“JESUS CHRIST!” THE CAR skidded over another patch of black ice. After a four-inch snowfall the day before, a thin layer of liquid had frozen on top of the highway’s surface overnight, leaving sections of the blacktop treacherous. Baker downshifted and shut off the radio. There was no real reason to rush; Warner knew he’d be late today if he showed up at all. He’d already missed work yesterday.
Barely five thirty in the morning, there were hardly any vehicles on the road, and a fine mist hung in the air, scattering the beams of his headlights. He put out his cigarette and peered ahead into the darkness, the solid white line flying by on his left; nothing but a long and, most likely, unpleasant trip home to look forward to.
He wished the whole weekend had never happened.
Thursday, between all the driving he’d done and leaving Micki at Heyden, he’d been wiped out by the time he and Cynthia had reached the White Horse Inn. Still recovering from lack of sleep, Cynthia hadn’t been much better off. They’d napped until it was time for the large Thanksgiving dinner, after which they took a ride in a horse-drawn sleigh around the snow-covered grounds. But despite the charm of the setting, the natural familiarity they’d once shared was gone. And, in bed, their bodies no longer meshed the way they used to: Cynthia seemed self-conscious; Baker felt out of sync.
At 2:00 a.m., unable to sleep, he got dressed and went out in the frigid night air to smoke, the wooden deck creaking beneath his feet. Primordial and untouched, the land stretched out on all sides, disappearing into an unseen horizon. He was very aware of being alone. Bathed in light from the glowing orb above, he could feel the power emanating from the darkness, the tall trees standing silent as if guarding secrets in the forest beyond. And then a huge bird, majestic and graceful, flew across the sky, its silhouette visible when it crossed the almost perfect circle of the moon. Earthbound below, he felt small and inconsequential.
The next couple of days were spent much as they’d planned: walking, driving, and cross-country skiing. But Saturday night, as he was lighting kindling in the fireplace, Cynthia finally broached the dreaded subject.
“Let’s face it, Jim, things have changed between us. And I guess it’s my fault: I can’t be involved with two men at the same time. I thought I could handle it, but I can’t.”
Straightening up, he faced her. “And I—obviously—am the loser, right?”
A couple of tears spilled out of her eyes and down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
The phone’s brash ring interrupted, and Cynthia, being closest, answered. And though Baker purposely hadn’t left the inn’s number with Heyden, he thought of Micki.
Wiping away tears, Cynthia said, “Mom?”
Based on Cynthia’s side of the conversation, Baker gleaned something bad had happened. And when she hung up the phone, she looked dazed.
“That was my mother,” she said. “My father just had a heart attack.” But it wasn’t until Baker had wrapped her in his arms, kissing the top of her head and rocking her gently from side to side, that she broke down and sobbed.
They immediately drove to the hospital, where an initial flurry of activity devolved into long hours of waiting and dozing off in uncomfortable chairs—countless rounds of tears, stress, and bad coffee. Every hour, Cynthia and her mother took their allotted ten-minute visits to see her father—first in the ICU, then later the CCU—while Baker stood by with nothing to do.
As the next evening approached, Mrs. Winthrop insisted Baker stay at the family home in one of the guest rooms. “We’ll both feel better,” she said, referring to herself and Cynthia, “knowing there’s a big, strong man around to protect us.” And she smiled fondly.
Though Baker accepted, he knew Cynthia’s father—a cold, unyielding man who was nothing like his wife or daughter—would never have allowed such an arrangement. If he’d had any say in the matter, he would’ve cited the appearance of impropriety, even though, closer to the truth, it would’ve been his feelings about Baker. As a cop—blue collar—Baker wasn’t deemed an appropriate suitor. And then there was the age difference. But Baker was certain that what was really getting under the man’s skin was knowing Baker was sleeping with his daughter though there were no plans to marry. And while Baker hadn’t been happy that Mr. Winthrop was ill, it had been a relief not to have to see him.
Rolling smoothly down the highway again, he switched the radio back on to ease the now oppressive sense of solitude. Badfinger’s “Baby Blue” tumbled out, the first two lines cutting through with painful, uncanny insight. And as he squinted ahead, searching for the exit in the dark gloom of the highway, he wondered if he’d uncovered the real issue behind his problems with Cynthia: they’d been seeing each other for over two years, and he hadn’t proposed—hadn’t even mentioned the possibility. And now there was this actor in her life … And yet, while Cynthia was herself pursuing acting, Mr. LA had to rank even lower than Baker did on the scale of eligible suitors. At least, according to Cynthia’s father. In fact, to Mr. Winthrop, Baker might be looking pretty damn good right now.
As if that actually counted for anything.
♦ ♦ ♦
BAKER KILLED THE ENGINE. Enveloped in darkness, the juvenile detention facility had taken on a completely different personality. The high-powered security lights illuminating the perimeter brought the barbed wire atop the walls into harsh relief, the graceless main building—now fully dominating the grounds, making the cottages appear secondary and insignificant. Colorless and thrown into shadow, the landscaped evergreens looked almost sinister despite the frosting of snow.
