I scrambled over the tools, threw myself into Marty's arms.
His eyes widened as he caught me. "Nina?"
Locking my legs around him, I held on tight, still fighting panic.
One of the kids said, "Dang, man. What you doin' with a white girl in your trunk?"
Latching my arms around Marty's neck, I took deep gulps of the night air. My heart pounded in my ears.
Another kid, a born smart-ass, quipped, "You're s'posed to kill 'em first."
This got a huge laugh from the group of preteens gathered around the car. White teeth flashed bright against their dark skin.
"Knock it off," Marty told them, prying my legs from around his waist and setting me on the ground. Small bits of something dug into my bare feet. My knees wobbled.
He glanced between the trunk and the utility trailer, a guilty look on his face. "I can explain," he said.
Maybe he could, but I was in no mood to hear it. My hands were still shaking. Deep gulps of the night air didn't seem to be helping the tremors.
Compassion and sincerity shone bright in his eyes. He blinked innocently. "Please?"
"Really, Marty, I'm in no mood."
"What if I begged?"
Finally, finally, I stopped shaking. I groaned. "All right.
You can explain while you drive me back to the office." I just wanted to go home, and right now he was the fastest way I was getting there.
"You're the best, Nina."
"Yeah, yeah. Spare me."
Apprehension swept across his young features. "You're not going to tell Ana, are you?"
"Ana's the least of your worries." And that was saying a lot. I folded myself into the passenger seat, pressed the play button on the Barry CD, and leaned my head against the cracked headrest. "This better be good, Marty."
Twenty-two
"A restoration project?" Ana's voice echoed across the line.
I pressed my cell to my ear with my shoulder as I started down Jaybird, heading home. It was near eleven and I was bone tired. "You should have seen it. It was beautiful."
Marty had driven by the old lot turned neighborhood garden before taking me back to the office. He'd explained that no one in the area had tools of their own, so he'd borrowed some of mine, with the intention of returning them all.
"Did he happen to mention why he didn't just ask for the tools?"
"Embarrassed. Young male pride is a powerful thing. He'd told his Boy Scout troop that he'd take care of all the details, but when it came down to it, he was broke. Spent all his money on uniforms for the kids, so they'd feel like a real troop."
"Gullible. That's what you are."
I stopped at a light. "Am not."
"I bet you volunteered something. What? To sponsor the troop?"
Actually, I'd volunteered Taken by Surprise to oversee any project the young scouts wanted to take on in the inner city, but I wasn't about to own up to it just so Ana could say she was right. Instead I said, "How'd it go with Jean-Claude?"
"Oh, he went straight home after dropping off the truck."
"What's that I hear in your voice?" Sounded a bit like giddiness.
"Static? Your battery dying?"
I checked it. "Yep. So talk fast."
"Well, I followed him home, hid in the bushes and peeked in his front window."
"And?"
"His brother caught me."
"No!"
"Yes." She giggled. "We have a date next week."
"Leave it to you."
"What?"
"Leave it to you!"
"Nina? I can't hear you!"
I shouted a final good-bye and snapped my phone closed. I couldn't wait to get home to bed. I was too tired to let intruders and runaway reptiles stop me from getting a good night's sleep.
I turned on the radio, then shut it off again. I was too filled with nervous energy to be calmed by music. Just after turning right onto Mockingbird, a pair of headlights appeared in my rearview mirror, the car moving quickly, trying to pass.
The hairs rose on the back of my neck and I shivered. I flipped on the heater. I slowed and pulled the wheel slightly to the right, giving the car more room.
I let out a small cry as the car came too close. I jerked hard to the left to correct, cutting the driver off.
The car was a compact with tinted windows. White. Small. A small white car. What had Mr. Cabrera said that day? A small white car with a skulker . . . Could it be the same?
The car eased back and I sped up. He was tailgating me. I thought of slamming on my brakes, but realized that there was no air bag in my ancient Corolla, and going through the windshield just didn't appeal to me.
Pressing my foot to the floor, I could feel my nerves jumping. A trickle of sweat ran down my temple. It tickled, but I didn't dare take my hands off the wheel to wipe it away.
Who could it be? Chanson? Someone he hired? Tim? A strange lunatic just out for cheap thrills?
Tim had known I was at the office—thanks to Bridget's phone call. Had he been lying in wait?
My tires squealed as I whipped around a corner. The white car stayed right behind me.
As far as I knew, Tim didn't drive a white car. But that didn't mean anything. He could have borrowed it, bought a cheap junker, stolen it.
My car bumped over some train tracks at a crossing on Knickerbocker. My transmission, I was sure, was going to fall out, but amazingly the car still ran.
My speedometer read 55. The speed limit posted on the side of the road said 35.
