by John Chabot
"Where is it now?"
"The bottle? This time I made sure it went into the water. It sank."
So what's the big advantage of a gun? Easy again. It can kill you. No, lots of things can do that. The gun can kill from a distance. You don't have to get close to the victim. How far away was Cheryl? Eight feet? Ten, maybe. Too far.
Mickie said, "I know why you killed Tina."
"Do you?"
"Sure I do. It was for Bryan."
A silence. Mickie could see the hand with the gun drop a little.
"Yes, I thought you’d understand. She'd have ruined him. She almost did once. I had to save him."
Mickie hesitated, then thought, What do I have to lose? She said, "Bullshit."
Cheryl stiffened, her head coming up straighter. "What are you saying?"
"You wanted him for yourself."
"He needs me."
"Maybe. He needs somebody. But you want him. Morris had it right. You're a frustrated old maid with hot pants."
"Don't you say that to me."
"You just wanted to get laid."
"I never —"
"She took him away from you once. She saw how much you wanted him, so she decided to marry him—and let you be her maid of honor."
"That's not how it was."
"She told someone she had betrayed a friend—just for fun. Who else was her friend?"
No answer.
"I'll bet she really got her jollies, being with him, thinking of you in bed alone, rubbing your legs together, wanting him."
"Don't you dare say that!"
"What did you think when she dumped Bryan? That now you could have him?"
"Of course not."
"But then Siegert grew tired of her, was going to divorce her. And you thought she was coming back for Bryan. And just when you almost had him."
"She was bad for him."
"Instead of studying with him, you should have jumped him. I'll bet he'd be easy. Just ask him to unzip something—he'd have been all over you."
"Shut your face!"
"Why not? Getting his body was all you wanted."
Cheryl took a step nearer. "Don't you talk. I saw you with that man of yours, with his hands all over you, and you kissing him like a wanton."
Mickie took a step toward her. "Peeking though windows, were you?"
"I know what you do with him."
"And you were jealous."
"Never!"
"That's what you want from Bryan." Another step. "You want to get his clothes off, to be naked with him, to get your legs around him."
"Stop it!"
"You're a slut, Cheryl."
"You harlot!"
"Can't wait to spread your legs."
"Jezebel!"
Mickie counted to three, then said very deliberately, "Murderous bitch!"
"Damn you to hell!"
"You killed your best friend so you could get some spineless jerk to screw you."
Even though she was waiting for it, the rush came so fast that Mickie hadn't time to do what she wanted. She could only brace herself as Cheryl, screaming something, slammed into her. They both went down, but Mickie had spent hours in the gym learning how to do it right. She landed on the side of one leg, rolled backward, came up on her feet. Cheryl was on all fours. As she started up, Mickie aimed and kicked. In the dark, and not being able to spread her arms for balance, she missed her target, catching Cheryl between wrist and elbow. Cheryl yelled in pain and surprise, grabbing her arm. She still held the gun.
There are times when there is no time to think. The frontal lobes step aside, and some older, deeper, reptilian part of the mind takes over. Instinct is all, and the body seems to think for itself. Mickie felt her leg swing again, as if it were some separate creature. This time she didn’t aim. This time her shoe caught the wrist bone squarely, just as somehow she knew it would. This time Cheryl screamed and lost the gun.
The crocodile in charge wanted to attack and destroy. It had taken a step or two before the frontal cortex reemerged, pushing it back into its cage.
Find the gun! Where had it gone?
Cheryl was already on her knees, making wide sweeps with one hand through the sand. Mickie tried to picture where it would have gone. She scurried there, searching with her feet, finding nothing, moving a little, feeling about in the sand.
She was so intent on her search that she didn't notice when Cheryl stopped, sat back on her heels, reached into her bag, pulled something out, stood up.
The force of Cheryl's charge caught her on the left side, sending her sprawling, sending a screaming pain from her injured ribs to the top of her head. She was on her back, trying to breathe, unable to move. Cheryl sat astride her, leaning forward, something in her left hand. Something long and thin. With a point.
