Authors: Lisa Scottoline
Mary tried to move her hands. Feel for a latch. Find the trunk lock. She wrenched her hands apart but they wouldn’t come undone. Duct tape, there, too. She could feel it up her arms, wrenching her shoulders almost out of their sockets. She ignored the stabbing in her forehead. Blinked blood from her eyes. She pulled and pulled, yanking her wrists apart with all her might. Nothing.
She raised her hands bound together, trying to feel for the latch. The lock. A wire. Anything. The blanket kept getting in the way, wrapping her up. Stiff and scratchy, a tarp. It smelled of garbage and motor oil. Wet splotches around her face. Her blood. Mary tried throwing off the tarp but couldn’t. There were yards and yards of it. Every time she moved, weight shifted on top.
Clink. Clink.
It made a clinking sound when it moved. He had weighted the tarp down with things. Tools. A shovel?
She kept moving her hands, scratching frantically around for a latch. All she could feel was the tarp. The car roared forward, with no turns in the road. The expressway. He had it planned all along. Out toward the airport, away from the city. There were warehouses. Industry. Distribution centers. The shipyard. The piers. Long stretches of roads, desolate after business hours. Then Chester, Delaware. Farther south. Or north.
No!
She wriggled, trying to roll herself over, twisting this way and that, feeling frantically for any kind of latch. Her eyes filled with tears but she squeezed them shut. She thought of Mrs. Nyquist, riding bucking broncos. Bennie, rowing hard on the river. Judy, climbing huge rocks. Mary could never do stuff like that. She could never do it their way. She had to do it herself. Her way.
What can I do? Make funny noises or wiggle. What can’t I do? Move, scream, or save my own life. Guess what? My way sucks.
Mary had to do something. This man was taking her somewhere to kill her. The secondary location.
Huh?
Where had she heard that term? Not in law school. How did she know that term? Where else? She didn’t do anything anymore. Or go anywhere. Since Mike, all she did was work and watch TV.
TV! That was it! The Lifetime Channel! That was where she had heard it, on some show on Lifetime. Television for Women. The secondary location was where the bad guy took you when he wanted to kill you. The secondary location was the place you were never supposed to go.
MMMMMM! MMMMMM!
Mary found her train of thought before it derailed. Now what else had she seen on that show? One of those survival shows for girls, with reenactments and lipliner. What else was on that show? It came on Saturday morning, when she should have been at work, and again on Sunday mornings, when she should have been at church.
It showed how to survive carjacking, attempted rape, avalanche, if your car went in water, or quicksand, or if you were locked in a basement, a refrigerator, or a CAR TRUNK!
The Lexus curved steeply to the left, accelerating. An on ramp? An off ramp? Hurry! Then she remembered something else, another save-your-lifetime tip, and one that she was in an excellent position to do. And she even had the weapon of choice.
She started kicking backward, ramming her high heel against the blanket. Kick, kick, kick. She had to kick with both feet, since they were tied. Her stomach muscles protested, then screamed, then begged for mercy. She kept kicking, aiming for the taillight with the spike of her high heel. The Lexus was slowing. No! Were they there? Was he coming to get her? She kicked like crazy, fighting terror.
Yes! Mary succeeded in the first step. Kicking upward enough times to shimmy the tarp off one foot, leaving her high heel free, and lethal! She kicked hard!
That one’s for Keisha!
She kicked again.
This one’s for Frank!
She kicked harder.
This one’s for Amadeo!
She kicked hardest of all. Then she kept on and in the next minute heard a cracking sound at her heel. She was doing it! The taillight was cracking!
She kicked in a frenzy, heedless of the pain in her head, stomach, legs, or wrists. She could do it. She could save herself. She was going to live! She couldn’t see if light was coming through the tarp, she didn’t see the progress she was making. But she could hear it. One crack, then another. And another, the plastic cracking and giving way. If she didn’t electrocute herself, she could live! It was night. Couldn’t someone see a light being kicked out?
The Lexus was slowing, and she heard the sound of engine noise.
HONK! HONK! HONK!
Honking, right near her bumper! Someone had seen it! Someone was trying to tell the driver!
He knows, stupid.
Call the cops! Call 911! She kept kicking, determined.
For Keisha! For Frank! For Amadeo!
Kick! Kick! Kick! She kicked like her life depended on it, because it did. The taillight had to be demolished. She pictured it, cracked, its bulb smashed to smithereens. She could feel cool air on her foot. She had broken through! She could have fit her foot through the hole if it had been free! Still she kept kicking.