There was a stoplight ahead. It flashed from green to yellow and finally red. I slowed ever so slightly, checked for cars, then ran the red light. I was just chalking up the violations.
I slowed at another intersection. Suddenly, I flew forward, my chest ramming into the steering wheel as I was hit from behind. I glanced up and saw the car backing up. Leaving?
Reaching out, I fumbled for my phone, punched in 9-1-1 before realizing the battery was dead.
As I heard an engine rev, I panicked. He wasn't leaving; he was gathering speed to hit me again!
My bare foot stomped on the gas pedal and my tires screeched. I fishtailed but managed to gain control of the car. I needed to lose the lunatic. I could think of only one sure way to get him to leave me alone. I banged a U-ey, making a wide arc around my pursuer as I headed toward the police station.
As I passed by the car, I saw nothing. The tinted windows blocked any view of a face. I didn't have time to dwell on who it might be in the car—I just wanted to get to safety at this point.
My sweat-dampened dress stuck to me. My hands turned clammy as I gripped the wheel. The car made a U-turn too, closed in on me. It was so close I couldn't see the headlights—or had he broken them when he crashed into me a few minutes ago?
I lurched forward as he hit me again. I didn't slow as I ran yet another red light at the intersection I had crossed through only moments before. I just prayed that no one else was coming.
I heard a loud thunk as I went over a pothole. In my side mirror, I saw my hubcap roll away.
My Corolla felt sluggish as I stepped on the gas. The white car was still behind me, but it too had slowed. When I looked ahead, two red lights, side by side, were blinking.
My heart skidded to a stop.
Blink, blink.
"Oh-no. Oh-no." A shiver swept down my spine. I let up on the gas. My luck had just run out.
The railroad gates lowered. I heard the train's whistle in the distance. If I didn't get out of there I was a goner.
Making a sudden decision, I stepped on the gas. Pressing the pedal to the floorboard, I hoped to get around the gates in time.
My car wobbled.
The pothole must have given me a flat! No, no! This wasn't happening.
I would not allow something so trivial as a flat tire to be my downfall. I rode the rim, hoping to make it over the tracks. It was my only hope.
Crossing over the safety line, I sped up only to skid to a stop before I
reached the tracks when I saw the headlights of the train coming right at me.
I checked my rearview mirror. Big mistake. I screamed, my voice garbled and choked, as the white car rammed me from behind. My car jerked forward. I felt my front tires bump over the first railroad track.
I pressed the gas pedal. My tires spun, permeating the air with the smell of burning rubber.
The train's engineer must have seen me, because the whistle blew continuously. The train's brakes screeched. My ears hurt.
I threw the car into reverse and stepped on the accelerator. I was fighting a losing battle. The white car pushed me into the path of the train, nudging me farther onto the tracks.
The brakes on the train were deafening. I looked to my left and the lights on the train blinded me. It was maybe a few hundred feet away. Horrible screeching filled the air. Sparks flew everywhere.
I threw the door open, scrambled out. Dove forward, somersaulting away from the tracks. I hit my head on the pavement, but my hiney took the brunt of my rolling fall.
I heard the sickening crunch of metal on metal and glass shattering. My vision blurred and white spots danced in my eyes as the brakes screamed. Then I heard nothing at all.
Twenty-three
"Stop scratching."
"But it itches," I said with a hint of a whine in my voice. Okay, maybe more than a hint. All right, all right. I was whining.
"But it won't heal if you keep scratching it," Analise said, brushing my hand away from the big gash arcing across my forehead.
I growled. If I was itchy then I wanted to scratch! Infection be damned. When Ana slipped into the kitchen to get me water, I pressed my face against my pillow and rubbed.
"I hear that," she said.
"I itch!"
She tossed a wet washcloth onto the couch. "Press that to it."
"You're not supposed to get stitches wet."
"You're not supposed to scratch them either!"
I pouted. "You're cranky."
She threw her hands in the air. "And you're a fine one to talk!"
I made a lousy patient. I hated being cooped up. The hospital had kept me there for a whole day, for observation. Apparently I observed well, because they let me go late Saturday night. Thanks to a few pain pills, I had slept that night, and all of Sunday away too. Now Monday morning was nearly over, and had seemed impossibly long.
"Kevin's still waiting to talk to you."
I had put off talking to him. He'd made an appearance with Riley at the hospital, but he hadn't said much to me other than pleasantries. The doctors said to take as much time as I needed before talking to the police, and I had done just that.
Unclenching my jaw, I forced myself to relax. I didn't remember much about the crash. I must have passed out when the train hit the car. But I remembered with startling clarity all the details leading up to the accident.
