I was whipped by the time I headed for the parking lot. Maybe I'd lean back on the headrest, crank up the Camaro's Bose speakers, listen to some Bruce Springstein, and reenergize. Maybe hash browns from the Waffle House, scattered, smothered, and covered, would do the trick. I was beginning to feel sorry I'd told Lyle we could talk. All I wanted to do was go home and sleep.
Maybe I dozed off. I'd parked the Camaro in the far corner of the Tiffany employee parking area so nobody would ding my doors or anything. It was dark, the music was good, and I was so dead tired. Something jerked me awake and I sat up trying to figure out what time it was. Where was that Lyle?
My watch said it was nearly three-thirty. The parking lot was almost empty. The dancers had long since left, and only the cleaning crew and the bar closers would be inside. This was ridiculous. I was going inside to tell Lyle he could just can it for another night, I wasn't waiting. The least he could've done was come tell me he'd been delayed. On the other hand, he didn't know about the Camaro. Maybe he thought I'd left him. He'd really be pissed if that was the case.
I hopped out of the car to go check, and that's when my evening ended. I heard a sound behind me, half turned to look, and felt something hot explode inside my head. There was nothing after that but darkness.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
I was aware of pain, radiating from my head, raking through my body, and gravel, little stones that bit into the side of my face, chewing my arms and legs as I struggled to move. It hurt everywhere.
I was trembling uncontrollably and moving was agony, but somehow I heaved myself up, clinging to the side of the Camaro for support. It was no longer dark, but not quite light. The parking lot and the back side of the Tiffany were bathed in shades of predawn gray. What in the hell had happened to me?
I pulled weakly at the door handle, finally using both hands to open the door. I sank down into the driver's seat, my head resting on the leather-padded steering wheel. I brought my fingers up and tenderly felt the right side of my head. There was a knot the size of half a golf ball that brought tears to my eyes when I accidentally touched its angry center. No blood, I thought, bringing my hand down in front of my eyes; that's good.
You grow up on the streets of northeast Philly and you are not exactly immune to brutality. Life has its share of hard knocks and punches. In the old days, I'd run with a pretty rough crowd. Somehow, here in Panama City, where the crime rate is low, I hadn't expected to be a victim. Now in the space of ten days, I'd been battered more than I had in ten years in Philly.
I raised my head slowly and what I saw brought a fresh round of tears. Someone, some person or persons, had tossed the car. My pretty Bose speakers dangled from red and black wires. The contents of the glove compartment were strewn across the seats. The floor mats were ripped up and thrown across the front passenger seat. Even the backseat had been ripped up out of place. My purse and dance bag were empty, their contents sprinkled throughout the interior of my brand-new baby.
That was the last straw. Denise, Arlo, Leon, whatever and whoever, it no longer mattered because now it was personal; now they were messing with me and my car. I reached for the door handle again, pried myself out of the car and onto my feet. It was slow going, but I made it to the back entrance of the Tiffany and up the black wrought-iron steps to the door.
It took forever to fit the key in the lock, open the door, and punch in the alarm code, but when I had, I made straight for the phone outside the dressing room. I started to dial 911, then stopped. Why go through the trouble of calling a patrol unit? They'd only call Detective Nailor anyway. I had his card in my locker. It'd save us both a lot of trouble if I just called him directly.
I didn't have to worry about being able to focus on the numbers of my combination lock. Someone had been there before me, leaving the door wide open and my belongings scattered across the floor. John Nailor's card lay in a pile of broken makeup bottles, a crimson streak of blush all but obliterating his name.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
I woke him out of a deep sleep, and when he spoke it was as if from a great distance, yet he recognized my voice.
“Sierra?” he murmured sleepily, as if thinking perhaps this was a dream. Then more alert: “It's after five in the morning. What's wrong?”
I gave him points for knowing that it would take a major act of God to make me call him at any time, let alone at five
A.M.
