When She Was Bad

5

Irene swam upward from a deep dreamless sleep, saw Pender’s face floating above her like one of those giant balloons in the Thanksgiving Day parade. It took her eyes forever to bring him into focus. He looked so concerned, hovering there. “S’matter, Pen?” she mumbled.

“Are you all right? Where are they? Did they hurt you? Do they have your car?”

“Too many questions. Just lemme…a couple more minutes, lemme sleep a couple more minutes.” She rolled over onto her side, facing the back of the couch, and drew her legs up.

“Irene! Wake up, Irene, I need you to wake up now.”

His hand was on her shoulder, shaking her. How rude, she thought, covering her ears with her palms and resuming the fetal position. But it was no use-her head was starting to throb, her back and knees ached, and her neck felt like she’d spent twenty minutes in the ring with Hulk Hogan.

“Did they drug you?” Pender was saying. “Slip you a mickey, something like that? Should I call an ambulance?”

“No!” For some reason, the suggestion alarmed her. “No ambulance.” She rolled over onto her back, swung her legs off the couch, and tried to sit up. The blood rushed from her head; the room swam.

“Take it easy, I’ve got you.” Pender helped her lie back down, positioned a throw pillow under her head. “How about a doctor-is there a doctor I can call?”

“I am a doctor,” said Irene, almost pouting.

“Okay, doctor.” Pender pulled the side chair over to the couch to sit on. “Would you please tell me what the hell happened here?”

Irene sat up again-slowly, this time-and was surprised to find she was still wearing Frank’s pajamas. “They must have slipped something into my orange juice,” she told Pender. Nor would finding that something have been very difficult. They’d only have had to go as far as the medicine cabinet in the upstairs bathroom-in the last six years, Irene had self-prescribed, with varying degrees of success, every sleeping medication known to God, man, and GlaxoSmithKline. “I thought it tasted kind of bitter.”

“When was that? Do you know when they left here?”

“One quesh’n at a time,” said Irene, slurring like a ham actor playing a drunk.

“Sorry. How long ago did they leave?”

“What time is it now?”

“A little after eight.”

Leaning forward, massaging her pounding temples with her fingertips: “A.M. or P.M.?”

“P.M.”

Come back to me, little brain, thought Irene, working at the math. “Eight, ten hours?”

“In your car?”

“If it’s gone.”

“Do you know your license plate number?” asked Pender, taking his cell phone out of his pocket.

“I think so. Who are you calling?”

“The police,” Pender explained gently. “So they can update the BOLO.”

“That won’t be…necessary.” Irene was proud of having come up with the word-for a few seconds there it had been touch and go.

“Why not?”

“Because…” Blank. Blank mind. Because what? What was the question? Oh, right. Yes, of course: “Because there’s only one place they could have gone.”

“Where’s that?” asked Pender-but Irene appeared to have nodded off again. “I’d better go make you some coffee,” he said.

“Good idea,” Irene mumbled. “Make some for me, too.”