Serial

77

New York, the present

The blue-eyed guy could mambo. Jane Nixon had to give him that.

He never seemed to get tired. They’d been out on the dance floor at Salsa Caliente for almost half an hour. She got to rest a bit during a merengue, but not much.

He was wearing her out, and nobody would say Jane wasn’t in shape.

She spent most of her time at Davida’s restaurant down in the Village, on her feet and moving as she waited tables. Most of her money she spent on dance lessons, and dancing here at Salsa Caliente or at Move On. Both clubs were only blocks from her apartment, easy walks. Since she’d taken up dancing six months ago, she’d lost ten pounds, and her slender body had acquired muscular definition.

But the blue-eyed guy was too much.

She stopped dancing and stepped back, breathing hard. The backs of her legs ached. She actually said, “Whew!”

“You okay?” he asked, looking her in the eye. He was on the tall side and built like a museum statue, if you could imagine a statue dressed in pleated black slacks and a bright red tight T-shirt with Salsa spelled out in sequins across the chest.

“Tired, is all,” Jane said, smiling.

He walked with her back to a table where he’d been sitting with half a dozen of his friends. They were all up dancing now. The blue-eyed guy raised a hand to get the attention of a waiter and ordered them both Jack Daniel’s and water. Each knew what the other drank, yet they’d never asked each other their names. They were here to dance, that was all.

“I’m all in,” Jane said, after downing half her drink. “Time to go home and collapse.”

He smiled at her. “We could collapse together.”

“All I know about you,” Jane said, “is you’re a terrific dancer.”

“That isn’t enough?”

She laughed. “Maybe someday.” She glanced at her watch.

“I’m Martin,” he said, pronouncing it Mar teen. He raked his fingers through his sweat-damp blond hair.

Jane laughed harder. “You sure look Latin.”

“Gerhardt Martin,” he said.

“Yeah, so am I.”

She patted the back of his sweaty hand and stood up to leave.

“Gonna be dancing tomorrow night?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe that’ll be the someday. You know?”

She grinned. “See you, Gerhardt.”

“See you right back, Gerhardt.” He raised his glass to her as she walked away along the edge of the dance floor.

She’d checked her purse when she’d come in. After claiming it and glancing through it pretending to look for a tissue, but actually making sure nothing was missing, she went out into the lingering heat.

The streets were almost deserted, but she didn’t have far to go. There was just about enough strength left in her legs to make it up the steps to her third-floor walk-up apartment.

She’d keyed the dead bolt and opened the door when she sensed movement behind her. There was no time to react. A hand shoved her between her shoulder blades and she went stumbling into the dimly lit apartment.

Jane had been raised in a tough area of Detroit and was no pushover. She didn’t lose her head, and in an instant she was adrenaline fueled. Jane the dancer became Jane the fighter.

She heard the snick of the dead bolt. He was locking them in, not rushing, assuming she’d be disoriented and paralyzed with terror. Jane had been replacing her key in her purse when she was shoved. Her hand stayed in her purse as she stumbled across the room and fell.

She turned and he was coming for her, as she knew he would. A dark silhouette in the shadowy living room. There was something in his hand, a short, curved, and sharply pointed knife.

Christ!

She’d read the papers, watched the news, and she knew who this must be.

And for a split second she was paralyzed with terror.

The blue-eyed guy? Gerhardt?

No. Too small. And he didn’t move like Mr. Blue Eyes.

She wished now she’d accepted the blue-eyed guy’s suggestion that he come home with her.

As the dark form with the knife advanced on her, Jane made herself wait, made herself be still. Her hand that held the small aerosol canister of mace in her purse was perspiring. She slid the button forward to take the device off safety, and waited, waited… The training she’d taken had made it clear that for this to work, her attacker had to be close. She hunched her shoulders, turned half away from him, as if cowering and helpless.

When he was almost close enough to slash with the knife, she whirled and rose with a strength that surprised even her and extended her right hand that was gripping the mace canister.

Work! Please work!

The canister was only about a foot away from his face when she depressed the top button and a strong spray of pungent liquid struck him square in the eyes.

Surprise! You sick bastard!

He gave a strangled growl and flailed with his arm, striking her hard in the wrist and causing the hissing mace canister to go flying. She felt an immediate burning sensation in her eyes and when she tried to breathe, her nose and throat contracted and tears came. She knew she’d inhaled some of the mace when he knocked the canister away.

She could still see enough to find the bedroom door. She ran for it, got inside the bedroom, and slammed and locked the door with the knob latch. That should keep him away for about five seconds.

There was a lot of noise from the living room, and something-sounded like a lamp-fell to the floor.

The door to the hall opened and slammed. Footsteps like crazy descended the wooden stairs. Not rhythmically, but as if he was bouncing off the walls and banister.

He’s not coming after me! Thank God!

Coughing and gagging, Jane crawled to the phone by the bed and yanked it by the cord down to the floor where she could reach it. That was when she noticed blood on her skirt. Her left forearm, which she must have unconsciously used to block the knife, was bleeding.

She saw immediately that the blood was coming from a small nick, a minor injury that probably wouldn’t even require stitches. Looking at it, imagining what might have happened, sickened her. She sat leaning with her back against the wall, gasping for oxygen, and placed the phone in her lap.

Squinting to focus tear-blurred eyes, she tried to punch out 911 but kept getting it wrong.