Luckily, I wasn't seriously hurt. I had vaulted far enough off the tracks to avoid serious injury from flying debris. It could have been, as everyone who'd entered my hospital room told me, a lot worse. I broke my pinkie finger (I still don't know how), bruised my tailbone, and I had a cut that needed six stitches along my forehead from flying glass. My Corolla, sorry to report, was mortally wounded in the attack. There were no funeral plans at this time.
"You can't keep putting him off," Ana said, breaking into my thoughts. "He needs to investigate the accident. Someone tried to kill you."
As if I needed to be reminded. Everyone, from my mother (who tried desperately to find a way to pin this on Ana) to Mr. Cabrera, had been telling me so. To add to my pain, Mr. Cabrera had brought Ursula Krauss with him to visit me. I'd spent thirty torturous minutes with her clucking over me.
"Just a few more hours, Ana?"
"I'm afraid not," Kevin said from the doorway.
I jumped, not having heard him come in.
"I'll be in the kitchen." Ana brushed past Kevin without saying a word to him.
I pretended a great interest in the weaving on the throw blanket my mother had brought me.
"I know you're tired, Nina. I'll try to make this as fast as possible. The obvious question is, Do you remember any more about who might have done this to you?" Kevin's voice was soft, kind. I almost didn't recognize it. He stood next to the couch, a small notebook in one hand, a pen in the other. His wide shoulders were hunched just a bit as if he were very tired. He wore his standard on-duty outfit. A long-sleeved button-up shirt, a loose necktie that didn't match his shirt, a suit coat, and jeans. Pressed jeans. If you asked me, pressed jeans were unnatural. Talk about anal. But then again, no one asked my opinion.
"No."
"Did you get a look at who did this?"
I scratched at my stitches.
"That will make it worse," Kevin said.
I swore under my breath and dropped my hand. "A small white car. Tinted windows. I didn't see a plate. It was too dark to make out the driver." My tone said, Now go away.
He made no move to leave.
Damn.
He made some marks in his notebook. I knew he wasn't writing anything down. The notebook was for show. He had an amazing memory and rarely needed notes. "Can you tell me when you first noticed that someone was tailing you?"
"I was on Mockingbird, coming home from work. Didn't think anything of it. Traffic wasn't heavy, but there was nothing unusual in having a car a few lengths behind me."
"Then?" Kevin asked.
"Then I looked up again and the car was on top of me. I thought he was going to pass. He almost sideswiped me. I cut him off. It was stupid, but I wanted to see who it was."
I studied my fingernails. They were short, stubby, cracked. My pinkie finger was swathed in a bandage that somehow connected to my ring finger and wrist for support. It looked ridiculous.
"I sped up. He sped up."
"He?"
"I assume. I couldn't see anything."
"Why didn't you pull into a well-lit parking lot?"
I gave him an "Oh, please" look. "You've been on Knickerbocker. You tell me where I could have pulled over."
"Cranky," he muttered.
I growled. "I was heading to the police station when the train's gates came down. I tried to go around, but the train was too close. Then the white car bumped me onto the tracks. I got stuck. The rest you know."
Kevin's eyesbrows furrowed into a deep V. When he did that, he almost looked like he had a unibrow, with an odd resemblance to Bert from Sesame Street. The unibrow, the oblong face, the short spiky hair. I bit back a laugh and wondered exactly how much pain medicine I was taking.
"Is that all?" I asked.
"No."
"We need to finish our conversation from Friday night, about Demming."
"Now?"
"Why not?"
"I'm tired."
"Nina."
"Kevin."
His eyes softened. "All right. I'll come back tomorrow." He gazed down at me. "Stay out of trouble."
I bit back my usual "Don't I always" comeback. It just didn't ring true anymore.
He stood by the door. "I just wanted to say that I'm—"
Ana stuck her head in the room. "Almost lunchtime." She looked at Kevin. "You staying?"
"No," he said, not looking at me. "I was just leaving." He closed the front door on his way out.
Not a second later, a soft knock sounded.
Ana tugged open the door and Bridget's head poked in. "Are we interrupting?" Tim stood behind her.
"Not at all," Ana said, guiding them in.
Tim produced a bouquet of daisies with a flourish. "Straight from my mom's field. She sends her best."
I managed a halfhearted thank-you, but couldn't manage to look Tim in the eyes. Suddenly, I wished Kevin had stayed. I couldn't deal with this anymore. The police needed to be told. Everything. Including my suspicions about Tim.
Ana hooked a thumb over her shoulder. "I'll be in the kitchen."
Bridget said, "Mom's worried about you. Feels
responsible."
I shook my head, ignored the ache. "Nonsense."
Tears clouded Bridget's eyes. "I'm feeling responsible too."