Mickie tried to wriggle loose, but with her hands planted in the sand beneath her, and Cheryl squarely on top of her, she could get no leverage. She thought of hooking one leg up and around to knock her off, but Cheryl was leaning too far forward.
"Get the hell off me!"
Cheryl was doing something at Mickie's chest, not with the stick, but with her fingers.
Oh, God, she's unbuttoning me.
“What the hell do you think you're doing?"
She felt the tail of her blouse pulled loose, the last button undone, the sides of the blouse pulled wide. She noticed that Cheryl held her pointed weapon in her left hand, and wondered why. She saw it raised to strike, and twisted frantically. Cheryl had to shift position, but didn't come off. She lifted her hand again. Mickie braced herself, brought her leg up in an effort to hook her off, but Cheryl saw it coming, ducking forward. As she righted herself, her knee dug sharply into Mickie's left side. Mickie screamed, not hearing the sound of it, conscious only of the pain. Cheryl began to raise her weapon again, and this time Mickie knew, hazily, through the pain, there was nothing she could do. Cheryl sat erect, her right hand at her side, her left hand raised, a priestess ready to strike the sacrificial blow. It was suddenly deathly quiet. Mickie lay utterly still.
And then there was the sound. The sharp, metallic, authoritative, unmistakable sound of an automatic pistol being cocked. Not a loud sound, but one that commands instant attention. Cheryl froze. She stayed poised that way for a moment. Then her head turned slowly to look over her shoulder.
Harry said, "Don't even consider it."
She did, though. She didn't move for several seconds, reluctant to let go an action already committed to. Then her hand came slowly down. Both arms came up from her sides, spreading wide. She stayed that way for a moment, like a figure crucified, her head back, breathing heavily. Then her arms came down, her head dropping in defeat.
Harry took a step toward her. She stood up slowly, stepped away from Mickie, and waited. Harry looked toward the dark shape of Mickie. "You all right?"
It was no more than a whisper. "I'll live."
Harry started toward Cheryl. Mickie said, "Don't cuff her."
Harry stopped. "Why not?"
Mickie rolled carefully to her right side, tried to rise, gave it up as a bad idea. "Untie my hands, will you?"
As Harry knelt beside her, fumbling with the knots, he asked again, "Why not?"
Mickie, her hands loose, began to button her blouse with numbed fingers. "I think I broke her wrist."
CHAPTER 24
AFTERMATH
Cheryl sat in the rear of the blue and white patrol car, her right wrist cradled on her left arm. Her mouth was held stoically, her eyes a blank. Mickie sat to her left, trying to breathe shallowly to keep the pain in her side at a reasonable level, trying not to pass out. Her head throbbed steadily, reinforced by occasional waves of nausea. In short, she felt like hell. On the other side of Cheryl sat Harry. From his face it was impossible to tell what he was feeling.
Approaching streetlights threw a bluish, ghostly light across their faces, then flicked past, leaving darkness. They rode in silence down the road that ran the length of the
island. In the middle of town they turned right, went on past the police station, and started over the bridge, on their way to the emergency room at Wilford General.
On the far side of the bridge, Cheryl said, "It isn't true."
"What isn't true?" asked Harry.
She ignored him, turning toward Mickie. "It isn't true. Those things you said."
Mickie nodded. "I know." It hurt to talk.
Cheryl's voice was imploring her to understand. "It really isn't."
"I know. I had to get you mad enough to forget you had the gun. Had to get you close."
"That's why you said those things?"
Mickie nodded again.
"It's all right, then. As long as you know I'm not that kind. I wouldn't do those things."
Mickie said nothing, but thought, That's your problem, Honey.
After a while, Cheryl said, "I'll have to go to jail, won't I?"
Well, let's think about it. Two premeditated murders, both confessed to, and two counts of attempted murder. Mnnn.
"I think so, yes."