He closed the Camaro’s door, which, in the early-morning stillness, sounded unusually loud. Then he breathed in the cold, crisp air and looked at the snow-covered roofs, trying to savor the last few moments he had all to himself. It had been almost meditative to get up in the dark without radio or TV, then shower, dress, and eat breakfast—all in blessed peace—before going into Cynthia’s room to kiss her goodbye. Suitcase in hand, he’d then wound his way down the spiral staircase a final time, the carved mahogany banister softly gleaming. Wedged between the salt and pepper shakers on the kitchen table, his thank-you note to Mrs. Winthrop was left to convey (convincingly, he hoped) his regret at having to leave. But after two days full of anxious conversations, running errands, and hanging around the hospital, he’d been grateful for a reason to head back to the city. The drive had been invigorating until he’d hit that first patch of ice.
He approached the main building, and the entrance door opened. But something felt off. And by the time he reached the top of the stairs, Deputy Warden Stanton was standing fixedly in the doorway. Behind her—flickering in and out of shadows cast by a single row of overhead fluorescents—he saw only office furniture.
“Is Micki ready?” he asked.
“Under the circumstances, I’m afraid she’ll have to remain here. I would’ve called, but you didn’t leave a number where I could reach you.”
He pushed past Stanton. “Where is she?”
“In solitary. Maximum security.”
“Maximum security?”
“She destroyed my office and attacked me; that more than warrants her being detained here.”
“What the hell are you talking about? What happened?”
“What happened? Nothing happened. She simply acted out the way she always does.”
“No.” Baker shook his head. “No, there’s got to be a reason.”
“Is that so!”
“Where’s Warden Morrow?”
“It’s not even six o’clock in the morning, Sergeant. It was decided yesterday that only one of us need be present to take care of this matter.”
And that just happened to be you, Baker thought. Though he barely knew Stanton, he despised her with every ounce of his being. She was a holdover from Warden Loren’s days, and her whole demeanor smacked of vicious self-satisfaction.
“I want to see her,” Baker said evenly.
“I hardly think—”
“I want to see her now.”
There was a tiny twitch of Stanton’s lip, a thin film of sweat cropping up on her brow. “I think it would be easier on everyone if you accepted the situation and left without further interference. We both know she should never have been released in the first place. This is where she belongs.”
Baker looked at her with disgust. “You don’t know anything about what I think, and I’ll decide where she belongs.”
“Deciding may very well not be your prerogative anymore.”
“I’m not about to just leave her here—not without seeing her.”
“I’d think you’d be happy to be free of the responsibility. From what I understand, you didn’t exactly embrace it.”
“And just how would you know that?”
With a triumphant little smile, she said, “I have my sources.”
“Yeah? Well maybe your sources have their heads up their asses. Now I want to see her, and I want to see her now. How many fucking times do I have to say it?”
“Well!”—little beads of sweat had broken out in earnest on her puffy face—“I see the two of you have much in common.” She patted her short, curly hair, then smoothed the skirt over her wide hips. “Very well,” she said. “Follow me.”
She led him to a room with no windows and only a table and two chairs. He unzipped his jacket a couple of inches more before lighting a cigarette to wait.
No one had asked him to hand over his gun.
♦ ♦ ♦
MICKI HAD ALMOST FALLEN asleep when she heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Taken out of her cell in handcuffs, she was told someone wanted to see her. The ominous and cryptic announcement left her imagination open to the worst possibilities. And though her hands were shackled, she considered resisting.
The guard pulled out his baton. “You’ll do what you’re told if you know what’s good for you.”
She thought it should be obvious to everyone by now that she didn’t know what was good for her, but she decided she didn’t want to feel that wood bludgeoning her anymore. They went down to the first floor and into the administrative wing. But as soon as she saw Stanton waiting at the end of the corridor, she balked. The guard’s grip became painful as he yanked her the rest of the way.
Opening the door to her right, the deputy warden told the guard to take Micki inside and remove the cuffs. And when Micki saw Baker, her eyes grew large. She appeared ready to pounce the instant her hands were freed. But then Baker stood up. And after five days of not seeing him, he seemed much taller—and much bigger—than she remembered. She must’ve been out of her mind the times she’d physically confronted him.
Baker hurriedly extinguished his cigarette.
“What the fuck didja come back for?” Micki asked. “Didja finally get the balls t’tell me the truth y’self? Huh? Y’gettin’ a good laugh outta this?”
He crossed the room to shut the door for privacy. Micki scurried as far away from him as she could.
“I must object,” Stanton said. “She’s become extremely violent.”
“Then why did you remove the cuffs?” Baker asked.
“Because—well—”
“I know what you’re up to,” Baker said. “Just get the hell out.”
“I’m liable—”
“Cut the crap. I release you from liability, okay? The guard’s your witness. Now get out.”
The deputy warden appeared to have shrunk under his gaze. She left with the guard and closed the door.
Pale and gaunt—her hair a dirty, wild mess—Micki stood before the far wall in an orange prison jumpsuit. Just below the short shirtsleeves, some bruises were visible on her left arm.
Back at the table, Baker sat down and lit another cigarette. “You asked me why I’m here: I’m here to pick you up, just like I promised.”
“Y’so full a shit! You were supposeda be here Sunday! Y’said Sunday. Today’s Tuesday.”
“I know what I said, Micki, but something happened, and I couldn’t make it then; I couldn’t get here until today.”
“Fuckin’ liar! You were never gonna come get me!”
“Then why am I here?”
“You fuckin’ tell me.”
Playing with the pack of cigarettes, he exhaled thoughtfully. “Why did they have to lock you down?”
