guys, I’m sorry, but I have to find a bathroom.”
Monroe sighed, like I was a pain in the ass. And here I had been thinking we were on good terms now.
“Look, Detective, I’m sorry, but I have to go. I’ll stay out of sight of the elevator and wait to get on before anyone gets off so that if Nancy…”
“You’ll take the stairs.”
“That’s a lot of stairs.”
“Annabelle, I think he’s right. You have less chance of meeting Nancy on the stairs. Why don’t I come with you?” Mickey unfastened his seat belt.
Monroe sighed again. “Sorry, no. I need all three of us here. If she comes out of the elevator bank over there,” he pointed, “then I want the two of you on foot while I block her with my car so she can’t back out in hers. We already know she’s a runner. I’d like
you and Luis to have a good chance of grabbing her, when she tries to bolt.”
“Really? You think we need three men to take down a fifty-year-old woman?” Mickey sounded irritated.
“Mickey, it’s okay. I’ll be fine. And I have my phone. And my book.” I smiled at him when he turned around.
“Be careful.”
“Always!”
Luis took my hand. “Amiga, I suggest you do not come back up. Stay inside the airport until we let you know that this is over.”
“Okey doke.” I got out of the car and walked to the stairs.
So many stairs. Good thing I have a hardy bladder.
I started down at a clip, but I slowed to a walk soon, not wanting to bounce up and down too much. I mean, one should respect one’s bladder and not challenge it unnecessarily.
I had made it down several flights when I heard footsteps coming the other way. Not to panic, I told myself. Could be anyone. And don’t think about that stairway fight in Casino Royale. That was bloody and scary and this is not that. This is not Casino Royale and you are not Daniel Craig, and Nancy is not coming up the stairs.
I was right, two out of three.
Chapter Thirty-six
Nancy Bigelow was not a big woman. Not as tall as me and too thin, in my opinion. She’s what I call rich thin. The rich thin choose to skip meals and eat salads with no dressing and drink chenin blanc because it has fewer calories. Well, Nancy drank more than that, but still. The rich thin have personal trainers and they’ve never worn a dress size bigger than four. Their favorite exercise is tennis because they get to wear little skirts to show off their legs. They aren’t powerful servers, but they’re good at the net. When they throw parties, they have them catered, even dinner for six. And they’re eternally disappointed in their daughters, who are not athletic, prefer meatloaf over salmon, and have meaty calves that make knee boots a tight fit.
We stopped on the stairs, facing each other, me coming down, she coming up, and I thought, I can take her. She’s rich thin.
But we didn’t move. She was clearly surprised to see me, given the widening diameter of her eyes, and I was, at the very least, not happy to see her. I didn’t know whether to chase her down the stairs, or let her pass and trip her when she did, or turn and run upstairs, leading her to my compadres.
I did none of these things.
I sat down, pulled out my phone, and speed-dialed Mickey.
“She’s here,” I said, when he picked up. “On the stairs.”
I dropped the phone back in my purse and smiled at Nancy. “We got you.”
And then, swear to God, she did the impossible.
She pulled out a gun.
Number three, by my count.
She pointed it at me and said, “Stand up.”
I didn’t. “What is that one called, a Panther?” It was black and sleek.
“Stand up.”
I stayed seated. “Where in the world did you get another gun, Nancy?”
“That would be from me,” answered a voice from further down the stairwell. Approaching footsteps brought another woman into my view.
It was Greta.
How in the hell did Nancy and Greta know each other?
“Wow. Greta.” I managed to look cool, or at least, I hoped I did. “Great to see you again, and did you know your name is an anagram for ‘great’? I mean, that’s truly great.” My knees were starting to knock, and I was ready to let my bladder loose.
“She called Mickey, her boyfriend,” Nancy informed Greta.
“Fiancé.” I corrected her. “You’re the first to know.”
“Shut up. Get up. And come with us.” Greta walked up to me and grabbed my T-shirt, pulling it toward her. I resisted, but Nancy got closer with the Panther. So I stood up.
“Where to?”
“This level.” They shoved me out onto the fourth floor of the parking garage.
“I have to pee.”
“Too bad,” they replied in unison.
“Mickey’s on his way with a zillion cops.”
“So what.” They were sounding like a Greek chorus.
“He’ll find us on level four.” My phone was still on. I hoped Mickey was listening and that he could hear me.
Then I saw the skybridge. The walkway over the roadway that leads into the terminal. And I thought, Nancy isn’t going to shoot me. Not in this garage, with people nearby. She’s smarter than that.
But then I thought, Greta is bad ass.
