‘‘Sure.’’ It appeared to Diane that Chief Garnett had taken over the sheriff’s case. As she hung up the phone, she wondered how Braden felt about that. He couldn’t mind too much; he’d allowed it.
It wasn’t as late as she feared it might be when she finally left for home. She’d still get a good night’s sleep and have time to get up early and exercise. Sev eral people were working late—not just the security and custodial staff. She saw three of her curators’ cars in the parking lot. And of course, the cluster of cars belonging to restaurant patrons. When she unlocked her car and her dome light came on, she automatically checked the seat, expecting to see another gift, but both the front and backseat were empty. She got in the car and drove to her apartment building. As she pulled into her regular parking space at the curb under the limbs of a large overhanging tree and turned off her car lights, her phone rang.
‘‘Hey. It’s Frank. Want some company tonight?’’
‘‘Frank, I’d love...’’
Crack!
At first Diane thought someone had fired a gun. A moment later when she saw the crack in her window, she thought a limb had fallen on the windshield. A split second after that, another crack shattered the windshield. She saw a dark shadow wielding a base ball bat.
Chapter 28
Diane recoiled reflexively from the banging on her car that rang like gunshots inside her head. He was now outside her driver’s side door, flailing with a baseball bat against her window. Guttural sounds—like some moaning, barking, struggling animal—came from his throat. The end of the bat crashed through the shat tered side window. Diane dodged forward in her seat and screamed at Frank to call the police. She still held the car key in her clenched fist.
She tried repeatedly with her shaking fingers to in sert the key in the slot in the steering column but kept missing it in the dark. He shoved the bat through the hole in the window again, missing her head but strik ing a painful glancing blow off her left shoulder. She saw another thrust coming, ducked low in the seat to avoid it, and dropped the key somewhere in the dark. She ran her hand over the floor searching, trying to hold back the fear inside her. Under the accelerator her fingers touched the plastic remote. She clutched it and pressed the red panic button. The persistent blar ing horn added to the frenzy, and she had to remind herself that it was on her side.
‘‘Where are you?’’ She heard Frank’s voice shouting from the phone that now lay on the passenger’s side floor.
‘‘Home,’’ she yelled, jerking open the glove com partment, looking for anything that might be a weapon. ‘‘Inside my car.’’
A gloved hand reached through the hole in the win dow, feeling for the door handle. She grabbed at his arm. He caught her hand and yanked. Diane stabbed repeatedly at his hand and wrist as hard as she could with the key clenched in her fist, digging for bone and tendon. He cursed and pulled his hand back. More angry than before, he beat at the window furiously with the bat until the entire glass was broken out.
‘‘Get out of there, you stupid bitch!’’ he yelled above the blaring horn. ‘‘Get the fuck out of there now! I’m going to beat your damn fucking head in!’’
‘‘The police are coming,’’ she yelled.
Diane had no weapon in her car. Not a tire iron, not a pocket knife, nothing. She had to start the car. She made for the ignition again, aiming at it with the key just as he reached in and caught the door handle. The key slipped in the slot at the same time the door swung open. Diane turned the key and the car roared to a start. He cursed her and grabbed her jacket in the grip of his right hand. She jerked the car in gear and pressed the accelerator. The car moved forward, pulling him with it. He ran alongside, holding on to her clothes through the open door, breathing hard. Thank God her seat belt was still buckled.
‘‘You can’t get away. I’m goin’ to kill you, you bitch,’’ he said in as menacing a voice as she had ever heard.
She grabbed at the stocking he wore over his face, pulling it until it stretched. He punched blindly at her with the bat. Diane ducked and hit the accelerator and the car sped forward, and then she slammed on the brakes. The door swung wide open. She put the car quickly into reverse and stomped the accelerator. The suddenness of the move caught him running for ward, hit him with the open door and knocked him to the ground. Diane wanted to run him over as she backed up her car and saw him lying in front of her. The temptation was almost too much to resist. While she hesitated for a second, he scrambled up off the road, ran toward a Crown Victoria across the street and jerked open the door. She turned the steering wheel in the direction of his car and floored the accel erator. But her car responded sluggishly, haltingly, and his car sped off in the opposite direction before she reached it.
Diane managed to turn her car half around and started to pursue. She pressed the brake instead. He was going too fast, and she had no business becoming involved in a high-speed chase. She sat in her car crossways in the middle of the road, breathing hard.
‘‘Diane, are you still there? The police are on their way. Diane.’’
She found the phone on the floor half under the passenger’s seat. ‘‘Frank. I’m here. He’s gone.’’
‘‘Diane, are you all right? I’m almost to your apart ment. Are you all right?’’
‘‘Yes. I’m fine. I’m going to have to get some new windows for my car, though.’’
At that moment an unmarked police car came over the rise, lights flashing, but no siren, and stopped op posite her in the road. Two policemen jumped out, drew their guns and pointed them at her car. ‘‘Get out of the car. Put your hands on your head.’’
‘‘Frank, the police are here. Apparently, they are going to shoot me. I have to go.’’
Diane dropped the phone on the seat, unbuckled her seat belt and got out of the car with her hands on her head. She recognized the two policemen, and tried to recall their names as they walked slowly toward her.
‘‘You’re Dr. Fallon,’’ said one of the policemen. Both of them lowered their guns. Diane dropped her hands to her sides.
‘‘Yes, I am. I was attacked in my car. The man left, driving west in a light-colored Crown Vic. I couldn’t get his tag number. You probably just passed him.’’
Frank’s car came to a screeching halt at the curb.
‘‘That’s Frank Duncan. He’s an Atlanta detective and a friend,’’ she told them. ‘‘He’s the one who called you.’’
She was the one shaking inside, and she felt that they were the ones who needed calming.
Frank walked up and showed his badge. ‘‘You okay?’’ he asked, pulling her into a hug.
‘‘Scared witless, but other than that . . .’’ She leaned against him. ‘‘I need to move my car out of the street.’’