“What the fuck d’you care?”
“Talk to me,” he said.
She looked at him sitting there, so calm. So collected. She imagined not saying anything and just watching him smoke. Until he finally got up and walked out. “I wrecked the fuckin’ bitch’s office,” she said. “And if I could’ve, I would’ve ripped her fuckin’ head off, too. Okay? Didja get what y’want? Y’happy now?”
“But why did you do that?”
“The bitch told me y’weren’t comin’. She knew all along y’were gonna leave me here.”
With a shake of his head, Baker said, “No. I called Sunday to let her know about the change of plans. I told her then that I’d be here today.”
A sickening knot was forming in the pit of her stomach. “She—she just said y’weren’t comin’.”
“I want to know everything that happened and exactly what it was she said.”
Barely able to breathe, Micki studied Baker’s face. For quite a while. And then said, “It was just after dinner when a guard told me Stanton wanted t’see me. He took me t’her office, and she, real obnoxious-like, said, ‘I guess by now y’realize he’s not comin’ today. Looks like y’gonna be here a little longer.’ And then she started laughin’—laughin’ her ass off. But, like, it was the way she said ‘little’—y’know, like she meant the opposite—y’know, like I was gonna be here forever—”
“I understand,” he interrupted. “But the truth is”—he leaned forward—“I told her at ten o’clock that morning that I’d be coming today instead.”
Hands in her pockets, Micki hung her head: Baker was telling the truth. “Yeah—well … I got myself inta really big trouble here; she’s not gonna let me leave.”
“Well, I’m not going to let you stay.”
Her eyes shot up to his.
“Come here,” he said.
“I don’t smell too good.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
She moved a little closer.
“Did they do anything to you?” he asked.
“Not really.”
“Not really? What does that mean?”
“After I went after Stanton, I didn’t exactly let ’em take me easy.”
The black-and-blue marks. “But did they do anything to you after that?”
“Just stuck me in a cell.”
He stood up. “Where’s your stuff?”
“I dunno; they made me wear this orange thing the whole time.”
Baker strode around the table and yanked open the door. “I want the kid’s things brought here immediately. And I want the papers to sign her out.”
“After what she’s done,” Stanton said, “there’s no way she can be released back into your custody.”
“You think I don’t know what kind of head games you’ve been playing with her?”
“I don’t think—”
“I don’t give a shit what you think. You get those goddamned papers for me; ’cause I swear, if you don’t, I’ll make sure you regret it.”
Micki’s mouth fell open.
“Are you threatening me, Sergeant?” Stanton asked.
“I’m making you a promise. See, I have connections, too—reporter friends at the New York Times—and they’d love to get their hands on a story about the shit that goes on in this place.”
“You’re making a serious mistake!” Stanton’s cheeks were mottled with angry, red blotches. But when Baker stood firm, she turned on her heel and headed back to the front office.
He stared after her.
Voice very small, Micki said, “Sergeant Baker?”
Still looking at Stanton’s back as she waddled down the corridor, he replied, “What is it?”
“Can I take a shower?”
“Go ahead, but make it quick. I want to get the hell out of here.”
♦ ♦ ♦
MICKI SHOWERED AND FOUND her clothes waiting for her. Outside it was still dark, a thick cloud cover foretelling a grey and dreary day. Taking a deep breath of the cold, clean air, she paused to look at the fresh snow.
Baker threw her bag in the trunk next to his suitcase. As he unlocked the car on her side, he said, “C’mon, get in.”
Giddy with her newfound freedom, she almost smiled.
♦ ♦ ♦
THE BLACK TAR OF the highway contrasted sharply with the white snow piled in mounds on the median and shoulder. Headlights of oncoming cars glittered like diamonds through the misty air. Peculiarly hypnotic, the coarse hum of the tires on the road seemed to blend with the heat coming through the vents.
Baker’s voice broke through. “Are you hungry?”
Her stomach was squeezing and grumbling. “I guess so,” she said.
“When we get to the next exit, we’ll get off and stop for something, okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
He glanced over and saw her eyes fastened on the dark scenery. He let it go. “So tell me,” he asked, “why would Stanton have it in for you?”
Micki looked at him, but his gaze was focused on the road again. She said, “She and Loren, the old warden, were real tight. Some of the girls said there were rumors it was ’cause of me that Loren got canned. Though I don’t get it, ’cause I never said anything—not even to Sergeant Kelly.”
The car skidded, and Baker fought to keep it under control. He downshifted. “Put your seatbelt on; there’s a lot of ice on the road.”
They continued to the next exit, where they left the thruway and found a diner.
♦ ♦ ♦
THEIR BOOTH HAD A view of the parking lot and the highway. Far away, mountains covered in snow were slowly and resplendently taking shape in the somber shades of dawn. The waitress brought them coffee and asked for their order. But before Baker could say a word, Micki said she wanted pancakes. Baker, having had breakfast, wasn’t hungry, but ordered anyway. While he sipped his coffee, he surveyed the other patrons.
A pair of truckers sat at the middle of the counter. They were shoveling food into their mouths while grinning, talking quietly, and throwing furtive glances at him and Micki. At the end of the counter, closer to the restrooms, a grizzled old man sat drinking coffee. And in the corner booth furthest from the door was some sort of businessman jotting down notes in a small, leather-bound diary, a messy collection of papers spread out over most of his table.
