Falls The Shadow

70

I worked late at the office that night. I had hoped Beth would come back after court so I could explain myself, but what was there to explain? She had told me her feelings toward François were not romantic, yet I hadn’t believed her. She had refused to see the tape when I had offered it, so I jammed it down her throat in court, even if it meant risking our client’s case. I was playing the paternal role, even though I wasn’t her father. I would damn well help her whether she liked it or not.

He was rubbing off on me, was Dr. Bob. And as I realized it, a chill rode up my spine. Next thing you knew, I’d have this strange desire to drill Beth’s molars.

As I waited vainly for Beth, I prepared for the rest of the trial. First I called Mrs. Winterhurst, who had recommended Dr. Bob to Leesa. I remembered that during one of my emergency visits, the doctor had to run out and treat Mrs. Winterhurst in the other room, she was the woman with the complaining manner and the fancy clothes. Yes, she told me over the phone, of course she would testify. She said it would be so exciting, and she had just the outfit. I was sure she did.

Then I was on the phone to Chicago, speaking first to Franny Pepper, then checking the flights from O’Hare, and then trying to find the right nurse to take care of Virgil Pepper while she flew in to testify. I doubted whether Jim could even get out of the lounge chair, better yet climb the stairs to take care of the brutal old man. So I called a couple nursing homes, I asked the administrators if any of their nurses moonlighted, I requested someone with strong hands and a nasty temper. You’d be surprised how many candidates I found.

When all was put in place, I typed up a subpoena for Dr. Bob. Tomorrow court was in recess, the judge had a conference, so I’d have time enough to pay a visit on my dentist, though hell if I’d ever let him touch my teeth again, despite the gap that still remained unfilled.

So it was late by the time I shut off the office lights, locked the office door, stepped out into the warm, humid night. I was exhausted and hungry, and the Phillies were in San Francisco for a late-starting game, which meant I’d fall asleep on the couch by the third inning, which sounded just right. On the way home, I bought a six-pack of beer and a take-out cheese steak – yes, we actually do eat those things – grabbed my mail from the entranceway of my building, and headed up the stairs to my apartment.

I opened the door, stepped inside, and stopped cold.

There was something familiar and terrifying in the air. And something else, too.

I had left the place a mess, yes, I admit it, but not this big a mess. Clothes were strewn, the cushions of the couch were slashed, the dining table was overturned, chairs were scattered, framed posters were flung about, my cheap china was shattered, and, worst of all, the television was crumpled on the floor, its screen smashed. No baseball for me. My first thought was whether my homeowner’s insurance would cover it all, and my second thought was that I didn’t have any homeowner’s insurance. Before I could conjure a third thought, something grabbed me around the neck and killed my breath.

My back was pressed against a wall, wide and surprisingly soft. I was lifted into the air. My throat was constricted in on itself. I am using the passive tense here on purpose, because frankly, in the first few instants I was paralyzed into passivity by shock.

When I finally realized what was happening, I grappled helplessly at the thick arm around my throat. I slid my hands down the shaft of the arm, hoping I could find my attacker’s hand and maybe bend a finger back to force him to let go of me. I felt a thin layer of latex over an unmovable mass of gristle and bone. So much for that.

The finger gambit having failed miserably, I took my next-best option, and as my lungs started screaming for oxygen, I flailed about like a madman. I might have looked like some bad Elvis impersonator dancing to “Jailhouse Rock” on a bed of hot coals during an epileptic fit, but it wasn’t all about styling.

My heel hit a shin, my knuckle landed on something soft in the middle of a face, my elbow banged a rib. The monster holding me started hopping, loosened its grip, and let out a quick exhale along with a deep grunt.

Next thing I knew, I was facefirst on the floor. I started struggling to my feet, but something hard and heavy slammed into the small of my back and I was pancaked again onto the floor. The whole of my front was in pain, and it seemed to center on a sharp jut in my cheek.

I lifted my head away from the pain and something smacked it hard so that my nose smashed against the floor.

“This is your last chance, bucko,” came a sharp Germanic whisper.

Something grabbed my ear and twisted it so hard I screamed.

The weight on my back disappeared. I again jerked my head up to escape the pain in the cheek. I tried to turn around to see who was there, and something inside my face slipped. I stopped moving, reached a hand gingerly to my cheek. It came away slick, as if my cheek was covered with a viscous oil. But it wasn’t oil.

I lifted myself slowly to my hands and knees, sat down on the floor, reached again to my cheek. Something was sticking out, some shard. I took hold and pulled, and after an initial tug of resistance out it came, with little slurp. A wedge of glass, slightly curved. I wasn’t the first person skewered by television, but all in all I would have preferred it be on 60 Minutes.

I thought about climbing to my feet, staggering down the steps, seeing if I could spot my attacker, but as the nausea started blossoming like a beastly flower in my gut, I thought better of it. And I already knew, didn’t I?

Tilda. It rhymes with Brunhilda. The fat lady had sung.