“Scheduling got screwed up, and I’m working days again. I want you to meet me at Sunny’s every day at four- thirty. I’ll buy the ammo and pay the range fee. The only way to feel comfortable with a gun is to use it.”
I WAS HOME BY NINE, and for lack of something better to do, I decided to clean my apartment. There were no messages on my machine and no suspicious packages on my doorstep. I gave Rex new bedding, vacuumed the carpet, scrubbed the bathroom, and polished the few pieces of furniture I had left. This brought me up to ten. I checked one last time to make sure everything was locked, took a shower, and went to bed.
I awoke at seven feeling elated. I’d slept like a brick. My machine was still gloriously message free. Birds were warbling, the sun was shining, and I could see my reflection in my toaster. I pulled on shorts and shirt and started coffee brewing. I opened the living room curtains and gasped at the magnificence of the day. The sky was a brilliant blue, the air was still washed clean from the rain, and I had an overwhelming desire to belt out something from
I twirled myself into my bedroom and threw the curtain open with a flourish. I froze at the sight of Lula tied to my fire escape. She hung there like a big rag doll, her arms crooked over the railing at an unnatural angle, her head slumped forward onto her chest. Her legs were splayed so that she seemed to be sitting. She was naked and bloodsmeared, the blood caked in her hair and clotted on her legs. A sheet had been draped behind her to hide her from view of the parking lot.
I shouted her name and clawed at the lock, my heart hammering so hard in my chest that my vision blurred. I heaved the window open and half fell onto the fire escape, reaching out for her, tugging ineffectually at her bindings.
Lula didn’t move, didn’t utter a sound, and I couldn’t collect myself enough to tell if she was breathing. “You’re going to be okay,” I cried, my voice sounding hoarse, my throat closed tight, my lungs burning. “I’m going to get help.” And under my breath I sobbed, “Don’t be dead. God Lula, don’t be dead.”
I floundered back through the window to call for an ambulance, caught my foot on the sill, and crashed to the floor. There was no pain, only panic as I scrambled on hands and knees to the phone. I couldn’t remember the emergency number. My mind had shut down in the face of hysteria, leaving me to cope helplessly with the confusion and denial accompanying sudden and unexpected tragedy.
I punched 0 and told the operator Lula was hurt on my fire escape. I had a flashback of Jackie Kennedy crawling over the car seat to get help for her dead husband, and I burst into tears, crying for Lula and Jackie and for myself, all victims of violence.
I clattered through the cutlery drawer, looking for my paring knife, finally finding it in the dish drainer. I had no idea how long Lula had been tied to the railing, but I couldn’t bear her hanging there seconds longer.
I ran back with the knife and sawed at the ropes until they were severed, and Lula collapsed into my arms. She was almost twice my size, but somehow I dragged her inert, bloodied body through the window. My instincts were to hide and protect. Stephanie Plum, mother cat. I heard the sirens wailing from far away, getting closer and closer, and then the police were pounding on my door. I don’t remember letting them in, but obviously I did. A uniformed cop took me aside, into the kitchen, and sat me down on a chair. A medic followed.
“What happened?” the cop asked.
“I found her on the fire escape,” I said. “I opened the curtains and there she was.” My teeth were chattering, and my heart was still racing in my chest. I gulped in air. “She was tied to keep her up, and I cut her down and dragged her through the window.”
I could hear the medics shouting to bring the stretcher. There was the sound of my bed being shoved aside to make room. I was afraid to ask if Lula was alive. I sucked in more air and clenched my hands in my lap until my knuckles turned white and my nails dug into the fleshy part of my palm.
“Does Lula live here?” the cop wanted to know.
“No. I live here. I don’t know where Lula lives. I don’t even know her last name.”
The phone rang and I automatically reached out to answer.
The caller’s voice whispered from the handset. “Did you get my present, Stephanie?”
It was as if the earth suddenly stopped rotating. There was a moment of feeling off balance, and then everything snapped into focus. I pushed the record button on the machine and turned up the volume so everyone could hear.
“What present are you talking about?” I asked.
“You know what present. I saw you find her. Saw you drag her back through the window. I’ve been watching you. I could have come and got you last night when you were asleep, but I wanted you to see Lula. I wanted you to see what I can do to a woman, so you know what to expect. I want you to think about it, bitch. I want you to think about how it’s going to hurt, and how you’re going to beg.”
“You like to hurt women?” I asked, control beginning to return.
“Sometimes women need to be hurt.”
I decided to take a winger. “How about Carmen Sanchez? Did you hurt her?”
“Not as good as I’m going to hurt you. I have special things planned for you.”
“No time like the present,” I said, and I was shocked to realize that I meant it. There was no bravado in the statement. I was in the grip of cold, hard, sphincter-cramping fury.
“The cops are there now, bitch. I’m not coming when the cops are there. I’m going to get you when you’re alone and you’re not expecting me. I’m going to make sure we have lots of time together.”
The connection was broken.
“Jesus Christ,” the uniform said. “He’s crazy.”
“Do you know who that was?”
“I’m afraid to guess.”
I popped the tape out of the machine, and wrote my name and the date on the label. My hand was shaking so