Micki was flipping through the selections in the little jukebox attached to the window frame. With a decisive snap, the metal pages clicked against each other as they turned. Most of the songs were current ones she hated or—though it was still a month away—Christmas tunes, their cards a special pinkish red with little sprigs of holly and mistletoe decorating the corners. Almost at the end, buried way in the back, she found a few songs she actually liked, like “Rocky Mountain High” and “Maggie May.” But since she didn’t have any money, she simply stared out the window and drank her coffee. After spending about thirty-six hours locked up in solitary, just to see the sky and be clean again felt exquisitely rich. Hot, airless, and rank, the tiny cell she’d been in, with no windows and almost no light, had been more like a tomb, every hour like a year.
“Do you really know guys on the New York Times?” she asked.
Taking another sip of coffee, he gave her a sly smile. “Yeah, I know a few. But they’re not my friends. Stanton didn’t have to know that, though.”
Micki’s eyes gleamed.
The waitress brought their breakfast and returned shortly to refill their cups. Baker, after pouring ketchup on just a small portion of his scrambled eggs, began to eat at a leisurely pace. Micki, drowning her pancakes in syrup, proceeded to wolf them down as if they might be taken away at any minute.
“Didn’t you eat anything while you were there?” he asked.
Words garbled since her mouth was full, she replied, “Not really.”
Finished with the small section of ketchup-covered eggs, his French fries and toast entirely untouched, Baker leaned back and lit a cigarette. When Micki had cleaned her plate, he pushed his toward her. “Go ahead,” he said.
Color rose in her face.
“Go on,” he urged.
So she moved the plate in front of her and doused, not only the French fries, but the remaining eggs in ketchup.
Baker smiled to himself. Teased innumerable times by people who considered the combination disgusting, he’d purposely put the condiment only on the portion he’d expected to eat himself. Meanwhile, it now looked like a plate of ketchup with eggs rather than eggs with ketchup.
Eating more slowly, she could feel him watching her. Her movements became self-conscious.
He tapped his cigarette on the ashtray. “Why did you act out like that at Heyden?”
“I told y’already.”
“No, I mean, why did you do something like that when you knew it would only make things worse?”
Looking at her plate, she shrugged. “I didn’t care anymore. I thought nobody …” Her voice trailed off. She poked at her food, then glanced up. “So how come y’couldn’t come get me Sunday? And where’s Cynthia?”
“She stayed on at her parents’ place. Her father’s in the hospital. He suffered a heart attack.”
“Wow!” With a forkful of eggs hanging poised midair, Micki asked, “Is he gonna be okay?”
But Baker was suddenly aware of his own breathing. Eyes cold, he took another drag on his cigarette. “Just finish up; I want to get going.”
She dropped her fork onto the plate. “Y’already sorry y’didn’t leave me there, aren’t ya. Y’golden opportunity t’be rid a me.”
“Just finish up,” he repeated.
She pushed the plate away and stared out the window. One of the two truckers from the counter had gone outside. He was getting into his vehicle, a white truck with “Weller’s Baked Goods” printed in large black letters. A bakery truck. That’s how she’d escaped from Heyden over the summer. When the delivery was very late one day, the normal security routine had been thrown off. She’d snuck out of the kitchen and hid in the truck until it made its next stop. As soon as the doors had opened, she’d jumped out past the astonished deliveryman, her fists gripping bags of bread and rolls. She’d run as fast and as far as she could.
“Anything else?” the waitress asked.
“No,” Baker replied as he stubbed out his cigarette. “Just the check.” While the waitress tallied the figures on her pad, he slid out of the booth and stood up. “I’m going to the men’s room,” he said to Micki, “and then we’ll leave.”
Gazing out the window again, Micki let the waitress clear away the dishes. But she wasn’t alone for more than a few seconds before she heard a deep, cheerful voice say, “Hey there, little lady.”
She turned back to see the other trucker standing beside the table. Tall and wide all the way around, his smile was as broad and warm as his southern accent. And though his grin was managing to overcome the thick black beard and mustache that obscured most of his face, it did nothing to change Micki’s expression. He took the pack of cigarettes he’d just bought from the vending machine and put it in the pocket of his brown, shearling-trimmed jacket. Then he absently checked that the tails of his flannel shirt were tucked into his jeans, which were barely hanging on beneath the bulge of his belly.
Micki thought he looked pregnant—and like something out of a bad TV show. Her tone harsh, she asked, “Whatta y’want?”
“Just thought if things weren’t workin’ out too well with your friend, here, you might care to ride along with me for a while.”
“Get the fuck away from me.”
He chuckled. “C’mon, now, girl; I’d treat you right. We could have us a sweet time. A real fine time.” And then he made the mistake of taking the back of his index finger and stroking her cheek.
With shocking reflex, she slammed his hand down, smashing his knuckles into the table. And while it was too awkward to stand up completely in the booth, she had her free hand drawn back in a fist.
“MICKI!” Baker’s voice ripped through the diner.
She let go of the trucker, who backed up, his face still contorted in a mixture of pain and surprise. Coddling his bruised hand, he looked from Baker to Micki—who was now standing beside the booth—then back to Baker, the two of them with their eyes locked together. He noticed the butt of Baker’s gun peeking out from under his jacket. Hands raised, he said to Baker, “Hey, man”—he backed up even further—“no harm meant, I—”
“Forget it,” Baker said. “Just go.”
