Tips for Living(60)

He was fearless, confident. I’d need more of his moxie to deal with what lay ahead.





From the Pequod Courier

Letters to the Editor

Dear Editor,

The Point Killer isn’t the only one getting away with murder in Pequod. What about that new traffic camera on the signal by the expressway exit? The county sent me a $100 ticket for running the red light there last week. I did not run the light. But they have “photographic evidence.” I don’t know how they’ve rigged this one, but I’m not the only resident it’s happened to. I demand an investigation.

Nick Lyons

12 Conklin Street

Pequod





Chapter Fifteen

I heard the tires screech before I saw anything.

“What the hell?”

The black van peeled around the bowling alley’s back corner as I turned into the Van Winkle Lanes parking lot. I braked hard and sent the thermos of coffee rolling off the passenger seat. The van careened onto Old Route 20 and sped away with its engine roaring and gray-blue smoke trailing out its tailpipe. Shaken, I parked near the darkened Van Winkle Lanes sign. That made the second van sighting in less than ten hours. Clearly, the driver wasn’t following me this time. But this guy was dangerous. Reckless. Why was he always in such a rush?

I’d managed to read the faded logo on the van’s dented side panel: MASSAMAT DIRT BUSTERS: WE GET YOU CLEAN. It was possible the driver worked as a janitor here. I’d ask Kelly about it when she came in.

I leaned over to retrieve the thermos on the floor under the passenger seat, and as I straightened up, I noticed the tip of Kelly’s blue Mini parked at the rear of the building. The dash clock said 7:13 a.m.—way too early for Kelly. She usually arrived five minutes before class to let us in. My breath caught in my chest. Something wasn’t right . . . the way that van came racing out of the lot. I turned off the engine and, with a growing sense of foreboding, went to check.

Music seeped out of the rear of the building. Amy Winehouse’s smoky, muffled voice. The metal door to the Thunder Bar was unlocked. I cautiously pulled it open and entered. Inside, the music was set at CIA-torture level, and it blasted my ears. The strong stench of ammonia stung my nostrils. I ran my hand over the wall for a light switch, found one and flicked it on, but nothing happened. The faint glow from the crack at the entrance door’s bottom was all I was going to get.

“Kelly?” I yelled.

Pointless. How could anyone hear over the din? I stuck my fingers in my ears and, hugging the wall, made my way down the hall in the dark while the pounding bass line pulsed under my skin.

The only light in the Thunder Bar shone from a single hanging fixture with a stained-glass shade. Behind the bar, a mirrored wall reflected some of the glow into the wood-paneled lounge area. The bowling lanes that filled the rest of the vast, hollow space were hidden in darkness. A quick survey revealed a closed cash register, clean glasses stacked on the counter and liquor bottles displayed in orderly rows on the shelves. Aside from the overly loud music, nothing was amiss. But where was Kelly? I located the stereo in a cabinet next to the minifridge and turned it off. Blessed silence. Then, from the back corner—a faint whimpering.

“Kelly?”

The whimpers turned into soul-wrenching sobs. They were coming from the cluster of wooden café tables at the rear of the Thunder Bar. Shadows obscured the farthest ones. I found another light switch and flipped it. In the back corner, a shapely calf dangled off the red vinyl banquette.

“Kelly!”

I rushed out from behind the bar and ran to her. She lay sprawled on the banquette, wearing purple spandex shorts and a matching purple sweatshirt. The shirt was hiked up, exposing her bulging tummy and its huge belly button, which looked like tortellini. Her pink down jacket was bunched around her head as if someone had tried to smother her with it.

“Are you all right?”

A barely audible voice croaked from under the pink puff.

“He hurt me, Nora.” Her body heaved with more sobs. “He hurt me and my baby.”

“Oh my God.” My hand flew to my mouth. I scanned quickly for blood but didn’t see any. “Don’t move. I’ll call for an ambulance.” Panicky, I reached for my cell and remembered I didn’t have one. “Where’s your phone?”

Kelly slowly pulled herself up to sitting. The jacket fell away from her head to reveal a tangled ponytail sticking out over her ear. Her eyes were bloodshot from crying.

“I’m okay. I don’t need an ambulance.”

“You do. You’re hurt. I need your phone.” She might be numb with adrenaline. How to convince her? “Even if you feel okay, we want to check the baby.”

“He didn’t hurt me physically.”

“You’re sure?” I ran my eyes over her again for any signs of bruising.

She nodded.

“Thank God. But we still have to call the police.”

“Why?”

“He tried to attack you!”

“Who?”

She wasn’t making sense. Could she have a concussion? “The man in the van.” I pointed to her down jacket. “He tried to smother you.”

Kelly looked at her jacket, puzzled for a second. Then she shook her head.

“No. No. I was trying to block the light. And that was Al. Al didn’t attack me.”