Authors: Julie Smith
25
I have to get us out of this.
The realization was about a nine and a half on the
terror scale. But there was no one else.
No one outside the house knew where she'd gone, and
everyone inside was either another victim or an enemy.
And something was screwy.
The setup just wasn't logical. The mob was nothing if
not professional. And there was nothing professional about locking up
two civilians, a child, and a police officer.
But since somebody had—Gresham and Anna Garibaldi,
it would seem—the prognosis was pathetic.
Skip had a headache and didn't want to think about
it. She felt like drowsing off again, but she knew that wasn't wise.
A compromise, then. She'd close her eyes for just a few minutes ....
To her horror, she was awakened by a door slamming.
The woman who entered was old enough to be commanding, and she had
the longish face Reed had described. But she wasn't a Dragon. She was
an older woman in a blue silk robe, a very nice robe, but soft and
luxurious, the last thing a Dragon would wear for terrifying the
prisoners.
She was wearing full makeup, and her hair was neat.
She looked as if she planned to go somewhere. And she trailed some
kind of citrusy scent, as if she were fresh from the shower. She
crossed the room and began opening drawers, not even glancing at
Skip. There was something frail about her.
Skip caught Reed's eye. "The Dragon?" she
mouthed.
Reed nodded.
To speak or keep quiet?
It was a vain hope, but maybe if Garibaldi didn't
know she knew her name . . . ?
Reed said, "What's happening?" but the
Dragon didn't deign to answer. She continued to open drawers, not
bothering to close them, until she pulled out Skip's purse.
As they watched, she rifled it.
Skip said, "Can I help you with something?"
half in sarcasm, mainly just wanting to get Garibaldi's attention.
The Dragon's hands shook as she found Skip's wallet and removed money
first, then credit cards; then paused, and took out her driver's
license. Her face was intent, but Skip could see worry there. She had
a sense of ruin, as if the Dragon, scale by scale, were falling apart
before her eyes. When she had what she wanted, Garibaldi dropped the
purse on the floor and left, closing the door behind her, locking it
with a key.
The purse, falling on soft carpet, failed to make
much of a thud, so that there was really no way to tell, but Skip had
the impression her gun had been removed. She herself usually had to
take it out to find anything, and Garibaldi had rifled freely, as if
there were plenty of room in there.
So probably no gun, and maybe no badge, but there
were other things in the purse. Skip went through a mental inventory:
pens, cosmetics—lipstick, blusher, that was about it—a notebook,
a hairbrush, a tiny manicure kit in a leather case, keys, sunglasses,
maybe some tissues with lipstick on them, aspirin, handcuffs—no,
they'd probably taken the handcuffs. But there was an extra key, and
they probably hadn't found it. Skip kept it in a compartment of her
wallet. If she could get it, she could uncuff Reed.
And there were cuticle scissors in the manicure kit.
Maybe Reed could reach the purse.
But she couldn't even see it—she had her back to
it, and anyway, Skip couldn't stand to watch if she asked her to try
for it. Even if it seemed harder—even if it seemed impossible—Skip
had to do it herself.
She remembered what she had told Steve, about the
rarity of detective deaths. She felt far from heroic, but statistics
were on her side. Jim had just died, so what were the chances of
another Homicide detective getting killed so soon afterward?
Good.
Well, it'll certainly happen if you just lie here.
And yet, what was the choice, given the
circumstances?
Think of something.
Because they had left her legs free, there was a way
to get up, she was pretty sure of it. But it was going to be hugely
uncomfortable.
She swung her legs toward the floor. They didn't
reach. She tensed her muscles and gave a mighty heave. One foot of
the bed, at her head on the right, lifted a little. She tried again,
and thought she felt it lift a little farther. She kept trying, and
each time got her legs closer to the floor.
How could she get the bed to come up?
I don't think I can.
Truly, it seemed like a losing battle, but she kept
trying. Finally, with a great creaking, it came up enough for her to
touch the floor. On the next heave, the whole thing began to upend
itself.
Reed watched with eyes like coasters, apparently
trying to gauge whether it was going to hit her on the way over. It
didn't, however. After about twenty minutes of heaving and wrenching,
Skip found herself on the floor with a bed on top of her—mattress,
box springs, and frame.
"Skip, are you all right?"
"
I think so."
She was a little dazed. It had hit her hard. She
hadn't thought it would be so heavy.
Okay. I did it. Now the question is, can I move?
I don't have far to go. Four or five feet, probably.
Piece of cake. She took a deep breath, and as she did, she smelled
smoke.
Oh, shit.
She hoped Reed hadn't yet noticed the smell; she'd
panic, not knowing where her child was.
Only one thing to do. Same thing I'd do if there
wasn't smoke. Like a hermit crab, its house many times its size on
its back, Skip began to make her way toward her own discarded
property. She had to move on her elbows, like a soldier slithering
through trenches, but it was much harder than it should have been,
not only because of the weight, but because her arms were so far
apart, taped as they were.
The carpet smelled of feet, and cigarettes, and some
kind of chemical, a cleaner, probably, and the fabric itself. Yet she
could smell smoke as well, and it wasn't the sharp scent of tobacco
burning.
Reed said, "Skip, do you smell anything?"
and there was a tremor in her voice.
Skip didn't answer. She was drenched with sweat, she
must have blisters on her elbows, and she thought perhaps her back
was wrenched beyond usefulness.
She caught the leather handle of her purse in her
teeth and began the painful business of turning toward Reed. If she
could just make the turn, she'd only have about three feet to go.