“Sure, man—thanks!” And he hurried out the door.
No one in the restaurant moved.
“Put your jacket on, Micki.”
“Y’know it—”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“But—”
“I don’t want to hear it. Do you understand me?”
“But—”
“DO—YOU—UN-DER-STAND—ME!”
She yanked her jacket off the seat and put it on while Baker picked up the check and threw three dollars on the table as an outrageously generous tip. When he paid on the way out, the woman at the register—still trying very hard to smile—gave him his change with a shaking hand.
♦ ♦ ♦
AS SOON AS BAKER had started the car, he said, “Why is it that you’re always getting into trouble? I can’t leave you alone for two fucking minutes without something happening.”
“But I—”
“But you what? Huh? What?” He accelerated back onto the highway. “You are always in the middle. How can you even think of saying it’s not your fault when you’re always involved. Explain this to me ’cause I just can’t figure it out.” The knuckles of his left hand—the one that was gripping the wheel—had gone white.
Her voice very quiet, she answered, “I dunno.” Staring out the windshield, she wished she were anywhere but with him.
For several miles, they drove in deafening silence until Baker turned on the radio, catching the intro to Climax’s “Precious and Few.” But just as the chorus started, the car began to swerve: first to the right, then to the left, and then back again. He was trying desperately to regain control when it went into a spin.
And time expanded.
Micki watched the world revolving slowly outside the windows as they crossed lanes—still spinning—heading toward the shoulder. This is it, she thought. This is where my life ends. And as the car floated over the road, her whole body relaxed. But they plowed, rather gently, into the snowbank on the right and came to a stop. And though she was the only one wearing a seatbelt, Baker’s right arm was extended protectively in front of her to prevent her from pitching into the windshield. He cut the engine, and it was instantly quiet—just the occasional swish of a passing car.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. Are you?”
“Yeah.”
But when she turned her gaze back to the snow, he saw an odd look on her face. “What?” he asked. “What is it?”
Still staring ahead, she said, “I wish I was dead.”
And in that split second following their climactic reprieve from death, all the emotional turmoil that had been churning inside him for days erupted into one slick retort: “Well, so do I.”
Her head whipped around. Eyes wide, lips slightly parted, a bitter smile emerged. “Well, hey—we finally agree on something.” And before he could respond, she’d slipped out of the car, the slam of the door ringing in his ears.
The moment seemed frozen, like a stilled frame in some strange, incomprehensible movie. And yet in the rearview mirror, he saw her retreating figure, a thin black form walking against traffic in the snow. Large as life. He jumped out of the car.
“Micki, get back here!”
She kept on walking.
“Micki! MICKI! YOU GET BACK HERE THIS INSTANT!”
Still walking, she called back over her shoulder, “Fuck you, man. Be smart for once and let me go.”
He started after her, creating a larger set of footprints through the crusted top layer of snow. A car, speeding as though the blacktop were bone dry, flew past. He imagined another vehicle spinning out like theirs had, and started to jog.
But at the sound of the more-rapid crunch of his feet, she stopped and wheeled around.
He pulled up short.
It was both super-real and dreamlike standing there under the dark, grey sky—cars intermittently whizzing past, headlights ghostly in the cold, misty air. Safe and warm inside their vehicles, the cars’ occupants were totally separated from the scene playing out on the shoulder.
He could feel the chill seeping into his open jacket. “Micki, you get back in that car right now.”
“No.”
“Don’t you tell me ‘no’! You get back there right now!”
“Or what?”
They were about five yards apart, and he could see it in her eyes: she didn’t give a shit about anything. Reaching across his body, he pulled his service revolver out of its holster and aimed it at her with both hands. “Get back in that car,” he repeated.
She didn’t move.
“NOW.”
Chin tilted up slightly, she said, “Or what? Y’gonna shoot me?”
The large gun steady in his grip, he sighted down the barrel.
But her eyes were laughing at him. “So go ahead … Shoot.”
After a few seconds, when he did nothing, she snorted, turned, and started walking away. He remained where he was, still pointing the revolver: a healthy, six-foot-six adult male holding a loaded gun on an underweight, five-foot-six teenaged girl. And he was powerless.
Weapon reholstered, he started after her, and she began to run. But he overtook and tackled her, twisting his body as he did so, taking the brunt of the fall on the edge of his back. Covered in snow, he rolled over, pinning her beneath him. She heard the ratcheting of the handcuffs as the cold metal closed around her wrists.
She laughed at him. “D’ya take those goddamn things with y’everywhere?”
He pulled her up by the back of her jacket collar.
“I bet if y’could,” she said, “you’d even wear ’em t’bed—have ’em hangin’ from y’goddamn Jockey shorts.”
He roughly turned her around, holding one arm tight in his grip.
She looked up into his eyes and lowered her voice. “Whatta y’do with ’em when y’fuckin’ y’girlfriend?”
He whipped the back of his free hand across her face, drawing blood.
“Whatsa matta?” she asked. “Y’didn’t get any this weekend?”
His fist slammed into her, catching the border of her solar plexus, causing her knees to buckle. Hot and bitter, the taste of bile was mixing with the metallic taste of blood. She gasped for air and pictured herself reexperiencing her breakfast in reverse.