Another long silence, then, "It's all right. Bryan will wait for me. I did it for him." Mickie could feel the woman beside her start to tremble, heard her say, "He'll wait, I'm sure. Don't you think so?"
Ignoring the stabbing in her side, Mickie turned enough to put her hand on Cheryl's shoulder. "Of course he will."
"I do love him."
"Yes."
"And I couldn't do those things you said. I couldn't."
I just wish you had, thought Mickie. Then no one would have died. Aloud she said, "I know, dear. You're a good girl."
Harry said nothing all the way to the hospital. As he listened to the two women, a wise voice somewhere in his head kept saying, Don't ask.
* * *
A drunk had crossed the centerline and taken out two other cars before coming to a grinding stop on the opposite sidewalk. Being drunk, and therefore immortal, he had not bothered with his seat belt. The EMS crew had brought him in strapped to a board after he had been cut out of what was left of his car. People in the other cars had assorted injuries, ranging from mild bruises to massive head trauma. One was pronounced dead on arrival. Mickie and Cheryl made the bottom of the list of priorities.
Cheryl sat on an adjustable bed in a semi-private cubicle. Through the doorless opening she could see part of the central station, but no one seemed to be there. Somewhere out of sight she heard low voices, the squeak of a shoe on tiled floor, the vague, unhurried sounds of people going about their business. One of the detectives, the big, nasty-looking one, stood just outside, his back to the wall.
A woman in street clothes stuck her head around the corner, looked Cheryl over, asked, "How are you feeling?"
Cheryl shrugged, nodded.
"It's been a little hectic. Someone will be with you in just a minute."
She disappeared again. Who was she? Nurse, doctor, orderly? Nobody seemed to wear uniforms anymore. It was hard to tell who was what. She looked around, marveling at the number of buttons and dials and receptacles and switches and tubes. It was like being inside an alien spaceship—she had no idea what any of it was for. She saw black plastic tabs under some of the outlets, with a few white letters inscribed on them, tried to figure out what they could mean. She concentrated on that, as if she were going to be tested on it later. It kept her from thinking about other things.
A large, black woman wearing a white coat (an exception to the uniform rule) with a stethoscope folded into one pocket, came to the door, giving Morris a stern look in passing, and came inside. Later, an orderly got Cheryl into a wheelchair, and took her through swinging doors, down the hall to the x-ray room. Morris was two steps behind them. This got him more stern looks from the doctor and the x-ray technicians. He loved it.
Harry sat in the waiting room with Paul. He had sat in a lot of emergency waiting rooms, and knew there was never anything to do. There were magazines, but somehow nothing in them seemed important, nothing as real as what you were doing, even if that was nothing, just waiting. He closed his eyes and settled in.
He was aware of Paul fidgeting beside him, crossing and re-crossing his legs, leafing through magazines as if they held some answers he needed. Finally, Paul stuffed one back into the rack, and leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Does this kind of stuff happen a lot?"
Harry opened his eyes. "What kind of stuff?"
"This stuff. Last Monday she was shot, for God's sake. Now this. She's in the hospital again. How the hell do you do it?"
"Me? I didn't do it."
Paul looked away. "You know what I mean."
"Yeah, I know." He waited a bit, then asked, "How long have you known Mickie?"
"We met when she was in school."
"So you've known her all the time she's been a cop. What's that—three, three and a half years? Anything like this ever happen before?"
"Not that I know of."
"And odds are it probably won't again."
"But you can never tell when it might."
"Hey, weird stuff happens. It's mostly a matter of staying smart. And she is smart. Well, usually. I grant you, she was a bonehead tonight, but we'll work on that."
Paul sat silently a few moments, frowning at his thoughts. "I don't see how you handle it."
Harry shrugged. "You mean you don't know how you're going to handle it."
"Yeah, I guess." Paul smiled a little sadly. "She asked me once what I'd do if she started getting hard. Maybe I'm the one who has to harden up."
"Yeah, maybe."
