My mind raced through possibilities. Was he drunk? Stoned? Undecided? Was he savoring some sick fantasy that would trigger him to action? My heart pounded so loud I feared it would be the catalyst.
Then I heard footsteps. He must have heard them, too, for he tightened his grip on my scarf and placed a gloved hand over my face.
I couldn’t see him and it made me crazy.
“Get off me you goddamn dirtbag!” I yelled through my muffler.
But my voice came from a million miles away, smothered by the thick layer of wool.
I held the keys in a death grip, my hand slippery inside the mitten and tensed to drive them into his eye if I got an opening. Suddenly, I felt the scarf tighten and his body shift. He rose to his knees again, concentrating all of his weight in the center of my back. His weight and my purse compressed my lungs, making me gasp for air.
Using the scarf he lifted my head, then drove it down with his hand. My ear slammed into ice and gravel, and a cloud of sparks burst behind my eyes. He lifted and slammed down again and the sparks began to coalesce. I could feel blood on my face and taste it in my mouth. I thought I felt something snap in my neck. My heart thundered inside my rib cage.
I felt light-headed. My tortured brain foresaw the autopsy report.
I squirmed and tried to scream, but again my voice was barely audible.
Suddenly, the pounding stopped and my attacker leaned close again. He spoke, but I caught only garbled sounds through the ringing in my ears.
Then I felt his hands press against my back and his weight lifted. Boots crunched on gravel, and he was gone.
Dazed, I pulled my hands free, pushed myself to all fours, and rolled to a seated position. A wave of dizziness washed over me, and I raised my knees and lowered my head between them. My nose was running and either blood or saliva was oozing from my mouth. My hands trembled as I wiped my face with the end of my muffler, and I knew I was a hair away from tears.
Wind rattled the broken windows in the abandoned theater. What was the name? Yale? York? It seemed terribly important. I knew it before, so why couldn’t I remember it now? I felt disoriented, and began shivering uncontrollably, from cold, from fear, and perhaps from relief.
When the dizziness passed I rose, inched my way along the building, and peeked around the corner. There was no one in sight.
I stumbled home on rubbery legs, looking over my shoulder every other step. The few pedestrians I passed looked away and gave me a wide berth. Just another drunk.
Ten minutes later I sat on the edge of my bed, checking myself for injuries. My pupils were even and coordinated. No numbness. No nausea.
The scarf had been a mixed blessing. While it provided my attacker a convenient handle, it had also cushioned the blows. I had a few cuts and abrasions on the right side of my head, but I believed I had not sustained a concussion.
Not bad for a mugging survivor, I thought as I slipped between the sheets. But had it been a mugging? The guy hadn’t stolen anything. Why did he run? Did he panic and give up? Was he just a drunk? Did he figure out I wasn’t who he thought I was? Subzero cold rarely inspires sexual assaults. What was his motive?
I tried to sleep but my mind was still on an adrenaline high. Or was it post-traumatic stress syndrome? My hands still shook and I jumped at every sound.
Should I call the cops? What for? I wasn’t hurt much and nothing was stolen. And I never got a look at the guy. Should I tell Ryan? Not a chance in hell after my cocky departure. Harry? No way.
Oh, God. What if Harry walks home alone? Could he still be out there?
I rolled over and looked at the clock. Two thirty-seven. Where the hell was Harry?
I touched my broken lip. Would she notice? Probably. Harry had instincts like a wildcat. She missed nothing. I thought of cover stories. Doors are always good, or face-first falls on the ice while your hands are deep in your pockets.
My eyes drifted shut, then flew open as I felt the knee on my back and heard the rasping breath.
I checked the clock again. Three-fifteen. Did Hurley’s stay open this late? Had Harry gone home with Ryan?
“Where are you, Harry?” I said to the glowing green digits.
I lay there, wishing she’d come home, not wanting to be alone.
12
I WOKE TO BRIGHT SUNLIGHT AND TOTAL SILENCE, HAVING SLEPT fitfully. My brain cells had called an all- night meeting to organize input from the past few days. Missing students. Muggers. Saints. Murdered babies and grandmas. Harry. Ryan. Harry and Ryan. They broke around dawn, having accomplished little.
I rolled over on my back and a burst of pain in my neck reminded me of last night’s adventure. I flexed and extended my neck and each arm and leg. Pretty good. In the morning light the attack seemed illogical and imaginary. But the memory of fear was very real.