He reached down, grabbed her hair, and pulled her head back. “Y’got any more smart-ass comments?”
But they were interrupted by the brief blare of a siren and a blinding set of headlights. A rotating light flashed red on the snow.
“Put your hands on your head and step back,” a male voice commanded.
Baker, who couldn’t see anything beyond the headlights glaring in his eyes, did as he was told. Micki, who didn’t feel capable of getting up if she wanted to, remained where she was. The trooper, who was approaching slowly, had his gun drawn and trained on Baker.
“I’m on the job,” Baker said. “NYPD. My ID is in my front pocket.” His left hand began to move.
“KEEP YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD,” the trooper barked. “AND LACE YOUR FINGERS TOGETHER. We’ll get everything straightened out in good time.”
Arms raised, Baker’s open jacket was lifted and pulled apart, leaving his revolver fully exposed. The trooper immediately confiscated it, putting it in the back of his own waistband. “I want you to walk over to my car,” he said. “Put your hands on the hood and assume the position.”
Baker shot a glance at Micki. “You wipe that smirk off your face,” he said, “or I’ll wipe it off for you later.”
“MOVE,” the trooper ordered. And with his gun still trained on Baker, he made sure Micki was securely handcuffed before helping her to her feet. He put her where he could keep an eye on her, then proceeded to frisk Baker very thoroughly, one side at a time, switching his gun to the opposite hand to keep it pressed against Baker’s body. Once he was finished, he pulled out Baker’s wallet and took a step back to examine the badge and ID. Then he holstered his own revolver and returned Baker’s wallet. But not his weapon. “You want to tell me what’s going on here, Sergeant?”
“We spun out on some ice back there, and she decided”—Baker paused, choosing his words—“to be a pain in the ass for a change.” When the trooper’s expression remained impassive, Baker added, “I’m taking her back to the city from Heyden.”
Face still blank, the trooper said only, “Okay.” A good six foot four, he had a solid, athletic build and a blond crew cut beneath the wide brim of his hat. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of a recruitment poster. He asked, “Some kind of big case she’s a witness for?”
“What?”
“Must be something important for a detective sergeant to be sent as a personal escort.”
“Oh—no, it’s nothing like that. I had to leave her at Heyden because I went on vacation with my girlfriend this weekend.” He looked toward Micki. “Lucky me happens to be her legal guardian for the time being.”
The trooper caught the briefest flicker of hurt across Micki’s features. “What about her parents?” he inquired.
Baker shook his head no.
“So she lives with you.”
“No, she’s on her own. But—well—it’s more like she’s on parole.”
“How old is she?”
“Seventeen.” When this didn’t appear to satisfy the trooper, Baker added tersely, “It’s an experiment.”
The trooper walked up to Micki. “Y’got any ID on you?”
“Right front pocket.”
He pulled it out and looked it over. Without comment, he returned it, asking Baker, “So what exactly was going on here when I arrived?”
“I was trying to get her back to the car.”
“So she was running away.”
“She … Let’s just say she was giving me a hard time.”
“I see,” the trooper responded, though he didn’t see at all. Turning to Micki, he studied the scars and bruises on her face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
The blood on her cheek had already gelled; her lip, now swollen, felt numb. Looking past him, she replied, “Yeah.”
“Are you giving him a hard time?” he asked.
She shrugged.
His tone became friendly. “So your name’s Micki.”
“So what.”
He smiled. “I have a cousin named Mickey,”
She finally looked at him. The tuxedo stripe on his grey pants made her think of a security guard more than a cop. But that hat! She said, “Who the fuck gives a shit.”
Baker took a step toward her. “Micki, I swear—”
But the trooper raised a hand, and Baker stopped. “Don’t play tough with me, kid,” he said, “’cause I’m not buying it.”
Jaw clenched, she shifted her gaze.
“It seems to me,” the trooper continued, “that you could use a friend right now. So do you want to tell me your side of this? ’Cause I’m willing to listen.”
“He hates me!” she blurted out. “He wishes I was dead! He said so!”
The trooper threw a questioning look at Baker, who, looking heavenward, shook his head.
Micki started to shiver. Cold and clammy, her jeans were damp up to the knees from the snow that had melted underneath them.
“Can you spare a smoke?” the trooper asked Baker.
“Sure.” And he reached into his jacket pocket.
But the trooper held up his hand again. “Micki’s cold. Why don’t you take her back to the car and let her warm up in there. In fact, I’d like you to pull your vehicle out of the snowbank so I know it’s roadworthy. After that I’ll take that cigarette. Okay, Sergeant?”
With a shrewd smile, Baker did as the trooper asked, leaving Micki cuffed in the car with the window cracked open, the engine running, and the heater on. As an added precaution, he deployed her seatbelt and locked her door, wondering if she even knew how to drive.
The trooper watched Baker stomping back through the snow. The cop was trying to give the impression that the incident was solely a police matter. But it had all the earmarks of a domestic disturbance.
Keeping an eye on his car, Baker offered the trooper a cigarette, then lit one himself. “So is this supposed to be my cooling-off period?” he asked.
“I think you need one.”
Despite a rush of heat, Baker flashed an amiable grin. “Maybe you’re right. But let me tell you, that kid can push my buttons faster than anyone I’ve ever known.” He filled his lungs with smoke, then examined the cigarette pinched between his thumb and index finger. “Y’know, I managed to quit smoking for two years. Two years. But that kid got me started again.”