HONK! HONK! HONK!
Suddenly, the Lexus took off. She lurched violently to the back of the trunk and stayed there. The honking sound got farther away.
No!
He was going to get away!
Get the license plate! Call the cops!
Kick, kick, kick! Her foot was wedging in the place where the taillight was. She squeezed her toes to keep her high heel on. She’d kick through the metal! She was determined!
MMM! MMMM! MMMM!
And in the next minute, she heard it. Sirens! Far away. Getting closer? Yes! They were coming! Cops! The Lexus shot away in response. They were going to have to chase him. He wasn’t going down without a fight, not with her in here. Mary kept kicking. Still kicking. Trying to yell. Trying to stop crying.
don’t kill me don’t shoot the trunk please I’m in here I’m in here
The sirens blared louder and the Lexus hit top speed, barreling down the expressway. She rammed her heel into the back of the trunk and got stuck. The Lexus careened left and right. HONK! HONK! It was the Lexus, honking. She couldn’t hear anything but road noise and sirens. Fresh air swept into the trunk through the hole. Mary kept trying to wedge her foot out of the taillight well so she could keep kicking.
I’m alive in here don’t shoot the trunk don’t shoot the
There were more sirens, louder now. They were chasing the Lexus, full court press. She could imagine it like it was on TV.
Cops, NYPD Blue
, every cable channel had its high-speed police chase. And now, she was in one. Mary was finally
in
the television. She almost laughed.
If I live, I promise I’ll get a life.
Sirens were all around them now. Left. Right. Directly in back. They were racing ahead together, careening this way and that. The cops had to be surrounding him, at warp speed. Would they shoot her? Would they
crash
? This was worse than before! Mary kept kicking so they would know she was still alive. Suddenly the Lexus took a sharp right turn, almost ninety degrees.
Everything went crazy. The Lexus pinwheeled around and round. Wheels squealed. Sirens blared. Mary screamed. Cried. The Lexus spun out of control, then it spun slower and slower. Mary hiccupped. Vomited. It filled up her throat. She couldn’t breathe. Help! Help! God!
The Lexus was slowing its spinning.
I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can’t
CRAK! CRAK! CRAK!
Gunfire! Right near the car! The cops weren’t going to shoot her, but
he
would! He wanted her
dead
!
CRAK! CRAK! CRAK! CRAK!
A fusillade of gunfire thundered in her ears. There was no oxygen. She hiccupped and hiccupped. And finally, shuddered.
CRAK! CRAK! CRAK!
The examining room was white, ringed with institutional cabinets in regulation beige, and barely large enough to accommodate The Flying DiNunzios, two uniformed cops, Detective Gomez, his partner, a nurse, and the doctor.
Dr. Steven Weaver was an incredibly handsome, blond plastic surgeon, and the little rainbow pin under his red-embroidered name was the only indication he was gay. It took him an hour to carefully tweeze the glass from Mary’s forehead and seventeen stitches to close the wound, and he was just finishing up. Mary hardly felt his touch, much less any pain, owing to the miracle of Percocet and her sheer happiness at being alive, tempered only by the fact that the Lexus driver had been shot to death during the police shootout, when he’d returned fire.
So he’d had a gun. He was going to kill her. Now he was dead.
Mary wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Shaken. Upset. Surprisingly, not that good. Any death was awful, and the man had died taking valuable information with him. How would the cops link him to Justin Saracone now? They’d have had a chance if he’d been taken alive. On the other hand, part of her wasn’t completely unhappy. He was evidently a hired killer, and he’d have gone on to kill other people. Not to mention that he
had
tried to kill her.
And would have succeeded if it weren’t for cable — and a good pair of heels.
“Okay, let me take one last look.” Dr. Weaver stepped back, eyeing his handiwork with a smile. “The stitches are at the hairline. When they heal, you won’t even be able to see the scar.”
“Thanks a lot,” Mary said, though she could hardly hear over the background noise of her mother praying. A novena was in progress. The hospital had called her parents because she’d been stupid enough to list them in her wallet In Case of Emergency. They stuck together at the edge of her bed like conjoined twins, fused at their brown car coats. They wept, prayed, and felt faint in a continuous loop. They needed comfort, help, and medical attention. As touched as Mary was by their love, they were honestly the worst people to have around in an emergency. Thank God Judy was on the way.
