Sydney Ryan - High-Heeled Alibi

“We’re here,” she said, sounding like the gracious hostage.

“Shut the garage door.”

She did as he said. The door dropped, sealing her farther off from salvation. After its final rattle, she saw the shock of blond hair first, rising cautiously. His eyes, alert, canvassed the inside of the garage, the side door. The pressure against her back stayed. “This is where you live?”

Bitsy nodded.

“Alone?”

She nodded again.

“Any animals? A dog? A cat?”

She shook her head.

“If we step inside and I find out otherwise, I’ll kill them.”

“There’s only me.”

“All right. Let’s go.”

She got out of the car and he was immediately right behind her, gripping her upper arm. She tried to step and her knees buckled. He caught her. The dull point of the gun, covered by the sheet folded across his arm, pressed into her ribs. The heat of his body mixed with the heat of her fear.

“You should get a pet,” he suggested as they headed with awkward steps to the side door. “A little dog or a cat, maybe.”

At the door, he bent over and picked up the keys that had fallen from her shaking hands. “It’s not good to live all alone.” He inserted the key into the door, but before he turned it, the door swung open.

He looked down at Bitsy.

“I must’ve left it unlocked last night,” she said. “I was in a hurry.”

He twisted the key out, watching her. “You should be more careful,” he advised, then pushed her inside.

As soon as he released her, Bitsy took several steps into the house, but her progress was stopped abruptly.

“Bravo, Bitsy,” a woman’s voice said. “You finally brought home a live one.”

Lanie stepped into the kitchen. She wore a pair of Bitsy’s shorts, a T-shirt and a pair of turquoise flip-flops with plastic butterflies along their straps. A tall black witch’s hat sat on the kitchen table atop the heaped remains of the rest of the costume. The woman’s well-placed features resembled Bitsy’s, except, as she crossed her arms and leaned against the refrigerator, Lanie’s held the wry amusement of an older cousin who’d always enjoyed the advantage of power by birth date alone.

“Lanie,” Bitsy warned.

As the name left her mouth, Mick grasped her wrist and pulled her tightly against him in a false embrace. At her hip bone, his other hand pressed the gun into her belly. She instinctively recoiled. He released her wrist to wrap his arm around her neck, pressing her mouth closer to his.

“Don’t,” he whispered like a deadly kiss.

She felt the length of cool steel, its hard edge against the yield of flesh. The heat of her blood rose. The pulse in her throat beneath his palm quickened. All reasoning left her. Only instinct allowed her to speak in a breathless tone to her cousin.

“What are you doing here, Lanie?”

“I had a fight with Roy last night. Just because he was dressed as Casper the Friendly Ghost didn’t mean he could spend half the night in a corner with a Wonder Woman wannabe. So, I crashed here. How come you didn’t show up? Oops, dumb question. I can see—”

“Lanie?” Bitsy’s voice sounded more strangled than passionate.

“Yes, right.” Lanie misinterpreted the urgency in her cousin’s voice. “I can see you’re occupied, so I’ll just discreetly let myself out.”

Lanie gathered her costume, plopping the witch’s hat on her head. As she passed them, she tugged on the sheet wrapped around Mick’s middle. “It seems my cousin and I share the same fondness for friendly ghosts.”

She gave Mick a wink, flashed a smile at Bitsy and was gone. The side door banged, then all was quiet. Bitsy was once again alone with a madman.

“She doesn’t live here,” Bitsy blurted. “I had no idea she’d be here.”

They stood, breast to chest, thigh to thigh, belly to belly, only a metal snout and a chamber of bullets between them. Bitsy found Mick’s eyes, hot and bright.

“She’s gone. Let me go.”

“I didn’t hear a car leave.”

“She lives four blocks over, three houses down.”

Mick muttered an obscenity, his breath warm and unwashed on her. She held his gaze, her thoughts the same as his. Lanie strolls home, slips the waiting Canaan Courier out of the mailbox or snaps on the 6:00 a.m. news, and sees a picture of her little cousin’s one-night stand splashed across the front page or flashed on the screen. He shouldn’t have let her go. He made a mistake. A sly satisfaction spread though Bitsy’s veins.

Mick’s jaw set. “Where’s a phone?”

She tipped her head to the left, where a cordless phone on its charger sat on the small table against the wall.

“Get it.” He released her. The relief drove her backward and made her light-headed. The gun stayed trained on her abdomen. The light-headed moment passed. She took two more steps backward and picked up the phone.

He reached for it, clasped it in one hand and punched in the number, his gaze aimed at her.

“It’s me,” he said to whoever picked up at the other end. A pause followed as he listened. His lips close to the mouthpiece, he then said, “He’s dead. Only one death reported.” Another pause, the silence laden.

“No, don’t come in. Too much risk. Too many involved.” His gaze was as steady on her as the gun. “I’ll meet you. I have resources. Find out what you can. I’ll call.” He paused. “Only as a last resort.” Another beat, then he said, “I have a guest.” A metallic tone had infused his voice. No expression lit his hard face. Bitsy stared at the dull silver gun, stifling an impulse to let her knees buckle.

“I’ll be in touch.” He disconnected and handed Bitsy the phone.

“Who’s dead?” she asked, surprised at her voice’s remote quality.

