by Rick R. Reed
She had sat in the living room and watched as the grey light filtered in through the Venetian blinds, bringing the familiar shapes of the room back to her.
Alice didn’t know what it was that made her get up and cross to the window, peek out from between the slats of the blinds. Maybe it was nothing more than a desire to see if there would be any break in the bleak, cloudy days they’d been having for the past week.
What she saw made her jump back, the blinds snapping back into place. That weird Dwight Morris, the one whose wife had left him, was in his driveway (Alice had no idea what he was doing out and about so early…it was barely six thirty). Even from her vantage point across the street, Alice could see that Morris had been hurt: there was a dark gash at the top of his forehead and blood running down the side of his face. And he looked distressed, that much was apparent. Dwight was looking up and down the street like the poor man had just lost his dog.
Except the Morrises didn’t have a dog. Alice remembered that the little retarded girl, Becky, had had a cat, but Alice was sure the girl had taken it with her when the mother left the father.
So what was he doing?
After she’d seen Dwight, Alice had seen a girl with red hair running for dear life through the backyards across the street. Alice had made out her figure as she passed between the houses.
What was going on? Alice sat down in her living room and wished she hadn’t looked out at that particular moment. Now she would be forced to do something.
That Dwight Morris person…she wished he would move out of the neighborhood. Alice recalled the big moving truck that had come the other day. She’d been sorry to hear that it was Marianne and Becky who were leaving and not Dwight. He had never been friendly. He was a strange one. Something wasn’t quite right about the man, bringing home teenagers at all hours.
Well, Alice Martin thought, lifting the cold remains of her tea and heading toward the kitchen, I don’t want to get involved. She leaned over the sink and rinsed out her cup.
Returning to the living room, Alice sat down and tried to find a good health article to hold her interest in the Digest. Something to keep her occupied until it got a little later, when she could safely begin her round of phone calls to her sons.
It was the clang of metal and the slamming of a door that caused her to jump.
“Enough,” Alice Martin said to herself, getting up. “I don’t know what’s going on and I don’t want to know.”
She went into the kitchen, picked up the phone, and dialed the number of the Chicago police.
* * *
Dwight gunned the engine, his gaze moving quickly from one side of the street to the other, up and down the sidewalks and between houses.
“Little bitch,” he mumbled under his breath. “She’s not going to get away from me. Little drunk bitch. I’m smarter than she is.”
“Then why are you in the predicament you’re in right now, bright boy?”
Dwight tried to ignore Aunt Adele, but she was in the truck with him, making him feel even more pressured to find the little red-haired whore.
He reached Harlem, where the traffic was heavier, and decided to turn north, because he thought that would be the direction she’d go.
It was on the way home for her.
He rubbed nervously at his cheek, feeling tingly waves of heat pass through him. He was sweating. His scalp itched. Dwight thought it could all be over right here. She knew where he lived. She could go straight to the police and then Dwight’s nightmare would begin.
“And you’d fail, AGAIN, to accomplish anything.”
Dwight wished he could ram his fingertips in his ears.
But he knew he’d still hear her voice.
Dwight stopped the car and wiped at his clammy face. He was panting. In a state like this, he’d never find the girl.
He lowered his head to the steering wheel. “What am I gonna do?” he moaned.
*
Miranda ducked into the storefront doorway, trying to catch her breath. She felt all mixed up: she wanted to cry, she wanted to laugh, she wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out again.
But all of that was for later. Now, she had to concentrate on getting away. She knew this man wouldn’t take long before he tracked her down again.
But where could she go? How far did she have to run to escape him?
Now she was on Harlem, a busy north-south street on the west side of Chicago. Lawrence and Kenmore (and the Chicken Arms) were miles away. She groped frantically in her pocket, hoping that she would at least find bus fare there. But the money from her trick last night had all disappeared, spent on the Cisco, God knew what else.
While she was thinking, she saw the black pickup pass by.
Her breath caught when she saw it. For a moment she was afraid she’d never be able to find breath to draw in again.
She got a look at his face, that too old, anything but young face, looking even more bizarre by morning light, and prayed he didn’t see her. She tried to draw herself back farther into the protective dark of the storefront doorway.
A few feet ahead, she watched in terror as the truck pulled over to the curb.
She froze, feeling like an animal caught in a trap. How could she even move? If she didn’t, he might find her here, waiting like some sort of pickup. If she did venture out onto the sidewalk, he could see her and then it would be over.
Miranda slid down, collapsing. Finally, she drew her knees up and buried her face in them. She did not think.
*
Dwight lifted his head from the steering wheel. “Enough of this,” he said to himself, all business. “I have work to do.”
Dwight reasoned that searching in his truck was futile: the girl was on foot, able to go in narrow passages between buildings, able to hide in apartment house vestibules, storefront doorways, bury herself in trash Dumpsters.
He began walking briskly down Harlem, toward his street. He hoped that he’d find her soon and that he wasn’t too suspicious-looking.
