paralyzed with terror. Jane had been replacing her key in her purse when she was shoved. Her hand stayed in her purse as she stumbled across the room and fell.
She turned and he was coming for her, as she knew he would. A dark silhouette in the shadowy living room. There was something in his hand, a short, curved, and sharply pointed knife.
Christ!
She’d read the papers, watched the news, and she knew who this must be.
And for a split second she was paralyzed with terror.
The blue-eyed guy? Gerhardt?
No. Too small. And he didn’t move like Mr. Blue Eyes.
She wished now she’d accepted the blue-eyed guy’s suggestion that he come home with her.
As the dark form with the knife advanced on her, Jane made herself wait, made herself be still. Her hand that held the small aerosol canister of mace in her purse was perspiring. She slid the button forward to take the device off safety, and waited, waited… The training she’d taken had made it clear that for this to work, her attacker had to be close. She hunched her shoulders, turned half away from him, as if cowering and helpless.
When he was almost close enough to slash with the knife, she whirled and rose with a strength that surprised even her and extended her right hand that was gripping the mace canister.
Work! Please work!
The canister was only about a foot away from his face when she depressed the top button and a strong spray of pungent liquid struck him square in the eyes.
Surprise! You sick bastard!
He gave a strangled growl and flailed with his arm, striking her hard in the wrist and causing the hissing mace canister to go flying. She felt an immediate burning sensation in her eyes and when she tried to breathe, her nose and throat contracted and tears came. She knew she’d inhaled some of the mace when he knocked the canister away.
She could still see enough to find the bedroom door. She ran for it, got inside the bedroom, and slammed and locked the door with the knob latch. That should keep him away for about five seconds.
There was a lot of noise from the living room, and something-sounded like a lamp-fell to the floor.
The door to the hall opened and slammed. Footsteps like crazy descended the wooden stairs. Not rhythmically, but as if he was bouncing off the walls and banister.
He’s not coming after me! Thank God!
Coughing and gagging, Jane crawled to the phone by the bed and yanked it by the cord down to the floor where she could reach it. That was when she noticed blood on her skirt. Her left forearm, which she must have unconsciously used to block the knife, was bleeding.
She saw immediately that the blood was coming from a small nick, a minor injury that probably wouldn’t even require stitches. Looking at it, imagining what might have happened, sickened her. She sat leaning with her back against the wall, gasping for oxygen, and placed the phone in her lap.
Squinting to focus tear-blurred eyes, she tried to punch out 911 but kept getting it wrong.
78
The Skinner’s eyes were still watering. He remained seated on a park bench, where he’d been for almost two hours.
Fortunately he had his sunglasses with him. Unless someone noticed the tear tracks on his cheeks, he wouldn’t draw much attention. He was simply another New Yorker basking in a beautiful morning.
Last night had become a horror. How he’d even gotten to the park was a marvel of luck and ingenuity. Since the pepper spray or mace, or whatever it was, had struck him squarely in the eyes, he could barely see, and there was no way he could stop his eyes from watering.
At first he could still see, at least slightly, but once he was outside the building, he soon became blinded by the intensity of his tears. They were like acid.
He’d moved fast initially, bumping into things. He had to get as far away as possible from the screaming that was sure to follow.
And Jane Nixon did find her way outside and screamed. She screamed over and over. But by then he was almost a block away and barely heard. The lucky punch he’d gotten in before running must have dazed her for a while. Good luck to go with the bad.
Though he didn’t remember actually working out the idea in his mind, he’d almost immediately dug the sunglasses from his pocket and pretended to be blind-legally blind. Why else would someone be wearing dark glasses on a New York street at two in the morning?
He’d managed to wave and attract the attention of a compassionate cabby, who pulled his taxi to the curb and talked him into the backseat step by step, like an air controller instructing a novice pilot how to land.
The Skinner put on a smile and thanked him, then gave him an intersection by Central Park as a destination.
After a few blocks, the cabby said, “How’d you come to be out wandering by yourself… I mean, not being able to see and all?”
“I’ve been blind since I was ten years old,” the Skinner said, “but my eyes are the only parts of me that don’t work well. Believe it or not, my girlfriend threw me out of her apartment.”
“In the middle of the night? Morning? Whatever? Hell of a thing to do to someone sight impaired.”
“It was mostly my fault. I picked a bad time to confess that once, in a moment of weakness, I made love to her… I’m almost ashamed to say this.”
“Go ahead,” the cabbie said. “I’ve heard everything. Taxis are like confessionals.”
“I had sex with her mother.”
The cabbie shook his head and laughed. “Pardon me. I know it ain’t funny. But I can see how it could happen. I mean, my mother-in-law had a body made me wish my wife took after her and not her father. Why the hell did you tell her?”
“Conscience,” said the Skinner. “I’ve always been plagued by my conscience. Don’t make the same mistake. You can see where it gets you.”
“Not to worry about me,” the cabbie said. They drove in silence for a while. “I gotta ask…”
“The mother,” the Skinner said.
The cabbie laughed again. “Makes sense. More experience.” He made a left turn and headed toward the park. “I guess you won’t make that mistake again, huh?”
“Neither mistake,” the Skinner said, easing over to where the cabbie couldn’t see him in the rearview mirror. He raised his tinted glasses and dabbed at his watering eyes with his shirtsleeve.
If he could make it into the park and stay out of sight, hide in the bushes or woods for a while, he should be able to wait until whatever Jane Nixon had sprayed in his eyes had worn off, at least to the point where he could see clearly and his eyes weren’t so itchy and watery. It wouldn’t hurt for it to be daylight out, either.
When the cab came to a stop and the cabbie called out the fare, the Skinner handed him what he thought was a twenty-dollar bill and told him to keep the change.
“You sure?” the cabbie asked.
“Sure,” said the Skinner, and opened the cab door on what he figured was the sidewalk side.
“You want some help?” the cabbie asked.
“No. I’ll just lean on that wall a little while and I’ll be fine. This is my neighborhood, so it’s familiar to me. I’ll be able to figure out enough to make my way on my own.”
“You positive?”
“Positive,” the Skinner confirmed. “I don’t want to seem stubborn, but I like to think I’m not completely helpless.”
“Okay. I can understand that. Good luck to you, friend.”
The Skinner waited until he heard the cab drive away; then he made his way not toward one of the apartment buildings behind him, but toward the park. Through his tears he could see oncoming headlights. They