“I knew if I called nine-one-one they'd call you anyway. I'm saving them the trouble.” There was a problem. Something was taking my voice away and huge black spots were floating in front of my eyes. I leaned against the cool concrete block wall of the hallway, cradling the phone against my neck. I was going to be sick.
“Tell me where you are,” his voice demanded.
“The Tiffany,” I whispered. It was worse than I thought. I was going to be sick all right, but I was also very afraid that I might cry. Cry or pass out. Something was wrong because my knees were jelly.
“I'll be there in five minutes, Sierra,” he said. “Can you hold on five minutes? You want me to send a patrol car?”
It didn't matter. From a long tunnel I tried to answer, tried to keep the phone in my grasp and failed. The black spots converged and I felt myself sliding down the wall. The worst part was I could still hear. As darkness swirled around my head, I heard the rush of footsteps, running, and the sound of two voices whispering.
Twenty-five
After Tony was killed I had a miscarriage. It was all the more tragic because I had not known I was pregnant. I don't know what I thought, because I knew I was late, but with Tony around, you forgot about normal. He treated me so good that I didn't even care after a while that he was married. We had our life together, and then he had his other two-dimensional world in New Jersey.
When he got shot I found out about the other Tony, the one with not just a wife, but two little girls, the Tony connected to a crime syndicate out of Newark, the Tony who lay dead outside a nightclub after a rival family decided to make a statement and end his life. I guess the shock brought on the miscarriage. Anyway, I ended up alone, terrified, in the emergency room of Thomas Jefferson Hospital in Philly, because who was I going to tell?
The doctor and the nurses were kind, but there wasn't a thing they could do except give me something for pain. I lay there for hours crying for Tony and the baby, mad at the world for taking him and mad at Tony for lying to me. I was alone and afraid and I hated myself for being such a fool. That was three years ago.
Of course my family found out about Tony; they'd seen me with him at the club where I worked. When his picture was plastered all over the
Inquirer,
the rest of the secret was out, but they never knew about the baby. I couldn't do that to them. I lived with it and I live with the guilt and the what-might-have-beens every day of my life.
Maybe God was trying to make life catch up with me. Maybe that's why everything was coming to a head in Panama City, Florida. Maybe I should let it happen. I thought all these things and more while I was lying on the floor of the Tiffany, drifting in and out of consciousness. The whispering voices of my attackers were gone, but I didn't know where. Maybe they were gone. Maybe whoever hit me was coming back. Maybe they were going to kill me before the cops could come. It didn't matter because I was powerless to lift a finger to stop them.
In the distance I could hear the wail of sirens. Nailor must've sent a car, I thought. The sounds grew louder and stopped. Footsteps clattered up the fire-escape stairs and in through the back door of the club. I struggled to open my eyes, blinking at the sudden surge of light.
“Sierra.” It was John Nailor's voice, soft by my ear, his arms scooping me up by the shoulders and supporting my head.
“Tell the EMTs to get in here,” he barked to someone. I blinked, opening my eyes and trying to focus.
“I'm all right,” I protested, but it was a waste of breath. “Someone hit me, out by my car.”
“Yeah, it's a mess. It looks like they were searching for something,” he said. “Don't talk anymore. We're going to get you to the hospital.”
“No,” I said, mustering all the strength I could find. “No more ambulance rides. I'm fine, really.”
The EMTs arrived and started their prodding and poking. I lay there feeling too weak and nauseous to fight.
“Someone broke into my locker, too,” I said.
“Todd,” Nailor said, turning and addressing a young uniformed officer, “tell the lab guys to check the dressing room.” The patrolman nodded and vanished. One of the EMTs, a dark-haired, tanned man, turned to Nailor.
“I think it's probably a concussion, but she oughta have an X ray, get checked by a doc.”
“I'm not going in an ambulance,” I said to them. “I'll drive myself later.” Who was I trying to kid?
John Nailor spoke up. “I'll see she gets there,” he said. He patted my shoulder, more a warning to keep my mouth shut than sympathy. Carla Terrance, who picked that moment to come inside, thought differently.