“Really!” the trooper said. “What happened? She put a cigarette in your mouth and a gun to your head?”
Baker looked up sharply, then appeared to laugh it off, giving the trooper a weak smile. “Fair enough.”
They both smoked.
“She looks familiar,” the trooper said. “Was she the girl that escaped from Heyden over the summer?”
“Yeah, that’s right. How did you know?”
“Small world. My uncle’s a cop in Rensselaer. She’d made her way to one of the college’s summer dorms there, and several students spotted her. My uncle was one of the guys sent to pick her up. He said that when he caught her, she was in pretty bad shape. And with her T-shirt all torn up from running through the woods, he could see infected welts and what looked like cigarette burns on her back.”
“And?” Baker had never heard any of this.
“My uncle took her into custody. Once he drew his gun, she surrendered. But having to take her back to that place weighed on him something fierce. A few weeks later, he got in touch with the Department of Corrections, and it started quite the investigation.”
“But as far as I know,” Baker said, “Micki never even gave a statement to anyone.”
“Warden resigned to shut the whole thing down.”
Baker grunted.
They smoked awhile.
“You’re taking an awful lot of time with this,” Baker said.
“I don’t like what I saw when I pulled in here. I’m trying to decide what to do about it.”
“She can be hard to handle.”
“She was already cuffed.”
“But way out of line.”
“That was a cruel punch.”
“I know how much she can take.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Yeah? Well you should’ve heard what came out of her mouth.”
“Nothing she said could justify what you did.”
“You can say that because you don’t have to deal with her.”
“I’ve got three kids of my own, mister. All teenagers. All boys. All a handful. Do you have any kids of your own?”
Baker looked steadily into the trooper’s icy blue eyes and said, “No. But we’re not talking about just any kid, here. We’re talking about an extremely violent juvenile offender.”
“You said you’re her legal guardian.”
“So what? What’s the difference?”
“It means something to her.”
Using his middle finger, Baker tapped some ashes off his cigarette.
“Did you tell her you wished she was dead?”
With another look heavenward, Baker said, “It’s not the way it sounds.”
“Do you hate her?”
“No, but—”
“Why are you her guardian?”
Baker put the Camel to his lips and inhaled.
“Let me explain my problem,” the trooper said. “What I saw here constitutes assault and battery on a minor—child abuse. Of course, if you insist your relationship with her is strictly as a police officer, we could bring your Internal Affairs Division into this …”
When he stared into the trooper’s eyes, Baker saw beyond the words this time. He looked down. “Sometimes I just don’t know how to control her.”
“No matter what she does, you’ve got to control yourself. If you can’t manage that, you’ll never be able to exert any control over her.”
Gaze still fixed on the ground, Baker nodded.
The trooper’s voice grew soft. “She’s not lost yet. You know that, don’t you?”
But Baker merely looked off into the distance.
The dispatcher’s voice cut in from the cruiser’s radio, and both men threw their cigarettes in the snow. The trooper reached into his vehicle to respond. Turning back to Baker, he said, “Gotta go.” And with measured, deliberate movements, he gave the cop back his gun.
The revolver hadn’t felt this heavy in Baker’s hand in a long, long time.
“You’re her guardian; you’ve been entrusted with caring for her,” the trooper said. “Don’t forget what that means.”
Baker nodded as the trooper got back in his cruiser, turned on the siren, and pulled away.
♦ ♦ ♦
WHEN BAKER RETURNED TO his car, Micki had already dozed off. A solid shake of her shoulder elicited only an unconscious grunt. Still he managed to get at the cuffs to remove them—even reclined her seat as an afterthought. If he hadn’t known better, he would’ve thought she’d been drugged. But five nights without sleep could explain it just as well.
She slept the rest of the ride back, and it was shortly after ten when he finally parked the car on her street. Snowless, the ground appeared oddly barren. He shut off the engine.
“Micki,” he said quietly. “Micki!” And he shook her again.
“Mmm.”
“Wake up. You’re home.”
Her eyes opened, then closed.
“I am not carrying you up those stairs.” He got out of the car, took her bag from the trunk, and opened her door. When the cold air hit her, she mumbled something. He undid the seatbelt, raised her to a sitting position, then let the back of the seat spring upright. But she was still too groggy, and he had to pull her out.
Supporting her on one side, he helped her up the steps. But no sooner were they inside her apartment than she flopped down on the bed. He dropped her bag on the floor and was halfway out the door when he remembered her bankbooks and money. He went back to put them on the table.
♦ ♦ ♦
THE CHAIN-LINK FENCE GLITTERED like diamonds to her left while the pattern of bricks on her right had been transformed into the stone wall surrounding Heyden. Spirals of barbed wire looped endlessly into the blackness up ahead. Heart pounding louder than her feet, she flew down the alley, knowing there was no escape, knowing she was trapped—even though she was dreaming.
So tired. So tired of running. If only this would all just end. She wanted, so badly, to stop.
The brick wall blocking her path appeared more suddenly than it had before, the ground in front splitting in two. Straining to breathe, she teetered on the brink as the pavement before her splintered and shattered, irregular pieces of earth and rock falling through the infinite space of the ever-widening pit. And though there was no discernable source of light, the wall beyond was thrown into deeper shadow as if soon there might be no light at all.
