Tabula Rasa Kristen Lippert Martin (21 page)

in her throat, slapping her hand on the desk. The sound
 makes me jump, and I thump my head on the underside of
 the counter just as a soldier says to her, “Not there.”
“Well, obviously.” Her voice is thick and so down-
 homey, she might as well be speaking with a mouthful of
 grits. “Go and find her. This is getting ridiculous. Seven
 million dollars for mercenaries. Seven million. I could have
 found her with a coonhound by now.”
Sam gets into a crouch, ready to spring up and hit the
 panic button if we get the chance, which is looking less and
 less likely. As I look around, searching out our options, I
 notice something unexpected.
It’s Steve!
His chest is rising and falling in a stuttered rhythm. A
 bubble of bloody snot expands out of his nostril. I don’t
 know how he’s still alive, but he is.
Hodges sends the two soldiers off. She’s by herself now.
Sam points toward the elevator car. The doors have
 reopened, and it’s just sitting there, waiting for us if we can
 get to it. I get up onto the balls of my feet, ready to slap the
 panic button and then make a dash for the elevators.
Hodges paces. I hear beeping, like she’s pressing keys,
 dialing the same phone number over and over, but she
 keeps getting cut off. She becomes more familiar to me just
 as everything begins to blur. It’s like someone has taken
 two pictures and put them in the same place in front of my
 eyes, and I don’t know what to focus on, the past or the
 present.
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I feel myself fall back onto my heels and then onto the
floor. I can’t stop it now. It’s the police station again. It’s the
 same day, the same memory. I know because Hodges is still
 in her purple ball gown.
She spins her bracelets again.
“Nervous?” I say.
“No. I’m not nervous.” But she immediately stops and folds
 her hands in her lap.
“I’ve never met you before today,” I say. “How exactly am I
 ruining your life?”
“How indeed. Let me first ask you, what do you think you’ve
 been doing all this time?”
“Um, climbing?”
“I don’t mean the crane. You’ve been snooping around, asking
 for the building plans from the Department of City Planning. Tell
 me why.”
“Those plans are a matter of public record. I’m an interested
 citizen.”
She glares at me. “No, what you’ve been trying to do is embar-
 rass Mr. Claymore. You think you’re going to find something out
 that will cause trouble. Isn’t that right?”
“Something like that.”
She crosses and uncrosses her legs like she can’t get comfortable
 in her chair. She says nothing for a long while; just looks up toward
 the ceiling like she’s thinking.
“You went to the nursing home near St. Luke’s. To see Mr.
Claymore’s wife. The woman is eighty-two and demented. Why?”
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“Oh, was that a nursing home? Do they always put razor wire
 around nursing homes?”
“What could you possibly be hoping to find out from her,
Sarah?”
“Sarah. Did you know that’s also Mrs. Claymore’s first name?
Interesting coincidence, huh?”
“It’s a common enough name,” Hodges says as she adjusts her
 earring. “Very common.”
“Well, Sarah and I were just making small talk. And she’s not
 demented. Heartbroken maybe, but hardly crazy. You’d probably
 be heartbroken, too, if three of your kids were dead and one was
 terminally ill. Well, I mean, maybe not you, but other people.
You don’t seem like the type to get all broken up.”
“You’re right. I’m not. And you know what else you should
 know about me? I can read people like books. Trashy, conniving
 little books. And I know that you’re lying to me.”
“Am I? I don’t think I’m the one who’s been lying all these
 years. She told me a lot of things. Really fascinating stuff about
 your boss.”
Hodges looks like she’s having a hard time maintaining her
 composure. She runs her tongue back and forth across her upper lip.
“Did you know that she was once married to Mr. Claymore’s
 older brother? But then he died suddenly, tragically, and in her
 grief, she married her former brother-in-law. It’s probably too much
 to get into here, but Mr. Claymore has a lot to answer for.”
“Shut. Your. Mouth.”
I lean back in my chair, and though my heart is pounding, she
 doesn’t need to know that. “I don’t think you’re all that worried
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about defending your boss’s honor. I think what’s really bothering
 you right now is that I know some dirt you don’t.”
“You know nothing. You are nothing. You will always be
 nothing.”
“That sweet southern accent of yours seems to come and go.
What’s up with that?”
She slaps me in the face. I won’t lie: It hurts. A lot. But I smile
 anyway, even as my eyes start to tear. Then she slaps me again,
 this time with the back of her hand. Her bracelets tinkle as they
 slide down her arm.
I refuse to look at her.
“I’m going to make you very sorry, little girl.”
Make me sorry? That’s almost funny, and I might laugh about
 it, but I don’t want her to slap me anymore. Instead I think about
 how tired I am. My hands are still sore from climbing.