“HE’S ALL DONE, MARE!” her father shouted. Of course, he’d rushed to the hospital without his hearing aid. Daughter-in-emergency-room was his best excuse yet. “YOU DID GREAT, KID! JUST GREAT!”
“Your father’s right. You’re a trouper, Mary.” Dr. Weaver gathered his leftover sutures, flesh-toned curlicues, and shiny little scissors with the flat edge. “The nurse will be in with release papers for you to sign and directions for care of the wound.”
“How was the X-ray on my right hand?” Mary asked. No need to tell the world she had slugged Justin Saracone. She had grandfathered the injury into the car trunk thing, like some insurance scam.
“Fine, it’s not broken, just a soft tissue injury. I’ll see you back in my office in two weeks. My address is on the form.”
“SHE GONNA BE OKAY, DOC?” her father asked, and her mother paused in prayer, keeping God himself waiting.
“She’ll be fine,” Dr. Weaver answered, turning. “Her MRIs were fine. She needs to rest tonight and follow the directions for wound care, and she’ll be good as new.”
“NO PROBLEM! SHE’S COMIN’ HOME WITH HER MOTHER AND ME! WE’LL TAKE GOOD CARE OF HER!”
The very thought evaporated Mary’s cloud of Percocet, setting her thinking. She had to get to work, but if she went home, her parents wouldn’t let her out of their sight. The whole block of Mercer Street would spy backup. Not to mention the reporters outside the hospital, many of whom she’d called on the way back from Justin’s. The rest had picked up the sensational car chase down the expressway on their police scanners.
“Okay, champ,” Dr. Weaver said, with a sympathetic smile, now that she was an Official Crime Victim. Even the detectives seemed to have found a new respect for her, standing stolid and waiting their turn to interrogate her. The doctor patted her arm. “It’s all over now. Take care of yourself. Nurse’ll be back in a minute, then you can go.”
“Thanks again, doctor,” Mary said, just as her mother sniffled loudly. “By the way, you got any Percocet for my parents?”
The doctor laughed and turned to shake her father’s hand. “Mr. DiNunzio, it was a pleasure —”
“SEVENTY-FIVE!” her father yelled, inexplicably, throwing his burly arms open, and in the next second the startled doctor was group-hugged by her weepy parents. Mary should have warned him. She had never seen her father shake anyone’s hand. Even with complete strangers, he had two speeds — hug and bear-hug. “THANK YOU SO MUCH, DOC! LIKE I SAID, YOU’RE WELCOME IN OUR HOUSE ANYTIME! COME FOR DINNER! YOU AND YOUR WIFE!”
“Thanks, Mr. DiNunzio, but I’m not married.”
“YOU HEAR THAT, MARE? HE’S NOT MARRIED!” Her father poked his head around Dr. Weaver, who laughed.
“Gotcha, Pop!” Mary fought a smile. She’d explain to him about the rainbow flag when he was ready, in about twenty years. And right after that, she’d tell him how she’d really met up with Mr. Lexus. When she was first brought into the emergency room, she’d been in no state to tell her parents or anyone else the full story, and Detectives Gomez and Wahlberg were waiting for her medical treatment to end so they could interview her.
“See you all later,” Dr. Weaver said, with a wave, and on the way out almost bumped into Judy, who was barging through the curtain in gray sweats.
“Mary!” she shouted, her voice a crack of pain. She rushed to the bed and threw her arms around Mary, smelling of linseed oil. “Are you okay? They wouldn’t let me through out front, I had to tell them I was your sister.”
“Mrymph,” Mary said, feeling an unexpected warmth in her friend’s arms, realizing what had happened to her on more than an intellectual level.
I almost died. I almost lost my life. And Judy is closer than a sister. Closer than mine, anyway.
“I’m fine, really, I am.”
“My God, I can’t believe this!” Judy released her, her face a mask of concern. “This is unreal! There’s like three hundred reporters out front! I didn’t see the TV, I was working. What
happened
?”
Detective Gomez stepped forward and introduced himself. “Judy, you remember me from the other night, after Keisha was attacked? My partner and I would like to question Mary as part of our investigation. Your questions will have to wait.”
“Go straight to hell!” Judy turned on him, fierce as a girl who climbs mountains for fun. “
Your
investigation? Mary’s the one doing all the work! She’s the one putting her life on the line! She had to file a lawsuit to bring that guy to justice! Did you ever even go to the Saracones, like she begged you to?”