I'd Rather Be in Philadelphia (21 page)

That car. That gray car. But before I could understand my unease, the car screeched to a halt along the passenger side of the Mustang and I saw a ski mask, a black glove, and a gun. All aimed at me.

I unparalyzed, I ducked, I fell, but not in time, because I saw, or heard, or felt—all of the above plus tasted, I swear it—a flare of fire, a boom and a high whiny zing, the ongoing blare of my horn where my elbow was lodged and another boom and flash plus screams—mine and those of an instant crowd—a nurse in whites, an orderly, a woman holding an enormous bouquet—all rushing out of the large plate-glass doors as the ski mask burned rubber and squealed off into the night.

I pulled some parts of myself from between the bucket seats and unwrapped others from over the gearshift and extricated still more from inside the steering wheel, gingerly testing each before I moved it.

My scalp and face were, surprisingly, intact, although I could feel an angry sore spot in the middle of my forehead. Gearshift assault. I nervously approached my arm where I’d felt a bullet scrape by like a flying emery board. I explored for pain and the stickiness of blood. I was not prepared for feathers.

“She’s not hurt.” The disappointed lady with the flowers left in pursuit of the seriously afflicted.

I moaned. I was in one piece but my coat was mortally injured, spilling its downy guts over the car seat.

“Can you stand up?” The nurse shivered and rubbed her upper arms, and although moving a single one of my bones or muscles was close to the last thing I wanted to do, I didn’t want her to die of exposure, so I began to extract myself from the car.

And that’s when I noticed that my convertible roof, lacking my ability to duck, had been newly, redundantly, aerated. I put my finger through the hole in the canvas, considered that my skin or vital organs could have been pocked instead, and thought I might be sick.

I wept and shivered, although there was plenty of down left to insulate me. Guns. Bullets. They were so casual about these things on TV shows. Bang, bang, you’re dead. Let’s watch something else now. But it wasn’t like that. Not at all.

“Come inside. I’ll call the police,” the nurse said. She was the only one left.

I nodded. “Give me a second. I need air.” I took another deep breath and nodded again.

She shivered and patted my shoulder. “Awful,” she said. “Lunatics all over these days.” Then she made a beeline for the warm hospital.

I was seized by almost uncontrollable shudders. One of those lunatics had my name on it. I recognized that car now. It had been waiting outside my house. Probably, if Neil hadn’t been along, it would have been all over whenever I walked outside. But Neil had been with me, so I’d been followed instead. There will be a brief delay in your murder, that’s all.

Somebody, for reasons I could not fathom, wanted to kill me.

I bent and scanned the dark sidewalk. Then I pulled the emergency flashlight out of my trunk and searched all the way back in the foundation plantings. I worked as fast as I could, afraid the nurse would return before I found it.

But I saw the glint of the spent bullet and took it back to the car, where I slipped it into the change purse of my wallet. There was another one somewhere. The police could find that one. But I didn’t want them to find me, to ask questions and waste my time. I had nothing helpful to say.

I could already hear the approaching whine of a siren, and I made my exit from the lot with a breath or two to spare before the noisy red and blue twirl of light passed me by.

And to think, a few minutes ago, when I was much younger, a chocolate bar had seemed the most dangerous thing I had to face this night.

Seventeen

HOME, WHICH HAD BECKONED LIKE AN OASIS, NOW SEEMED A TRAP. DID THE driver of the gray car know he’d missed? Would he hie himself back to my door for a second chance?

Do not think about it, I counseled myself. The road to mental health is not in that direction.

The radio played songs of love—lost, despaired of, remembered. Very rarely rejoiced in.

I mulled that over through three blocks likely to be featured in a
Travel and Leisure
“Scary Inner City Destinations” feature. I passed a hotel no tourist with matched luggage had ever checked into, its walls covered with spray paint samples that ruined both architecture and atmosphere in one poof.

I stopped at yet another NO RIGHT TURN ON RED sign. There are about three corners in all Philadelphia where the right turn on red law is allowed to apply. The fellow who got the legislation passed must be the same guy making a fortune manufacturing signs marking every corner an exception to the rule.

I entered Center City and approached the twinkling ALL-DAY-ALL-NITE—LONG-TERM AVAIL sign that meant home for the car, but my foot cast the deciding vote by staying put on the gas pedal. I pretended to wonder where it was taking me, although it became clear as we turned right—not on a red light, of course—toward South Street.