“You can’t take anything away from me, lady. It’s already all
 gone.”
“That’s true, isn’t it? It is all gone. And I, of all people, should
 know that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know what I do, yes? Who I work for? I’m Mr. Clay-
 more’s right-hand . . . woman. I take care of all the little things for
 him. Things like you, for example.”
“That right?”
“I know perfectly well why you’ve been targeting his projects
 for the past year, and I’ll start off by telling you that I’m not going
 to negotiate with you. I’m going to tell you what’s going to happen
 here, and you’re going to do it.”
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“Or else?”
“Oh goodness, I’m not going to tell you the ‘or else’ part.
You’re just going to experience that when the time comes.”
I feel a shiver go through me as the woman watches me with an
 almost bland expression on her face. Somehow, she’s still menac-
 ing. But I know my rights. I don’t have to listen to any of this. I
 look over at the observation window. “Hey! Are you people listen-
 ing to this? This woman is threatening me.”
I’m looking at her reflection, and she’s looking at mine. She
 smiles. “There’s no one in there who’ll help you. Mr. Claymore
 has a lot of friends and a lot of people who are, okay, not exactly
 friends, but interested parties who want to stay on his good side. So
 it’s just me and you right now, talking girl to girl.”
I see something in her eyes that frightens me. There’s an empti-
 ness there. I am a thing to her. Nothing more. A thing that, for
 whatever reason, is in her way. It takes a lot to frighten the girl
 who climbs cranes. Who half hopes she’ll fall off. The girl who is
 afraid of nothing because she has nothing to live for, except dealing
 some payback.
Maybe courage is the same thing as not caring about losing.
And that makes courage a worthless possession. Like everything
 else I own.
“Here’s what’s going to happen. You are going to publicly
 admit that you’ve been harassing Mr. Claymore and extorting
 money from him. Then you’re going to apologize and agree to
 spend two years on probation, doing community service for several
 of Mr. Claymore’s personal charities.”
I start laughing. I’ve spent the last year making trouble for
Erskine Claymore, pointing out what coldhearted scum he is. After
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taking advantage of my mother, he just carries on like nothing
 while she works and scrapes along and we have nothing? And this
flouncy, red-haired woman thinks I’m just going to renounce all
 that? For what? I’m waiting for her to offer me money. That’s
 what these rich people do, and when she does, I’m going to tell her
 to take her money and . . .
“Well? I’m waiting,” she says.
“Are you trying to pay me off?”
“I didn’t say I was going to give you anything in return.”
I laugh harder now.
“What, precisely, is so funny? You don’t agree to my terms?”
She reaches over and gently brushes a strand of hair away from
 my forehead. I pull back in disgust.
“You don’t know this, but I gave you a chance once, not so
 long ago. That was very much out of character for me, but I did
 it because I was trying to turn over a new leaf for the sake of my
fiancé.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I just want you to understand that I now see my mistake.
That momentary impulse to change, to be someone I’m not—that
 was wrong of me. I realize now that you have to know who you
 are, Sarah. You have to understand yourself. Do what you know
 has to be done.”
“If you think I’m going to do anything to help you, you can
 just forget it.”
She sits up straight and gives a gasp.
“Forget it . . . hmmm . . . forget it. Now there’s an idea.”
Suddenly she’s giddily happy, and it’s scaring me more than
 anything that’s happened tonight.
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“So, are you ready to make a statement? We can get you a pen
 and paper. I assume you have a command of the English language.
Unlike your mother.”
The table jumps forward as I leap to my feet. I lean toward
 her, thinking I might headbutt her, but I catch myself. What am
I, crazy? I’m already in trouble. I can’t attack this woman at the
 police station. I look at the observation mirror and sit slowly.
“That’s right, Sarah. Sit, sit. You need to learn how to relax.
If you keep raging like this, they’ll lock you up for who knows how
 long.”
I take a deep breath and close my eyes, trying to keep calm. I
 know she’s baiting me.
“That’s it. I’m sure you’re good at keeping a level head. To a
 point, of course. Everyone has her limit.” The woman lowers her
 voice to a whisper and adds in the sweetest southern accent she can
 muster, “You know what? Just for fun, let’s see if we can find out
 where yours is.”
She reaches across the table to pat my cheek. I try to jerk my
 head away, but she grabs me by the chin and digs her nails deep
 into my skin.
“Let’s see. When was it now? Just two short years ago, I
 think. Your mother was walking home from work, crossing the
 street. I’ll bet she was tired, making up beds all day at the hotel.
That’s probably why she was walking so slowly. Because she was
 soooooo exhausted. All I had to do was tap my foot on the gas
 pedal a little harder than I should and whoops! Up she goes, over
 my hood and into the air. I stopped and got out and checked her
 pulse. If anyone saw me, I was prepared to pay him off and tell him
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to shuffle back to his dreary little apartment, but no one was there.
