Sixteen
“Blah-blah, blah, blah!”
As Cait stopped screaming, she had to struggle to make her hearing work over the din of the alarm—and her adrenaline gland. Too much input in too tiny a space with too little air to breathe.
And maybe that was her brain along with the elevator.
“Police!” came a holler on the other side of the closed doors.
“Ms. Douglass? What’s happening?”
Oh, right, and the 911 call was still live in her ear.
“Ah—the police say that they’re here—but I’m not opening these doors until I know for sure.”
“Hold one moment.” Like this was a catalog call and they were verifying her credit card. “Ms. Douglass? The officer’s name should be Hoffman. Peter Hoffman. Ask the individual who they are.”
“What’s your name!” she yelled over the alarm.
“Hoffman! Pete Hoffman—badge number ten forty-one!”
She addressed the phone. “Ten forty-one? The badge?”
“That checks out, ma’am. Open the doors.”
“I’m staying on with you if I do.”
“I’m right here.”
Cait watched as her hand went forward and her fingers tripped the red switch downward. Instantly the alarm was extinguished, but the ringing continued, her ears struggling with the sudden silence.
She did hear another ding, however, like the elevator was clearing its throat and preparing for a redo. Then the doors slid to the left, stacking in on top of each other.
The navy blue uniform and the shiny badge on the other side? Best. Thing. Ever.
She nearly launched herself at the guy. Wait—actually she did. “Oh, thank God.”
“Ma’am?” The cop grabbed her arm and hoisted her up. “Let’s sit down.”
Yes, let’s, shall we?
The shaking was pretty unparalleled, as if her insides had come to a rolling boil. And nothing much registered, not whatever Peter Hoffman, badge 1041, was saying to her, not the cold, hard concrete her butt was on, not the words she was apparently speaking in response to questions. The largest part of her was still in that elevator, lunging for the alarm, praying that the locking mechanism of the doors held, wondering how the evening had mutated into nightmare.
“… didn’t see them clearly,” she heard herself say. “Someone was rushing toward me. They were coming from the ramp, walking quickly—then breaking into a run.”
“And then what happened?”
“I raced into the elevator and hit the button.” Every time she blinked, she saw her fingers in the strobe lighting, punching, punching, punching. “I just … and then I called nine-one-one. Oh … God … I can’t stop this shaking.”
“You’re in shock, ma’am.”
Guess so. The thing was, talking about it to law enforcement made everything concrete, any vague fantasy that this was just a bad dream concocted while she was asleep in her own bed dissipating into the cold air.
The good news was that the officer was calm and even-toned, and that—along with the gun holstered on his hip—made her feel a lot safer. “Backup has just arrived and they’re going to search the perimeter and the floors. But whoever it was? They’re probably gone. I hate to say this, but a woman alone in this part of town? We get a lot of these calls—and unfortunately, the aggressors are very good at disappearing.”
She was inclined to agree with the get-gone theory. Seemed only logical. Trouble was, the lack of closure was a black hole for her—and now that the primary wave of anxiety had passed and she couldn’t see her attacker, she was stuck wondering whether she had overreacted.
Or had she just saved her own life?
Pickpocket or violent mugger?
Rapist or just someone trying to tell her she had toilet paper stuck to her shoe?
No, she decided. As she remembered the wave of menace, she knew the answer—and had to wonder yet again how God made the choice between who survived and who didn’t. Who was granted a lickety-split save … and who ended up in a living hell.
Strangely, the prospect of that decision making made her feel bad for whoever was up there in the clouds watching all the drama on Earth. If you went on the theory that God was a beneficent creator of all things? You had to assume He felt the pain of victims as they didn’t so much cross into the afterlife, but were thrown over in pieces.
Horrible…
As two other officers appeared and reported that there was nobody in the parking facility, things took a turn for the paperwork, the whole event downshifting sharply into procedural territory—confirming her statement, receiving a case number, a business card, an escort back to her car.
Normal. So amazingly normal that she was nearly as rattled as she had been while in full panic mode.
After she had belted herself in and started her SUV, the police officers, all three of them, watched her back out of her space—and their expressions were like those of parents watching a sixteen-year-old go off alone for the first time.
Fragile optimism backed up by a whole lot of hope-she-calls-if-she-needs-us.
Cait barely remembered the drive home, but the one clear part was checking and rechecking that she’d locked the Lexus’s doors. Then, when she parked in her garage, she waited for the panels to come back down before she got out—and she threw the dead bolt as soon as she was in the house.
Shower was the first and only goal—after she initiated her ADT alarm. And when she got into her bathroom? She turned the lock on her loo as well.
Wonder how long that habit was going to last.
Cranking the shower on, she undressed, and for the first time in recorded history, left her clothes where they lay: shirt in the sink, loafers and socks kicked off around the base of the toilet, pants sloughed onto the bath mat in front of the tub. Usually she stripped in her closet by her three wicker laundry baskets, one each for whites, darks, and delicates/colors—the last a twofer because she had few colors. Oh, and her dry-cleaning bag was in there, too.
Amazing how fearing for your life could prioritize things.
As she got under the spray, she wrapped her arms around herself and hung her head. The water was a balm inside and out, as solid and warm as a blanket over her shoulders and back, as calming as an ocean breeze as the steam rose up and went down deep into her lungs.
It wasn’t until she had dried off, gotten into her robe, and gone downstairs to make herself some tea that she realized…
“Shit.”
Going over to the counter by the stove, she did another dive into her mangled purse. Pulling out her phone, she called up G.B.’s number out of her Received List and hit
Not really accurate.
Flustered, she ended the call before he picked up.
Pacing around in her bare feet—which, P.S., kind of grossed her out even though she’d cleaned the floor on her hands and knees the day before—she tried to pull things together.
Cursing again, and thinking that it was a rare night for her to have dropped so many R-rated words at all, much less in the matter of an hour, she tried to get her brain working.
What a no-go that was. It was like she had a hangover, everything clogging up, moving slow, making little sense.
But that was no excuse to leave G.B. hanging. How long had he waited for her in that lobby?