Nancy had the gun in my back. Greta had her arm looped through mine, like we were in love, or sisters, or both. With Greta, anything was possible.
“Skybridge?” I asked, loudly.
They walked me over to it and just as we entered, a group of high-schoolers was exiting, taking up a lot of room as groups of high-schoolers will do, which made the three of us have to shift position. Greta turned so that our backs were against the railing. Nancy put her gun inside her jacket so it wouldn’t be noticeable.
I saw my opportunity.
“Hey! Anyone know where the closest ladies room is?” I yelled.
The kids giggled and one pointed toward the terminal “You’ll see signs, up ahead, take the escalator…”
I didn’t hear the rest. I had brought attention to us, and that’s all I needed to twist myself out of Greta’s hold and slap her across the face.
“Whoa, lady! WTF?” a boy in an Oregon Ducks cap shouted, but the kids just stood there.
I ran.
Greta ran after me, followed by Nancy, I assumed.
Like I said before, I can run, but it was a shame that Greta could, too.
She caught up and tackled me, and we both fell to the floor. My purse went flying and I saw my cell phone skitter away. Nancy rushed to us while Greta was getting to her feet.
I grabbed Nancy’s ankle, and she fell, the gun following the path of my phone.
Nancy screamed, and I scrambled to my feet, only to see Greta coming at me.
I was leaning against the railing, and at the last minute I dodged her. The railing hit her hard in her solar plexus.
It knocked the wind out of her, I guess, because she gasped for breath.
Then she pulled out a knife.
There was nothing I could do but save myself.
I ducked, took hold of her legs, and tossed her over the side of the skybridge.
Greta wasn’t rich thin. She landed hard, right on top of a bright yellow Fiat 500. I always liked those cars, but I’ll never get one after watching Greta’s torso land splat on the roof, her head falling over the windshield like she had just dropped in to say hello. The car screeched to a halt and a young couple jumped out, screaming.
I heard other screams behind me, and people running.
I turned around to find Nancy.
She was gone.
Most of the teenagers were still standing there, gaping at me. “I called 911,” said the Ducks cap kid.
“Good. Thanks. Look, when they get here, tell them I’m in the ladies room, okay? Just sit tight. I’ll be right back.”
And with that, I stumbled my way into the terminal and saw two things that made me feel a lot better.
One was Mickey, who was holding a gun on Nancy Bigelow, who was sitting on the floor, her hands behind her head. A crowd had gathered, and security guards were approaching.
The other was a sign for the restrooms.
Mickey saw me. “Annabelle,” he called to me. “Sweetheart, are you all right?”
I thought I was, really. I thought I was. But the adrenalin rush that gave me the power to flip Greta over the handrail had abandoned me faster than a politician’s promise, as soon as Mickey called me “sweetheart.” I looked at him holding the gun on Nancy, and that coupled with the vision of Greta splayed on top of that cute little Fiat ma
de my knees give way to the floor.
“Babe!”
I gave a weak wave, and then damn it all, if I didn’t pee, right then and there.
Chapter Thirty-seven
There are worse things than peeing in your pants in a busy airport terminal with your boyfriend—I mean, fiancé—holding a gun on a woman and watching you. I mean, we were alive and safe and we got the bad guys. Um, girls. Whatever.
Mickey got to me quickly and figured out what had happened right away, when I said, “I haven’t done that since preschool.”
“Hey, it’s okay. Don’t even think about it. No one can see. You’ve got your blue jeans on. Here.” He took off his sports jacket which came down far enough to cover my crotch, when I stood. “You’re okay. Holy shit, Annabelle, you’re not okay. You’re unbelievable. I saw you flip Greta over the rail.” He put his arms around me and we stood there for a while, until Luis and Monroe joined us.
“I need to get cleaned up,” I murmured.
Mickey said something to the guys, and then walked me to the ladies room. “I’m going to stand right by the door. You take as much time as you need.” He kissed my cheek.
I went in the stall for handicapped women, which has its own private sink. I took off my pants and undies and rinsed them both, tidied myself up the best I could, and dried everything at least a little with paper towels. I got dressed in my damp clothes and flashed on the beginning of my trip christened by Scranton’s wine. Must have been an omen.
I met Mickey outside.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yes.” I buttoned his jacket. “Police station?”
“Our home away from home, these days. Monroe’s going to take us.”
We returned to the skybridge, where I saw that Nancy was in cuffs and being led away by uniforms. “Mickey, do we even know what the hell she was doing?”
“Most of it. I’ll fill you in on the ride downtown. Phillip started talking, and I bet Nancy will spill her guts.”
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Do I smell like a homeless person?”