About half as many as I just went. About as many as I
could cover in three centuries. By which time we'll be ashes.
Still, slowly, like the snail that carries its house,
she twisted her body and, with it, the bed. She rested a moment,
forehead on the carpet, before beginning the endless slither toward
Reed. Sweat poured into the fabric. She gagged against the purse
strap.
"Skip? I think we're on fire."
Now she not only had no inclination to speak, she
could not; or she would have dropped the purse strap.
Finally, every muscle in her body shaking, most of
the liquid in her left on the carpet, she judged she was close enough
to attempt the vast problem of upheaval. Reed, being cuffed, couldn't
lean down to get the purse; but if Skip could maneuver it close
enough to her open hand, she might, in about three or four hours, be
able to extract something from it.
Skip got up on her knees, the bed like a boulder on
top of her. Reed stretched her fingers toward the purse. Finally,
sweat dripping from Skip, Reed's eyes nearly popping with the effort,
they maneuvered the trade.
Skip made a decision.
"Cuticle scissors," she managed to gasp.
"In the leather case. Cut my tape."
She heaved onto her right side, which meant slamming
the bed onto the floor, on its side, which, judging by the way it
felt, probably broke her back.
Is it my imagination or is it getting hotter in here?
She really couldn't know, feeling as she did—as if
she'd just run a marathon.
Using her whole body, legs more than arms this time,
she slithered toward Reed, close enough for her to cut the tape; but
she stayed there a very long time while Reed held the purse awkwardly
in one cuffed hand and felt for the case with the other.
Smoke was beginning to enter the room, curling under
the door, only a wisp at first.
"Goddamn motherfucker. Asshole cocksucker."
Reed kept up an impressive litany of swear words while she worked.
Finally she had the tape of one hand cut deeply enough for Skip to
wrench her hand free. It was dodgy work because she had almost no
feeling in the hand. She bent her fingers a few times, waiting for
the sensation to return, but her body would not cooperate.
Nevertheless, there was no time for recovery.
She began the operation of freeing her left hand,
more sweat pouring.
I'll die of dehydration if I live long enough.
"Skip?" said Reed again. "I really
think we're on fire."
One thing at a time, dammit.
When she had freed her hand, she took no more than a
few seconds to rub it. Fumbling, still numb, she found her extra cuff
key and freed Reed.
For which she received only abuse. "You knew
that was in there all the time! Why didn't you tell me to get that
first? I could have gotten you loose a lot quicker with my hands
free."
"Yes. But would you have?"
All she knew about these people was what they'd told
her—first Dennis, then Reed. She was not about to make herself,
immobile in a burning building, vulnerable to yet another stranger.
She let Reed chew on that a few minutes while she
pulled futilely at the locked door, her throat starting to burn from
the smoke. Since it opened from the inside, she couldn't kick it in.
Reed was starting to lose it. She was standing in the middle of the
room, wringing her freed hands. "Sally," she said. "Please
be safe. Please God, let her be safe."
Her eyes were wild.
And Skip felt something more than smoke clutch at her
throat. If she did get the door open, she might find an inferno
behind it—flames that would race through this room, killing her and
Reed in minutes. The door might be the only reason she and Reed had
survived this long—she'd once heard a fireman call hollow doors
"twenty-minute doors"; solid ones would last about an hour,
and from what she knew about this place, with its soundproofing, this
was probably a solid one.
She battled the thing in her throat. I couldn't lose
it. This is no fucking time to lose it.
She pulled the heavy gold curtains.
Light flooded the room. The window was huge, a single
pane of glass set into the wall, not meant to be opened. Since the
house appeared to be soundproofed, it was probably freakishly thick.
They were on the second floor. There was grass below, but they were
too high up to jump. The smoke showed up much better in the light.
There was a thickening cloud in the room.
Skip realized there was an advantage to the unbroken
expanse of glass with no tiny panes, no sliding mechanism.
Reed said, "Oh, God. Sally. What are we going to
do?"
Skip picked up a chair. "Stand back." She
swung the chair at the window, but nothing happened.
What was heavier?
She wished she had her gun.
The television might work, she realized. She tried to
pick it up, didn't succeed.
"Reed, help me throw this at the window."
Reed was beyond arguing. She picked up an end. It
sagged, but that wouldn't matter much.
"Now let's go. Heave."
Reed coughed from the smoke, and dropped her end.
That caused Skip to drop hers. It landed on her foot.
"Owwww. Goddamn, motherfucker."
The outburst calmed Reed, somehow brought her
to her senses.
"Come on. Let's try it again."
Sweat popped out on Skip's forehead, from the pain.
But she managed to hoist the machine once again, and Reed got her end
in the air.
The television crashed through, sending glass
splinters back into the room. One caught Reed on the arm. Blood ran.
Skip picked up the chair again and bashed out the
rest of the window, but the glass was very thick. It was maddeningly
slow work.
Reed tried to tear a sheet, to tie up her wound.
"What are we going to do?" she said. "It's too high to
jump."
The smoke was getting worse. Skip was starting to
cough. She wished she had some water, to wet down a sheet or
something.
"Come on. Help me pick up this mattress."
The one on the bed that was still standing.
Once again she thought she felt the room getting
hotter, but there was no way to tell. The air from outside was hotter
than inside, and anyway, the fire could have caused the AC to go off
long ago.
As they worked the mattress off the bed and onto the
window-sill, Skip wondered why the firemen weren't there, why there
were no sirens in the distance.