It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to tell Mackenzie what had happened, even though I’d have to talk in front of the jinx. I couldn’t hold off until Sunday, because my masked avenger might not understand he had to wait for her departure before once again trying to blow me away.

I parked and did my best to tidy myself as I bucked the wind en route to Nuevo, a precious designer restaurant of the sort Mackenzie abhors. Or did. Further evidence of Jinx contamination.

I spotted them the moment I walked in, even before I was guided in their direction by the host, Darryl, who had the air of a king in exile, barely suffering proximity with peasants such as I. Jinx was laughing, which was acceptable, but Mackenzie also looked amused, which was not.

I was acutely aware of my windblown, tangled hair, of the rising bump on my forehead, of the baby feathers drifting out of my right coat sleeve.

“Amanda!” Jinx squealed in a gush of Southern insincerity. Her beau’s bemused expression changed to concern. He stood and pulled out a chair for me. I was surprised to see the table set for three, as if I’d honestly have joined them even if my life hadn’t been threatened.

C.K. leaned over me while I settled in the chair. “Somethin’ happen?” His voice was a murmur, for my ears only.

I was busy formulating my answer when Jinx, who hadn’t blinked a single long lash at my feathers and bruises, filled the conversational gap. “We were havin’ such fun reminiscin’,” she twinkled.

I had no muscle memory of what it took to form a social smile. Besides, I didn’t care how much fun they’d been havin’. My head ached, inside and out.

Mackenzie sat down and watched me, silently reiterating his question.

“We were so young,” Jinx said. Then she giggled. “Of course, I was younger than the man!”

“Ummm.” My smile felt more like a grimace.

I watched Jinx track a fluff of goose down as it left my sleeve and floated on the accumulated exhalations of the diners before landing near her foot. Then her eyes met mine and she smiled overbrightly.

Mackenzie was not as discreet. “You’re leakin’, Mandy, and you have a bruise on your forehead and an interestin’ new hairdo and what happened?”

The waiter arranged small dishes, each with different contents, around the table.

“We went ahead and ordered,” Jinx said. “Hope you don’ mind, but it’s tapas, so it’s for sharin’ anyway.” She beamed another toothpaste-ad smile. “Isn’t this the cutest place? So new! Like its name. Nuevo’s Spanish for new, did you know?”

“Somebody shot at me,” I said. “Twice.”

Mackenzie rose, as if my assailant were nearby and he was going to get him. In any other situation, without a goggle-eyed third party, I would have expressed my appreciation for his reflexes and sentiment.

“Goodness!” Jinx said.

“Out at Lankenau Hospital,” I said.

He settled back down. “Were you sick? What were you doing there? Who shot at you? Have you had that bump looked at?”

“Good grief!” Jinx said.

I processed his questions in order, explaining about Neil and the baby and the ski mask, but of course that still didn’t answer anything.

“Big cities are so scary!” Jinx said. “I’m so grateful havin’ this man for a guide!” She patted Mackenzie’s arm. “Oughta be more careful, Amanda!”

I ignored her. At work I have to be gracious about dumb responses, but not during my free time. “This wasn’t random street crime,” I said.

“What? You’re sayin’ somebody’s gunning for you, specifically?” Mackenzie sounded incredulous. Obviously, brain death can also be a sexually transmitted disease.

“I told you! That car followed me!”

“You sure? Detroit turns out a hell of a lot of gray models.”

“Honestly!” My indignation was restoring my normal blood flow and appetite. I downed a small circle of ham and something delicious and garlicky.

“What kind of car was it, anyway?” Mackenzie asked.

Gray. Squarish. Four wheels. A few doors. Headlights. One of those.

“Great,” he said. “Positive it’s th’ exact same car twice, but you don’t have a clue what kind it was. There are crazies in the burbs, too.”

“But—”

“Even on a hospital’s grounds. You’ve had a real bad time lately, and this is an unfortunate coincidence. Some lunatic decides to blow away the first person out of the hospital tonight, and you’re unlucky enough to be it. Thank goodness you’re okay, that’s all.”

I took deep breaths and only broke the silence because I was sure if I didn’t, Jinx would spout a perky homily. “It was the person who killed Wynn Teller. I just know it.”