“How sweet,” she said, her voice dripping acid. “John, if you can pry yourself away, I need you outside.”
Nailor didn't like the intrusion, but he followed Carla silently. They were gone for almost five minutes, leaving me to try and figure out what was going on. Whoever'd ransacked my locker either stayed behind, hiding after closing time, or knew the security code, or knew how to disable the alarm system. Did they hit me and then riffle through my locker? I'd heard two voices; maybe one had done the car and one the locker. My head ached with the exertion and I was almost grateful when John Nailor returned.
“Okay,” he said, “let's get you to a doctor.”
At this point I thought I was feeling strong enough to take it under my own power. I stood up and promptly started to sag. Nailor jumped forward and caught my arm as I went down, and he was laughing.
“You don't learn, do you?” he asked. “Let's do it my way. You lean on my arm and I'll walk you to my car. I'm gonna drive you to the hospital, check you into the ER, and then I'm going to come back here.”
As he spoke, he started leading me slowly toward the door. His shirt felt smooth and his muscles taut beneath the fabric. I wanted not to like leaning on him, but I was having trouble doing that.
“How will I get back to my car?” We were outside now and I could see that the Camaro was covered with crime scene technicians.
“I'll come get you,” he said. “Listen, do you think you could take a look at the interior of your vehicle and see if you notice anything missing? It'd speed things up for us.”
“No problem,” I said weakly. We walked slowly across the parking lot, coming to a stop beside the hood of the car. Carla Terrance stood, her back to us, slowly examining my few belongings.
“This is the inventory of the interior,” she said, her voice tight with controlled anger. “Anything of yours missing?”
I stared at the assortment of cosmetics, papers, pens, and lifestyle detritus. Nothing appeared to be missing. My wallet still had ten dollars and my lone credit card in it. No, nothing was missing, but as I looked I saw that something had been added. In the middle of the assorted junk lay a gold dangle earring with an amethyst teardrop, Denise's amethyst earring.
I didn't let my eyes linger. Instead I reached for my wallet.
“I'll need this,” I said. “It's got my insurance card and my checkbook.” Carla frowned but made no move to stop me. “Can I take the rest of my things?” I asked.
“Go ahead.” Carla sighed. “You're sure nothing's missing?” I picked up a few pens, a notepad, and finally the earring.
“No, not a thing,” I assured her. How had Denise's earring gotten into my new car? Had it been in my dance bag or my purse? Surely I would have noticed it. The earring was huge. I was starting to feel dizzy and leaned against the edge of the fender to hold myself steady.
“Let's get you to the hospital,” John said. “I'll be back in a half an hour,” he told Terrance. She appeared not to hear him, turning instead to Detective Donlevy, who'd made his appearance along with the rest of Panama City's police force.
“Here we are.” Nailor opened the car door and lowered me into the passenger seat. My head was spinning again and I wasn't sure I'd make it to Bay County Medical before I threw up.
He started the engine and pulled out onto Thomas Drive. The police radio was spitting out a staccato stream of numbers and street addresses, the law-enforcement chatter designed to keep the rest of the world at arm's length. The car radio played a jangled country melody, and I knew for certain I would not make Bay County.
We rounded the corner onto Joan Avenue, leaving the junky part of Thomas Drive behind and spinning past a little residential section.
“Would you mind pulling over a second?” I asked.
Maybe he saw the color had drained from my face. Whatever it was caused him to ask no questions. He lurched to a stop in front of a tractor tire painted topaz blue that held blood-red geraniums, someone's idea of a flower bed.
I jumped out and tried to make it to the end of the car before I hurled. I hate throwing up in front of an audience. I was leaning on the car for support when I felt his arms wrapping around my shoulder and holding my waist.
“It's all right,” he said, as if comforting a child. “This happens when you have a concussion.” I was in no condition to comment.
When I'd finished he reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a crisp white handkerchief, and handed it to me. He led me back to the car, gently deposited me in my seat, and returned to the driver's side. I didn't even want to look at him. This was one of the low moments of my life.