Nowhere to Run (25 page)

Annabelle was exhausted. She’d been up since 4:00
A.M
., after getting to bed late the night before. The afternoon had been spent getting her part of things finalized for the Tuesday morning show at the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. Constance and Harry had provided the old photographs of their ancestors, who had been among the 12 million immigrants who approached America’s “front doors to freedom,” searching for personal liberties and dreaming of economic opportunity in the United States.

The producer’s job was to fashion two, ninety-second packages, explaining the ethnic background of each of the
KTA
hosts, the history of their families, and their pursuit of the American dream. As Annabelle searched the Ellis Island Web site for material, she vowed to ask her mother about their family. It would be nice at some point, if she ever had the time, to put together something like this for her own children about their family’s roots in America.

She wrote up the scripts, faxed copies to Constance and Harry at home, and took in their narrations over the phone line. She left the recorded tracks and the video of the still pictures along with some very old newsreel footage taken in the great, echoing Registry Room at Ellis Island, which Wayne had dug up for her with one of
KTA
’s best videotape editors. Leaving everything in expert hands, Annabelle could go home with confidence. She wanted to get downtown as soon as she could. Though Mike had sounded fine when she finally reached him to tell him that her anthrax test had come back negative, what if it all became too much for him?

By instinct, she headed to her office before remembering that it was still sealed shut. She turned in the direction of Constance’s room, where she had parked her jacket and other belongings. Wayne Nazareth met her in the hall. He looked pale.

“That file video you found is great, Wayne,” she greeted him. “Thanks a lot.”

“Good. I hope it helps,” he answered. “You going home now?”

“Yes. I have to be out on Ellis Island very early in the morning.”

“Me, too. See you there, Annabelle.”

Annabelle’s eyes followed him as he walked, hunch-shouldered, down the hallway.

Annabelle popped her head into Beth Terry’s office on her way out of the building. The unit manager was eating a large slab of chocolate cake.
So much for that diet of hers.

“Okay, Beth. I’ll see you in the morning. I’m going home.”

“I’m almost finished here too,” Beth responded, hastily wiping her mouth with a napkin, looking a bit embarrassed. “I just have to check that the remote lines are all ordered.”

“Good. I’ll be in at five.” Annabelle turned to go.

“Annabelle?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry about what I said to you before about Jerome. That wasn’t right of me. I know you cared about him, and I know he cared about you. Very much.”

“That’s all right, Beth.” Annabelle was tempted to say more, to see if the woman wanted to talk about her own relationship with Jerome. But Beth bent her head down, intent on the cake on the paper plate.

She had the strangest feeling as she walked toward the subway at Columbus Circle, as if she were being followed. But each time Annabelle turned to look behind her, the people on the sidewalk were different and none of the faces was recognizable.

She waited on the platform for just a few minutes before the Number 1 train lumbered into the station. Annabelle stepped onboard along with the hordes of rush-hour riders. The rhythmic clatter of the subway car on the metal tracks lulled her as it traveled beneath the city streets. She mustn’t fall asleep. She didn’t want to miss her stop.

Annabelle got off at Christopher Street and climbed the stairs to street level. The cold night air felt bracing and good.

She stopped at their favorite Thai restaurant and ordered some chicken satays with extra peanut sauce for the twins and two orders of num-tok beef because she and Mike loved the hot chilies and lime. Takeout again, but the kids would be thrilled. She was just too tired to think about cooking tonight.

As Annabelle left the restaurant, she felt glad that they lived in Greenwich Village, where everything was so convenient. All they needed was in walking distance of their apartment. Grocery, newsstand, dry cleaner, drugstore—and every kind of eatery imaginable. She was waiting with all the others returning home at the end of the workday for the light to turn at the corner, lost in her reverie, when the strong arms came from behind, pushing her into the path of an oncoming bus.

The sound of screeching brakes sliced through the night air.

“Oh my God,” screamed an elderly woman on the sidewalk.

Annabelle felt herself tumbling forward, sliding toward the bus. There was absolutely nothing she could do.
The kids. Mike.

It happened in just a few seconds, but there was an excruciating slowness to it all. It was coming at her. What would it feel like?

In that last moment, Annabelle realized she might have a chance if she fell to the ground and rolled under the body of the bus, between the wheels. The bus might go right over her.

She aimed and dove to the macadam, closing her eyes, waiting for the impact of the giant steel vehicle. When she opened her eyes again, she was staring up at a dark mass of pipes and fittings, the underbelly of the bus.

The crowd gathered quickly.

“Are you all right, lady?” asked the ashen-faced bus driver, squatting down to peer at her.

“Yes. I think so.”

Slowly, Annabelle slid, caterpillarlike, from beneath the bus. The driver reached out to her, helping her rise to her feet. Annabelle could feel his hand shaking, or was it her own?

“Thank God, you’re all right,” he whispered.

In the bus lights, Annabelle caught sight of the steaming chicken satays strewn over the road. She began to take stock. Her slacks were torn, and she could feel that her knee was cut. The palms of her hands were scraped raw. But, miraculously, nothing else seemed to be damaged.

Someone returned her purse and knapsack. Another Good Samaritan insisted on walking her the rest of the way home, very, very slowly.

Huddled in a storefront doorway, the attacker watched as the crowd dispersed.

It was grilled-cheese sandwiches and Campbell’s tomato soup for dinner that night. Mike did the cooking while Annabelle lay on the sofa. He brought her a mug of hot soup and a couple of Tylenol.

“Take these,” he urged. “I never thought I’d say this, but let’s leave this city. I hate it here. Let’s go somewhere nice and quiet, where planes don’t fly into buildings and people don’t get pushed under buses.”

She swallowed the tablets obediently, chased them with the creamy soup. The warm liquid felt good going down. The thought of living in a peaceful little town was very attractive right now.

“I don’t understand why the police weren’t called, Annabelle,” Mike pressed.

“There really wasn’t any need to, Mike. I was all right.”

“But you think someone pushed you in front of that bus.” He was looking at her incredulously.

“I don’t know,” said Annabelle, pausing to take another sip of soup. “The more I think about it, maybe I was just jostled by the crowd. I can’t be sure that someone pushed me.”

“And you can’t be sure you weren’t,” Mike insisted. “With all that’s been happening around you, I think you have to call the police and report this. If you don’t, I will.”

“All right. I will. I will.”

“Good.” He handed her the cordless phone. “You do that, and I’ll give the kids their baths.”

“Daddy, look.” Thomas held out his hand.

Mike wiped away the soap suds. “What, Thomas? I don’t see anything.”

“Next to my boo-boo, Daddy. There’s a bump next to it.”

His father bent down close to inspect the small finger. “It looks like the cut is healing fine, Thomas.”

“But it itches me,” the boy whined.

“Honey, maybe you’ve got a little bug bite there, but it’s nothing to worry about. Now, come on, let’s get you dried off and into your pajamas.”