“
Why?
”
That short word, distorted into a long, Southern
whaaahy
strained at the seams not only with extraneous vowels, but with irritation, disbelief, and self-control.

“Because whoever it is knows I’m getting close.”

“To what?” He put a hand on mine, wise advisor style. “The person who killed Wynn Teller is probably still being arraigned. Havin’ her bail hearin’. Findin’ bail—which will be high because of the risk of flight after last night.”

I pulled my hand away. “Lydia didn’t do it. Maybe she should have, she certainly could have, and God knows she had reason to, but she said she didn’t and she didn’t.”

Jinx swiveled her entire head toward whichever of us spoke, as if we were a tennis match. She nodded and raised eyebrows and displayed a lot of symbolic attention which I had a hard time accepting as real.

“Maybe,” Mackenzie said, “you oughta hurry and go to law school real fast, so you can plead her case and convince a jury of that.” He shook his head.

“I swear,” Jinx trilled, “you people lead the most interestin’ lives. Home’s gonna seem drab after this!” She squeezed Mackenzie’s forearm for emphasis.

“You have a big heart,” Mackenzie said to me. Jinx emphatically agreed.

“But facts are facts,” he continued. “She’s a nice woman who was pushed too far. Literally. But a lot of courts are more lenient these days. Used to be a woman who killed her husband was put away for life, but not so much anymore. An’ there’s more evidence than normal this time with that book of yours.”

Jinx’s head swiveled in my direction.

“Then why did somebody try to kill me tonight?”

“Because somebody was nuts. Don’t be paranoid.”

Had a figment of my imagination ripped through the car’s roof and my sleeve? I opened my mouth, but nothing but astonishment came out. There is a moment, devoutly to be avoided if possible, when you realize you are well and truly alone on this planet, when you understand what the Lydia Tellers must feel too many times to count. “I thought you’d help me,” I finally managed.

“Sure I will. How ’bout after dinner, we’ll see you home and you’ll lock your door behind us when we leave. Will that make you feel better?”

He had to be kidding. “You don’t care, do you?”

Jinx looked nervous. Mackenzie looked surprised.

Maybe a bullet had, indeed, lodged in my brain, and that’s why this scene seemed incomprehensible. Which reminded me. “Could you get this to the police out there?” I handed over the nonimaginary bullet, waiting for him to be impressed, even, perhaps, humbled.

“What’s this?”

“I thought you guys learned those things in cop school.”

“Why didn’t you give it to the police right then?” It took a few seconds, that was all, and then his shoulders drooped.

“I think it’s going to turn out to be from the same gun that killed Wynn Teller,” I said.

“You didn’t talk to the police, did you? You left.”

I shrugged, although Gallic gestures did not suit the ambience of a Spanish tapas bar, but I was having this confusion problem. I didn’t know what to make of anything, including myself. Was I being hunted down or had I been crazy for a while now, confusing wishes with fact? What if Lydia had indeed killed her husband, planned it, perhaps, had it all worked out—except that I ruined everything? What if—

“Unusual lookin’ bullet,” Mackenzie said. “I’m no ballistics expert, but this is different. Maybe bigger? Some old guns…”

“Is…” I had to swallow, to drink some wine before I could ask. “Is it possible Lydia Teller could be through the process by now? That she isn’t still in jail?”

Mackenzie understood what I was really asking. “I’ll make a call,” he said. “Give me a while.”

And then I was alone with Jinx and my throbbing forehead, and my ragtag mane, and my shabby, bullet-torn ensemble.

“Poor you,” she said. “What a horrible thing, to be shot at!” She was so sympathetic, so completely mine, I understood the power of her practiced charm. “An’ you’re so brave and calm!” She shook her head, and her blonde hair swung slightly and resettled in its perfect smoothness.

“Is there anythin’ I can do?” Jinx asked, blue eyes concerned. “Anythin’ to make you feel better?”

“Actually,” I said, “there is.”

“Good.” She did a flawless imitation of polite, dinner table ecstasy. “What is it?”

“The two of you go way back, don’t you?”

She poked a manicured fingernail into the linen tablecloth. “Fifteen years, we figure. I was a freshman.”

I quickly calculated. She was a year older than I was. I felt an irrational rush of joy, as if an additional twelve months of life were a major handicap. Talk about ageism. I was ashamed of myself for that, but all the same, I was having one of the worst days of my life, and I was more glad she was a year older than I was ashamed.