I’ve never seen a New York City street so empty. A stroke of luck
 for me, really, but then again, fortune favors the bold.
“Anyway, there I was, standing over your mother’s body, and
I looked down onto the pavement and there were seeds everywhere.
Strangest thing. I thought, How odd! The woman is carrying
 birdseed. Why? What bird is she feeding?”
“Pepitas,” I say.
“What?”
“They were pepitas.”
She flicks her hand, and that’s when I push the table forward
 like a sled. It hits her in the chest and she flies backward in her
 seat, her ball gown skirt billowing out like a parachute. She shrieks
 as she hits the floor. I tip the table over onto her, pressing the edge
 of it into her throat. Then I put all my weight down on it. The
 next thing I know, I’m pinned against the opposite wall, crying
 and screaming and thrashing and biting like a wild animal until a
Taser drops me to the floor.  
“She’s crazy!” Hodges shouts. She’s clutching her neck with
 one hand, where the tabletop has left a bruise. Her other hand is
 dangling down oddly. I think I may have broken her collarbone.
“She attacked me! Out of the blue! I offered to help her, and she
 attacked with no warning!”
I’m back. Sitting under the desk, my two hands clutch-
 ing my bald head.
This is the woman who killed my mother.
Now I’m going to kill her.
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CHAPTER 30
 rise to my feet like I’ve been drawn up with strings. Sam
I  is still underneath the desk, not sure what I’m doing.
I’m in full view in the lobby. No gun, no grenade, no
 anything to defend myself, except the strength of my own
 anger.
Hodges is turned toward the windows, her back to me.
She’s talking on a radio. “Speak up! What are you saying?
She’s where?”
I hear the static-filled response, the frantic tone, as
 someone shouts, “She’s there! She’s there! Behind you!”
“Behind who?” she shouts. “Give me your location!”
“Main floor lobby!”
“Don’t be stupid. I’m in the main . . . floor . . . lobby . . . .”
She turns and stares at me.
I take several steps toward her as rage fills me. I am a
 fountain of fury. I could fill up the whole world with it
 right now.
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She puts her hand to her neck protectively. The gold
 bracelets on her wrist collect near her elbow.
“I see by the look on your face that it’s all starting to
 come back to you, Angel.” She pushes a long curl away
 from her face and pouts. “I’ve come a very long way to kill
 you. I hope you appreciate it.”
I feel a prickle of adrenaline in my fingertips. Just as I’m
 about to take a step toward her, out of the corner of my eye,
I see movement.
Soldiers.
I fling myself over the guard’s desk like I’m hopping a
 fence. Sam stands up and begins firing.
“Go! Go! Go!” he shouts at me.
I rush into the elevator, but know they’ll be on me
 before the doors can close. Suddenly Sam is there, blocking
 the door of the car, firing, telling me to close the doors.
“Get in!”  I shout.
“Close the door!”
“Get in!”
He pushes a button and then steps back out into the
 lobby to cover me. He’s firing, and now they’re firing back.
He’s hit in the shoulder, then the upper chest. A moment
 later his face hits the marble tile. He rolls onto his back,
 twists one of the mines, and hugs it against his chest.
The doors close. A second later a blast rocks the eleva-
 tor shaft, and for a moment I think I’m in free fall. The car
 seems to tip a little and makes a horrible scraping sound
 against the walls before shuddering to a stop. I think it
 might be wedged in place, but when I take a step my
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weight is enough to make the elevator wobble and slide
 further down the shaft.
I’m within arm’s reach of the little door that says “For
Emergency Use Only.” I try to keep my feet planted and,
 without adjusting my center of gravity, pull the door open
 to get the elevator key. I look at it. I had to use a key like
 this all the time when I was a kid, because the ancient
 elevator in our apartment building stopped at least once a
 week. Getting on it was sort of like playing the slots. You
 could take the stairs or you could take the elevator, but if
 you did the latter, you risked getting stuck for an hour or
 more while somebody called the super to get you unstuck.
I try to push this memory out and away like I did before.
I can’t give in to it.
“Not now! Not now!”
But I can’t resist it. And I have nowhere to run to get
 away from the past.
I see the brown, scuffed tiles in the apartment hallways.
I remember the sound of the buzzer when you let someone
 into the building. I remember . . . I remember . . .
Being at school. And Mrs. Esteban. Again. Why would
 these memories be connected?
I see the bright red painted doors of my swanky Upper East Side
 school, full of skinny girls who get dropped off in fancy cars every
 morning, their hair pin-straight and shiny, telling stories about
 what they’d done that weekend—the backstage concert passes, the
 trips to the Hamptons, the front-row seats at Fashion Week.
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