But then a hand reached out of the darkness, reached out across the divide. It was a large hand—a strong hand—but its owner remained shrouded in the surrounding shadows. Palm up in readiness, it grew larger and larger—so huge she could actually step on top and be carried to safety.
Maybe.
The darkness closed in further, cold fingers touching the bare skin of her shoulder. She was falling …
Micki awoke with a start, still feeling the sensation of freefall, still sweating and overheated like she’d been in the dream. Unable to recall getting out of Baker’s car, she struggled to her feet and looked around the apartment, which felt much too warm. She took off her jacket and looked at the clock: almost two. She’d missed another day of school.
Three Devil Dogs, some American cheese, and a large glass of Coke that was flat from being in a half-empty bottle too long—and she was still hungry. She returned her money and bankbooks to their hiding place, then opened her duffle bag. And though it might have been her imagination, the odor of Heyden drifted up. She stripped the bed and gathered her laundry together. There would be just enough time before going to work.
♦ ♦ ♦
ON HIS WAY HOME from the high school, Baker stopped off to find Micki’s apartment empty. If the bare mattress hadn’t looked so repulsive, he would’ve stretched out for a nap while waiting for her to return. As it was, she walked through the door less than five minutes later, arms full of laundry, detergent, and schoolbooks.
Pointing to a folded piece of loose-leaf paper he’d left on her desk, he said, “I brought your homework assignments. Those are yesterday’s and today’s.”
“Like I’m really gonna get t’any of it.”
“Did you at least do some homework over the weekend?”
“Over the weekend? Over the weekend? None! I got none of it done ’cause I didn’t have any books with me. It’s a little tough without the books, don’tcha think?”
He’d never packed her books. He massaged his brow. “I’ll write notes for your teachers. Do the best you can to make it up by the end of the week.”
“I can hardly wait.”
Holding his tongue, he turned to go, then paused in the doorway. “What are you saving for?”
“What?”
“In your bank account—you’re saving money.”
She could feel the heat rising in her face. “College.”
He merely nodded, then left.
♦ ♦ ♦
PHONE IN ONE HAND, cigarette in the other, Baker asked, “How’s your dad doing?”
“Much, much better. Thanks for asking.”
Thanks for asking? Cynthia was being so formal. A misplaced drop of spaghetti sauce had hardened on the Formica tabletop. He picked at it with his fingernail, and a few ashes fell from his cigarette. He brushed them away. “So when do you think you’ll be coming back to the city?”
“Friday maybe.”
“How about Saturday? I could drive up and bring you back.”
“Don’t be silly—that’s insane. That would be an outrageous amount of driving in one day.”
“I was thinking I’d drive up late Friday night.”
“No, that’s really not necessary.”
“I don’t mind, I—”
“No!” Her voice softened. “I—um—I want to thank you for how much you did for my mom and me while you were here. Especially under the circumstances. But the truth is”—she took a deep breath—“and this is hard for me to say, Jim, but”—she paused again—“I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”
Eyes closed, he rested his forehead against the knuckles of his left hand. Cigarette smoke swirled around his face. “You don’t have to sleep with me, Cyn.”
“For godssakes, I need some space! Can’t you understand that?”
“Yeah, I understand that!”
There was silence on the line.
“Can I at least call you?” he asked.
He sounded so plaintive—so hurt. She sighed. “Just give me a little time first, okay?”
He hung up the phone and finished his cigarette in the emptiness of his apartment. Leisurely and relaxed. As if he had all the time in the world.
♦ ♦ ♦
THE PICTURES ON THE screen flashed and changed in the darkness, the TV’s volume so low it was little more than a murmur. Exhaling smoke, Baker poured another drink. The weatherman was predicting a blizzard tomorrow—like they ever got the goddamn weather right. Probably two whole fucking snowflakes would fall.
He thought of all the driving he’d done in the snow and ice in Vermont, numerous trips taking Cynthia and her mom back and forth to the hospital, out to dinner, once even buying groceries while they’d kept watch over her father. Didn’t that mean anything—anything at all? Cynthia had chosen Mr. LA over him, though the wimpy-assed actor hadn’t done a goddamn thing through all this. He was the one; he was the one that was always there for her. But now she was acting like she was doing him a favor by letting him call her. Ungrateful bitch.
He caught his breath and looked about as if someone might’ve heard his thoughts. Then he hung his head. What a self-centered bastard he was. After all, he’d noticed the slight tremor in her voice, knew she’d probably cried her eyes out after hanging up the phone. And still, all he could think about was how she’d wasted his time, how she’d strung him along for more than two years. Two whole years of his life. Wasted.
Glass after glass, the whiskey vanished until all of the words that were shouting in his brain were beaten down and left to bleed behind a thick and heavy wall. And yet his soul was not at peace. For no amount of liquor would ever still what his heart was saying, or silence what he already knew: that he was losing something precious, something he might never have again.
He shut off the TV and stood in the darkness, thinking about the shape of things to come. For now that Cynthia was gone, the moments of his life would be nothing more than pages ripped from a book and cast upon the ocean to be tossed about by the waves, soaking in the very water that would cause them to disintegrate and sink below to the dark, murky bottom, where no light would ever reach, the meaning lost, the words forgotten, never to be seen or heard from again.
Not that anyone would care.