Ahead was a Rent-to-Own furniture store. Dwight thought briefly that he could use the services of such a place. He had just passed the store when he turned his head to look across the street; there was an apartment building there, a three flat with a vestibule just perfect for a young girl to run into, press the intercom button frantically, and pour out her story to a sympathetic resident.
Dwight could just imagine the girl in some run-down apartment, wringing her hands while an old woman, probably, phoned the police. He could imagine the flashing lights as the patrol car pulled up to his house later, with two armed cops and a search warrant inside.
Dwight’s stomach churned at the thought.
But it was this motion of looking across the street that caused Dwight to catch a quick darting motion out of the corner of his eye.
It almost didn’t register: after all, it was just a blur of black, seen peripherally. But it was enough to cause him to turn and pause, searching the street, which was growing more and more busy with every passing minute.
*
Miranda crouched between a Chevy pickup and an old green Impala. The guy had walked right by her! She’d thought she didn’t stand a chance when she’d seen him, through her knees, southbound on the street. But he went by and Miranda found her breath again.
Darting out to crouch between the two vehicles was governed more by instinct than idea. Now, she stooped, one hand on the Impala’s back bumper to steady her, her feet in cold, slushy water.
She wondered what he was doing.
*
Dwight scanned the street and saw nothing. He took a few steps northward, looking all around him…slowly…slowly. He told himself that it was just his imagination.
And then he saw the boots, underneath the back of the Impala. He remembered the boots, black lace up, weird and whorish as the girl who wore them. A smile broke across Dwight’s worried countenance.
*
Miranda moved toward the street. At the next break in traffic, she’d dash across the street. She’d already staked out the apartment building. She’d go inside and start ringing buzzers, talking to anyone who would listen.
And when they listened, she’d lead the cops right to the doorstep of that fucker.
And it would all be over.
The thought calmed her. Suddenly, she wasn’t so seared. This would be over soon. “Hello, little lady.”
Miranda closed her eyes when she heard the voice. Her blood turned cold as the slush she crouched in. Dropping her hand from the bumper, she stood.
He was grinning at her, his mouth stretched wide. Miranda thought of Bozo the Clown.
In the space of an instant, Miranda thought of the gun, certain he had it on him, thought too of the people and the traffic rushing by on Harlem. Some chance was better than no chance.
Miranda cried out, yelling loud and with as much outrage as she could muster. “No!”
She glanced back only briefly at the guy’s shocked face as she dashed across the street. There was no time to look out for traffic and Miranda’s heart pumped even faster as she heard blaring car horns and the screeching of brakes.
But within seconds, she was inside the apartment building she had seen earlier. Breathing hard, she began pressing the buzzers frantically, seeing Dwight across the street, waiting for a break in the traffic.
A CTA bus obscured him. At the same time, a metallic voice came out of one of the speakers above the buttons she was pressing.
“Who’s there?” The voice sounded old, male, and…frightened.
“Please,” Miranda shouted into the intercom, her voice rising with hysteria. “You’ve got to let me in, sir. I’m in a lot of trouble.” Miranda saw Dwight coming across the street, only steps away from the apartment house door. “Please…someone’s trying to kill me!” Miranda shrieked.
There was a pause and Dwight reached for the doorknob, the grin of the hunter finding his quarry on his face.
The buzzer sounded in the tile-floored vestibule, echoing off its harsh surfaces. Miranda screamed at the sound of it, uncertain how she should react for a moment.
Then she grabbed the handle of the inner door and shoved through just as Dwight opened the outer door. She turned to look at him just as the inner door slammed shut behind her.
He rushed to it, yanked and found that it would not open. His face clouded with rage, and Miranda turned to hurry up the stairs, where she heard the creak of a door opening.
Miranda pounded up the stairs and rushed by the old man holding the door open. Inside, she flattened herself against a wall and took in her surroundings.
The old man stared at her, openmouthed. He had wisps of grey hair on the sides of his head, a shiny pate, and a weathered face with sagging jowls. He wore green pants and a sleeveless T-shirt stretched over his potbelly. He rubbed his stomach.
“Are you okay?” His voice was barely a croak.
Miranda paused to find her breath once more. “Someone’s after me,” she managed to get out, trying to get some spit in her mouth so she could talk again. “A man. I think he’s going to kill me.”
“Okay, okay, calm down, girlie.”
“We’ve got to call the police…right away! My friend is still with him.” Miranda cried out: “He could be killed.”
Just then, the buzzer sounded in the apartment. Miranda and the old man looked at each other.
“Don’t answer it,” she whispered, staring at the little box in the wall from which the buzzer had sounded.
“I got to, girlie.”
He shuffled over to it, pressed the button.
“Have you got my daughter up there?”
“What?” The old man drew out the word.
“My daughter! She’s trying to get away from me because she didn’t manage to find her way home last night.”
The old man turned to Miranda, questioning. She shook her head. “It’s not true. Please, you’ve got to believe me.”
The old man turned to the buzzer. “She says you’re not telling the truth.”
There was a laugh, more of a snort, in response. “She would say that. She just doesn’t want to take her medicine. Look at her: can’t you tell she’s a handful?”