“We need clothes, any cash, food.” He ignored her question. “An ATM card, a cell phone and charger.” He ticked the items off as if they were on their way to a weekend in the wine country.

When she didn’t move, he reached for her arm. She recoiled and stood strong. Mick’s gaze snapped to hers. It was a matter of wills now, even as the piercing fear deep and unspeakable, welled up, pushing at her limits and she grieved for her lost courage.

“If I was going to kill you, I would have by now.” He sounded weary. Neither of them had slept.

She regarded him in the yellow, florid light. He was a mystery, a danger, yet he made her want to believe in him. Her anger at this parlor trick was like a keen rising in her head and much more valuable than her fear.

“We have to go now, or we won’t have a chance.” He continued the ruse. Her anger was to the point of blaring.

“I’m not the one wanted by the police, Mick.” His name sounded hard on her tongue.

His smile wasn’t warm. “No, the people who want you are much more dangerous.”

“Only one man is holding a gun on me now.”

His lips pulled back farther from his teeth in a devil’s grin. “Right now you’re lucky.” He glanced at the wall clock. Bitsy estimated her cousin should be cutting though McGilicuddy’s backyard with its plastercraft planters and ceramic gnomes. Mick gestured with the gun toward the entryway into the rest of the house. “Clothes, cash, food,” he said as if ordering from a Chinese menu.

Her gut turning, Bitsy backed out of the room, feeling it fatal not to face him. Under the weight of his eyes, she moved, startled when she hit the doorjamb, then she was in the hall, the tidy living room with its coordinated furniture and the Roman shades she’d bought on end-of-the-season clearance from Sears.

“Clothes, Mick?” Her lips thinned and her voice mocked. “Unless you’re a misses size six, you’re SOL.”

He didn’t look worried and that made her wonder. “The clothes are for you.” His heavy gaze dropped, then sidled back up her until her skin prickled.

“You’re afraid I’ll look conspicuous?” She returned the same once-over. “And you won’t?”

He moved toward her as she spoke, forcing her farther down the hall, a frantic pitch of resistance and disbelief vibrating inside her.

“Do I look like a worried man, Bitsy?” His voice softened, designed to throw her off balance more than a sharp pitch.

They were almost to her bedroom with its slightly sleazy black-lacquered furniture and oversize Georgia O’Keeffe framed floral prints. The bathroom was to their left. Bitsy stopped.

“What?” Impatience cracked Mick’s voice.

She screwed up her forehead, her eyes becoming larger, the pupils contracted. “I have to go.”

His features showed no sign of his impatience easing. Her fear and anger remained near at hand. Her resolve strengthened. She shrugged, took a step toward the bathroom door as if she didn’t need his permission.

His hand snapped around her wrist.

“What?” She twisted her arm but he held firm. “I can’t go to the bathroom?”

With the gun, he pushed back the half-opened door and pulled her into the bathroom with him. He scanned the room, the small narrow window with its lowered vinyl mini-blinds, the teal-and-peach ceramic tile halfway up the walls, the shower curtain with pink flamingos stretched across the tub.

“Okay.” He thrust her toward the toilet as he let go of her wrist.

“Okay?” she blurted. “What do you expect me to do? Go at gunpoint?”

He stepped past her, pushed up the blinds and checked the window’s lock. Bitsy glanced in the mirror over the sink, gave a sharp intake of breath.

“What?” Mick wheeled from the secured window.

Bitsy peered at her reflection, the sunken eyes, the skin gray with fatigue and stress beneath the garish remains of her makeup. “I knew you looked like crap, but I didn’t think I looked this bad.” She pushed a lank lock of hair off her brow.

Mick stepped back. “You’ve got one minute. I’ll be right outside.”

He rounded the door, pulling it half-closed behind him. She waited for it to close totally.

It didn’t.

“You’re not going to close the door?”

“Fifty seconds.” His shoulder and arm, the gun dangling in his hand, were visible at the door’s edge.

“What do you think I’m going to do?” She pulled down her stockings, panties. “Hang myself from the shower?”

“Forty-five seconds.”

“Pull out the .44 I keep in the back of the toilet tank?”

“Thirty-five seconds.”

“You’re not making this any easier.” She rattled the toilet paper holder, ripped off a length.

“Thirty seconds.”

She flushed, pulled up her panties, adjusted her stockings, twisted the hot and cold water faucets all the way open.

“Ten seconds.”

“I’m washing my hands,” she yelled back.

“Five, four…”

The water stopped. “I’m drying my hands.”

“Three, two…” The door started to swing open.

“One,” Bitsy yelled, aimed the value-size can of extra-hold hair spray at Mick’s face and sprayed full force into his surprised blue eyes. She heard a guttural gurgle as she pushed past him. His hands reached for her but, blinded, he only found a fistful of the hairpiece she’d added to last night’s costume. She jerked her head hard as he yanked the opposite way, and the hairpiece ripped loose. She ran. She was down the hall, into the kitchen when he came behind her, spewing passionate oaths aimed at her and her children and her children’s children. She heard him hit something hard and curse loudly. She looked frantically for her car keys but didn’t see them on the table or counters. She was running out of time. Undoing the lock on the side door, she dashed out, slamming the door behind her. Freedom was her wildly delicious, delirious last thought…till she ran head-on into a mountainous, unmoving mass. She bounced back onto the concrete floor and was knocked out cold.