What did he think, that he was the only one? Everyone in the business dealt with this, not always successfully. Harry remembered reading somewhere that nurses and cops had abnormally lousy marriage records. He had wondered, Why nurses? Cops he could understand. How Karen had managed to stick it, or why, he had never quite understood. God knows she'd had reason enough to leave.
"Maybe you should talk with my wife,” he said. “She's the expert."
* * *
It looked different in daylight. The dunes on either side weren't quite as high or as steep as she remembered, like visiting a place not seen since childhood. The afternoon sun reflected heat back from the sand, highlighting white fragments of shell here and there. Cheryl's gun and the red, pointed section of broomstick had been found and taken as evidence. Even Kurt's bottle of wine had been recovered.
Mickie stood alone, trying to recall clearly what had happened to her here. None of it seemed quite real. Her re-bandaged ribs and the tender spot on the side of her head were solid evidence of reality. Still, her duel with Cheryl seemed like something from another existence. She knew she would remember it, but somehow it didn't seem personal. She took a last look around and, like the last remaining gladiator leaving the arena, plodded rather sadly away.
Approaching the turnaround, she saw Harry's green VW parked by her own faded blue Honda. He sat on the railing, watching her. Now what did he want? This was her day off, a long overdue day off. He said nothing until she reached him and was stepping gingerly over the rail.
"How 'ya doing?"
"I'll live."
"Visiting the scene?"
She shot him a what-the-hell-is-that-supposed-to-mean? look, but said nothing.
"You came real close out there, you know. If I hadn't heard the two of you calling each other naughty names, you might have been victim number three."
She sat beside him, not looking at him. "How much of that did you hear?"
"Hardly any. Really." He gave it a few seconds, then added, "Women can really get foul-mouthed. You ever notice that?"
"You know why I did that."
"To get her mad. What made you think of that?"
"The Sensei told us that people do dumb things when they lose control of their tempers. You can use it against them." Of course, he had also said that it just makes some people meaner, but she decided not to mention that.
Harry said, "I also saw what you did on the way to the hospital. You w
ere nice to a woman who'd just tried to turn you into a pincushion."
"I was in shock."
"I didn't mean it as a slam. You really believe what you told her, about Bryan waiting for her? They’ll put her away forever."
Mickie almost laughed. "He'll wait. He'll wait until someone, almost anyone, gives him a big smile and a hot look."
"She says she did it for him. She wanted to save him from Tina. What do you think? Was it that, or maybe the things you were accusing her of? Loyalty or lust?"
She turned to look at him. "Does it make a difference?"
"To the case? None at all. I just wonder about stuff like that."
Mickie stood up, breathing deeply the ocean air, feeling the sun warm on her back. She said, "Maybe a little of both. Let’s just say she needs to work on her priorities. I asked her once if she'd maybe gone to a movie while she was out. She was shocked I'd even suggest it. After all, it was Sunday. What she had done was murder a man, strip him naked, paint his body with lipstick, shove a stake in his chest, and bury him in the sand. But no movies."
"That's people for you," said Harry.
Mickie nodded. “Sometimes they don’t make any sense.”
“But if you ask her about it, she’ll give you some perfectly good reason. People can make sense of anything—that’s what’s scary.”
They started toward their cars. Mickey said, "Makes you wonder, doesn't it? I read somewhere that that's the only reason we developed intelligence. We use it to come up with excuses for whatever it is we want to do."
Harry reached his car, opened the door, but didn’t get in. "You think so? Well, how do you justify coming out here alone, at night, when you know you're a target, without backup? That was dumb, Wilder."
She started to flare, but said only, "It turned out all right."
"Lucky, that's all. You can't depend on luck. You should have waited for daylight. Morris would have been with you."
"Morris? He was following me?"
"What did you think he's been doing? He was behind you during the day. We figured you'd be home with Paul at night."
Her anger was barely controlled. "Morris was following me?"
"Hell, everybody was following you. Kurt, Cheryl, Morris. It was like a parade. You ought to look back once in a while."