The old man turned back to Miranda. She ran to him, clutched his arm. “Please, please, please, sir, what he’s saying is not true. You have to help me.”
The old man waved her away with his hand, muttering, “Damn nut cases on the streets these days. Don’t know why I bothered to open the goddamn door.” He looked with longing at a portable black and white TV that was blaring out some PBS show on gardening.
He pressed the intercom. “Mister, I don’t know who the hell to believe. I’m just gonna call the cops. Let them figure it out.”
Miranda slumped against the peeling wallpaper, relieved.
“Don’t do that, sir. She’s run away a dozen times now. The police will just take her away. Every time she goes in that home, she comes back worse. Please, sir, just let me come up there. We’ll get everything straightened out real quick.”
Before Miranda could say anything, the old man shrugged and pressed the buzzer that would admit the guy below.
She slumped, sliding down to the floor, wondering what to do next. Miranda looked around the cramped little room stuffed with old furniture, doilies, religious pictures on the walls. Her mind went blank and for a while all she could do was listen for footfalls outside the door.
The old man crossed the room to sit down in a brown, overstuffed chair. With a trembling hand, he picked up a cup of coffee from a TV tray beside the chair. He sipped loudly. “I’m sorry, miss. But I thought it was the fairest thing to do under the circumstances. If that man’s out to harm you, why I just won’t let him.”
Miranda swallowed, her throat dry. “Sure.”
There was a knock at the door and the old man got up and shuffled across the room to answer it. Miranda found herself trembling as he swung the door open.
The guy was looking at her, grinning.
He had won.
She felt nothing as she stared at him. Too many emotions, too fast. Numbness enveloped her.
The man cocked his head as he looked at her, as if he was curious. “Nice try, little lady. But with brains like yours, you should have known you wouldn’t get far.” He crooked his finger for her to come to him. “We’re going home now. I want you to come with me and keep quiet.”
He turned to the old man. “These kids today. Honest to God, they keep me running nonstop. I’m sorry, sir, if my daughter here bothered you.”
“I’m not his daughter,” Miranda said weakly.
Both men turned to look at her, and Miranda could see in the old man’s expression that she was already losing the battle.
“You wouldn’t believe how many times she’s pulled this stunt.” Dwight clasped the old man’s shoulders. “You got kids?”
“Raised two.”
“Then you know what I’m talkin’ about, pardner.”
The old man grinned. He nodded.
“C’mon, honey,” Dwight said to her. “We’ve bothered this nice gentleman enough.”
“Couldn’t you just call the cops, like you said you would?” Miranda looked at the old man, desperate to have him believe her.
The old man turned to Dwight for a response. Dwight shrugged his shoulders and threw up his hands. “Go ahead. Call them. I can’t blame you.”
The old man almost looked sheepish as he returned to the phone. His fingers punched out three numbers. In a second, he said, “Yes, ma’am. This is Homer Wright at 6211 North Harlem. Got a little problem here. Think you could send a car over?”
The old man listened for a second and then looked at Miranda and said, “Domestic dispute.” He paused again before hanging up the phone, saying, “Thank you, ma’am.”
He turned back to Dwight. “I thought it was the only fair thing to
do.”
“You’re right. You’re right,” Dwight agreed.
The next thing happened so fast Miranda could not react. She watched, stunned, as Dwight drew the gun from his pants waistband and slapped the old man across the face with it.
The old man reeled backward, hitting the TV tray behind him and knocking it over. Coffee splashed up and a bowl of oatmeal overturned.
The old man grunted as he fell to the floor. Dwight rushed to him and sat on his chest, pinning his arms to the floor. His face was red with rage. “Old-timing son of a bitch,” Dwight said, swinging the pistol into the man’s face, where it connected with his nose, sending up a spray of blood.
Miranda gasped and started to get up.
Dwight looked at her, the expression of a crazed animal on his face. “You wanna live, slut, you’ll stay put.”
Miranda slid back to the floor.
Dwight slammed the gun into the old man’s head, over and over. Miranda watched as the blood pumped out; bits of flesh and blood made a pink haze around the old man’s head.
The old man lay very still. Miranda stared at him, trembling. Mute, she watched as Dwight got up, took out a handkerchief and lifted the phone, punched out 911.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, his voice betraying nothing but a shortness of breath, “I called you a couple minutes ago. 6211 North Harlem. About a domestic dispute.” Dwight nodded, his breathing coming more regular now. “Yes, that’s right, ma’am. I was just calling to say not to bother your officers, if it isn’t too late. We’ve managed to iron things out. Thank you, ma’am.” Dwight listened for a second. “That’s great. I didn’t want to be a bother. ’Bye.”
He looked at Miranda, a grin, almost a laugh, playing about his lips. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Try anything and you’ll end up looking like old dog food face over there.”
“Okay,” Miranda whispered, following him out of the apartment.
*
Once the truck was in motion, the guy found an alley, turned into it, and stopped the truck.
Miranda looked over at him, her jaw slack, wondering what was going to happen now.
“Your friend is lonely,” he said.
