The Jinx

Thirty-Four

A dam seemed to be unconscious, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I gave him another kick in the groin, but it didn’t even elicit a grunt. He still had the gun, but it was loosely held in his limp fist, and I took it from him without a struggle. I was squeamish about handling a gun; I was about as fond of the NRA as I was of Adam himself, but I didn’t want to risk leaving it there. It was heavier than I expected, and I grasped it gingerly. Now all I needed were his keys. Fortunately, he’d put them in his coat pocket, so I didn’t have to rummage very deeply into his clothing, which would have been distasteful even in the best of circumstances.

He moaned, signaling that he was returning to the land of the living. I probably didn’t have much time, and I wasn’t willing to shoot him, so I decided to take advantage of whatever head start his temporary incapacitation might afford. I scurried back up the path with the gun in one hand, dodging tree roots and branches as best I could. By the time I got to the car I realized I was limping, and I did a quick check to figure out what I’d hurt. Bodily, I seemed to be intact, but the heel of my right shoe was missing, which accounted for my uneven gait.

The Porsche was where we’d left it, and I got in on the driver’s side, enjoying the sense of security provided by the clicking of the locks but wishing I’d had the good sense to learn how to operate a stick shift. Miraculously, I still had my handbag, and with shaking hands I managed to withdraw my cell phone. Even if Adam recovered, I was safe in a locked car, with a gun and a phone. Nothing could happen before the police got here. Right?

I was freezing, and I knew how to start the car, even if I couldn’t drive it, so I turned the key in the ignition and cranked the heat up to high. I opened up my phone to call O’Connell, wondering as I did if I should be concerned that I knew the number for the police station by heart. This really hadn’t turned into the weekend I’d so happily planned.

I keyed in the digits and hit Send, but the call didn’t go through. I looked at the screen. Not only was there no signal, the phone was emitting a strange beeping noise, as if it were angry with me.

It was an unfortunate moment for a technology failure. Especially since when I looked up, I could see Adam emerging from the trees. He was hunched over as if in pain, but then I met his gaze, and that seemed to revive him. He managed to straighten up a bit, and now I could see that he looked angry. I had to admit, I couldn’t blame him.

I swore and tried to make the call again but with no luck. I told myself not to panic. After all, I was safe in the locked car. Adam reached the car and began pulling fruitlessly at the door. I smiled up at him when he started banging on the window, but that seemed to antagonize him further. It was probably a good thing that I couldn’t hear what he was yelling. I leaned over the passenger seat to double-check that the other door was locked.

When I turned back, Adam was still at the window. But this time he had a large rock in his hand. I could sense a moment of hesitation-he really loved this car-but he got over any reservations. He pounded the rock into the driver’s-side window.

It cracked, but it didn’t shatter. Still, my nice safe feeling had evaporated. I had to get away.

Horrified, I surveyed the gear shift on the console. Why, why would anyone build a car with a manual shift when some brilliant engineer had seen fit to invent the automatic transmission? There were three pedals at my feet, and I knew enough to recognize that the one on the far left was the clutch and that you were supposed to push it in while changing gears. But that was pretty much the extent of my knowledge.

The rock struck the window again, but the glass continued to hold. Holding my breath, I jerked the gear shift into a slot and eased up on the clutch. To my relief, the car didn’t stall. It rolled back toward the entrance to the park at a rapid clip.

Adam started to run after the car, but it was hard for him to run when he was in too much pain to stand up straight. He threw the rock in his hand, a last attempt to keep me from getting away. It hit the windshield, spreading a spider’s web of cracks across its expanse. Which was fine, because I wasn’t looking out the windshield. I was twisted around to see the road behind me. I didn’t want to risk stalling the car by attempting to switch gears, so I stayed in reverse until I reached the strip mall we had passed earlier.

I backed into a parking space and turned off the engine. Then I lurched into the only open store, a White Hen Pantry, in search of a phone and a well-earned Diet Coke.

It was mid-afternoon by the time I returned to the hotel. A couple of people in the lobby turned to stare as I passed, and when I caught sight of my reflection in the elevator doors, I could easily understand why. There were sticks in my hair, my coat was covered with patches of mud and I had one three-inch heel and one missing heel. This didn’t even begin to take into account the shredded suit underneath adorned with white cat hair, courtesy of Krystle, much less the fact that I still had a raging hangover.

Regardless of my hangover, the only thing that kept me moving was the vision of a stiff drink, to be sipped in a scalding bath. I walked unevenly down the hall to my room and slipped the key card into the lock.

But the door opened before I could turn the latch, and music poured out into the corridor.

I looked up into Peter’s smiling face as violins played “Fascination.”

“Gypsies,” he said.