Damaged Goods
As I moved forward, I tried to make out the license plate as it angled into view. It was barely legible under the nearby streetlamp. My peripheral vision spied more doors opening on my so-called savior’s car. That was my cue. I gunned the engine and swerved onto the street, sending a small group of pedestrians scattering and eliciting a honk from another driver, but leaving my anonymous helpers in the dust.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
As I barreled down the street, I took a quick glance in the rearview mirror. The men who came to my aid had disappeared, except for the silhouette of a leg slipping behind the car’s open door. The car started to move toward me, the door shutting while the car was in motion. It was obviously much more powerful than mine—a full-size Ford or Chevy. If this had been a race, my Fiesta would be the tortoise to their hare.
I pressed the gas pedal as hard as I dared, looking both ways and praying as I blew through a stop sign. With a wrench of the wheel, I careered to the right down a side street. I swear my side of the car lifted off the ground. At least, it felt that way. When I checked the rearview mirror again, a car that could’ve been the one in pursuit rounded the turn I’d taken. I swung left onto another street, punched the gas, then turned left again.
By this time, I was buried deep within residential Baltimore City. Not a bad neighborhood, but one from which I had no clue about how to reach the interstate. I was startled into swerving to the opposite lane after spying a plastic garbage bag on the side of the road—a sight that sets the letters “IED” flashing through my brain. I eased on the brake and slowed enough to stop for the few seconds it took me to back the Fiesta into a tiny gap between two cars.
I had chosen the spot hoping that I’d go unnoticed if the car went by. It was between streetlights, creating a shadowy hideout between pools of light. Of course, if they did notice me, I was screwed. All they’d have to do is pull up alongside me and I’d be trapped. Well done, Erica!
Having few options, I shrugged it off and dove into my shoulder bag for a pen and paper, so I could scribble the car’s license plate number before I forgot it. The act of writing it relieved me of the need to repeat it mentally—over and over—like the world’s most annoying mantra.
I heard the car before I saw it and slid down below the steering wheel. The headlights glared above me, then dimmed slightly. From the sound of the motor, the vehicle seemed to be moving as fast as a snail. Keep going! I wanted to shout.
To my surprise, the car did just that. Even so, I waited ten minutes before extricating myself from my crouched position.
A quick scan revealed a street sign tinted orange in the glow of a sodium lamp. I reached for my cell phone and checked Google Maps. Adjusting the size with fumbling fingers disclosed the art school’s location and reoriented me to mine. Now, to figure out how to reach the interstate without encountering those Good Samaritans.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I started the car and eased out onto the street. With no one in sight, I started to relax a little. My gaze swept back and forth as I eased through the darkness toward the main road. With no sign of my pursuers, I left the neighborhood feeling
more secure by the second. The main road—four lanes that led to I-83—buzzed with commuters and whoever else might want to brave city roads at rush hour. Constant surveillance showed no sign of black limos or Good Samaritans. I made a beeline to the interstate and got the hell out of Dodge City, so to speak.
After an uneventful drive home, I pulled my car into the garage and left it in the space closest to the entrance. I trudged inside and climbed the two flights to my unit. While approaching my door, I spied a large plain white envelope tucked underneath it. What now?
I opened my door and toed the envelope inside. Unaddressed, but no doubt meant for me. It could contain a letter or anthrax. I shut the door and locked up tight, then retrieved a pair of latex gloves from the kitchen and pulled them on before opening my surprise delivery. Inside was one photo.
The man depicted looked like Terry, although it was hard to tell for sure. The lack of lighting and angle of the shot made it hard to determine the man’s identity. He also looked like he’d had the living crap beaten out of him.
I recoiled at the sight but managed to recover rather quickly. My revulsion was dwarfed by rising anger and disgust. What is this supposed to accomplish? I could only hope that the victim wasn’t Terry. Shoot me, if you must, but leave my friends out of it.
Too tired to think any further, I tossed the photo onto my coffee table. Get a magnifying glass and examine the picture, my conscience yelled. Later! I mentally shouted back. My lower back threw occasional sparks down my legs and up my spine. Frustration made my head pound again. It was all I could do not to scream.
Exhausted and in pain, I collapsed into bed fully clothed, but my brain was churning like crazy. So, I struggled to my feet and turned on the TV. Unfortunately, I’d left it on a news channel, which did nothing to improve my mood. Rather than channel surf, I snapped the damn thing off, made myself a pot of coffee (believe it or not, coffee for me, is both stimulating and relaxing), and tried to calm down by reading a book.
It was nearly half-past midnight when I finally felt ready for bed. I had just slipped under the covers when my cell phone rang. Answer or ignore? If it was the thugs who had sent that photo, the latter might be wiser. But, then again. My brain seemed to spasm. Then it cried, you need sleep!
The ringing stopped, then started again. I reached over and turned off the phone. A few minutes ticked by. Then, my land line jangled. I roused myself enough to reach the receiver, pick it up, and slam it down. Then, I turned off the ringer. So much for that.
It took a while for sleep to come. When it did, the dreams it brought were too much like being awake to be restful. I was plagued with a bizarre kaleidoscope of imagery. Being chased through a desert by Russians firing Kalashnikov rifles at me. Sidestepping a discarded soda can, which exploded in a cloud of fragments. A child’s blood-streaked face emerging from the cloud, begging me not to shoot him. Bumping down a barely discernible road in a jeep with an aspiring pig farmer who’d end up dead right beside me.
I woke up sweating after hearing a loud bang. I stared at the ceiling in disbelief, but the banging continued. No explosions. Someone was knocking on my door.
Chapter Thirty
At first, I thought I’d been hearing things. I lay there blinking, trying to get my bearings. The knocking resumed, even louder.
The watery light of dawn oozed in around the outline of the window shade. My bedside clock read 0730.
Oddly, my first thought was to call the police. My second was to grab the nearest blunt object and greet my visitor with it.
Ignore it, I thought. But my curiosity wouldn’t let me. With everything that had happened, I should at least look through the peephole.
Even though the knocking had let up, I rolled out of bed, finger-combed my hair back, and crept to the door. I peered out and saw . . . no one.
Now awake and thinking, I ran to the window that overlooked the street in front of the building. There were no obvious signs of any of vehicles that had pestered me lately. Which is not to say they hadn’t been there. Or weren’t parked elsewhere.