Chapter 25
The following morning, we go through our morning routine as if nothing’s happened.
By my second cup of coffee, I’m starting to think maybe I imagined that cataclysmic kiss.
Maybe what really happened last night is that I fell asleep on the couch drooling and he poked me in the side to wake me up.
Maybe I snapped from the embarrassment and hallucinated the kiss to protect myself.
But when he drops me off at work, he comes over to my side of the truck to open the door. He presses a kiss to my temple and grins at my little confused frown.
“We’ll talk tonight, huh?” he says.
I nod and sneak a look over my shoulder at him when I reach the metal door.
Mack’s still waiting. He even rolled down the backseat window so Mooch could grin at me one last time.
Mack claims it’s “bring your dog to work day” at Haven Customs. Apparently, Mooch gets along really well with the office manager’s mastiff--they wrestle and run into people and generally wear themselves out.
I wonder if Mack is waiting to make sure I get into the building safely. The thought makes my heart twinge--it’s been a long time since someone else was looking out for me.
That’s one of the weird things about all your family being gone--there’s no one to call when your water heater breaks or you have a flat on the side of the road. No one but a plumber or a tow truck, anyway. It’s a heady thing to realize that I’m pretty sure I have someone I can call now.
The second I finish stashing my stuff into a locker and step into the hall, I get waylaid by Mack’s Nana, Mrs. Norris. I shift guiltily and wonder if she saw Mack drop me off this morning.
Her eyes are bright, her smile contagious. “I hear that you and my MacArthur are dating.”
“We're not dating,” I say, “just spending a lot of time together.”
She flits her hand through the air. “Oh I know how funny you young people are about labeling things, but whatever you call it, he's quite taken with you.”
I smile and shake my head and look for any plausible way to end the conversation.
If Mack didn't have a protective streak as wide as his biceps, we probably never would have seen each other again after sharing that first soda. Guys like that aren't exactly breaking down my front door. I wince. Except maybe they are, just in the completely wrong way.
“He's such a lovely young man,” she says. “Do you know that when he was a little boy, he had the most beautiful leaf collection you ever saw? He used to spend so much time out in nature.”
I grin, wondering how it's possible that she’s still describing Mack as if he's some vegan commune member who goes to drum circles on the regular. He’s the hottest guy I’ve ever met--possibly the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. And Mrs. Norris makes him sound like a tree-hugging dweeb.
“Anyway, I won't pressure you for details,” she says, laying her wrinkled hand on my arm again. “I just want you to know that I completely approve.”
She gives me a little twinkling of her fingertips and turns and hurries down the hall. I can't help but notice that she's heading to Mr. Humphrey’s room. Good for her. IU head for the back door.
Running into Mrs. Norris has me thinking of Mack, and on a whim, I put an idea into motion that I’ve had ever since we went through Alex's phone records. I pull up a picture of Dick Clark's Rockin' New Year's Eve and send it to Mack with no caption.
I don't have to wait long. A few seconds later, the three dots appears and he texts back, what's this?
I reply, think about it.
About three minutes later, my phone buzzes in my pocket where I am checking Mr. Frangeli's bandage. I snap off my gloves, wash my hands, and fish my phone out of my pocket.
Mack figured it out. I laugh when I see he’s sent me a picture of Dick Cheney.
We move through the famous Dicks pretty quickly as the morning goes on. Later, my phone buzzes and I laugh again--it’s the Oscar Meyer Weiner Mobile.
Careful, I text back. If we move on from guys named Dick to things that resemble dicks, I’m a nurse. I have the advantage.
Do your worst, he texts back.
The morning flies by in a flurry of catch-up and paperwork from my days off.
Add to that the fact that several residents have the flu, and it’s nearly eleven before Caitlin and I can take a break for coffee.
She’s already texted that she’s going to be about five minutes late, so I grab my iced coffee in the lobby, thinking I’ll check my personal emails and send Mack another picture while I wait.
I’ve already sent him a picture of a closed speculum and Dr. Shaeffer’s weird reflex hammer, (both clean and nowhere near a patient, obviously), and Mack has returned the favor with a bulbous ratchet and some kind of phallic-shaped grease gun.
When I walk out of the back door--the one that faces our decrepit picnic table and the parking lot--I'm still smiling. I think that makes it hurt even worse when the man rushes me and punches me in the face.
I drop my iced coffee and it explodes when it hits the pavement, splashing both of us.
I always thought I would scream if something like this happened to me, but as the guy drags me across the asphalt, all I can manage is a shocked sort of grunt.
I'm still on my feet, but I don't feel fully conscious.
A few seconds later, when I realize he's dragging me towards a car, I start to fight.
I've watched enough crime TV to realize that if they get you into a car and take you to a second location, your odds of surviving go way down.
I slap and kick at him and even manage to shriek. My scrub top rips in the scuffle.
I'm not even putting up that great of a fight. I’m not trying to take the guy down--I'm just trying to get away from the car.
I'm dimly aware that it's my car, Goldie, that he's dragging me towards.
It's another thing that makes no sense, another thing that my brain can't comprehend.
Because I didn't drive it in this morning. I left it parked in my driveway.
All my fighting is for nothing-- the guy wrestles me into the huge trunk and slams the lid. I only have enough time to yank my hand back before he shuts the heavy lid on it. In the darkness of the trunk I scrabble around for the trunk release until I remember it’s too old to have one.
I take a shuddering breath. My heartbeat echos in my ears, making a shrill whine. Wait, that's not my heartbeat. The shrill scream is coming from somewhere in the distance, outside the car. But I hear the driver's side door slam, and the engine turns over.
Except, for the very first time I can ever remember, Goldie doesn't start.
There's a loud masculine curse. That’s when something hits the side of the car from the outside.
I can hear the screaming more loudly now.
It's Caitlin, using every bad word I've ever heard and some I'm pretty sure she invented.
The man yells something. By the way the car is shaking, I can tell there's a scuffle going on. I'm torn between the desire to want to listen and the need to let someone know I'm in the trunk. I start screaming too. It’s all I can do to help--draw attention.
A gunshot roaring through the air shuts me up. Glass shatters somewhere above my head. I roll into a ball to make myself a smaller target. Another gunshot cracks, then another, and Goldie lists to the side.
Whatever's happened in the front seat is over. I don't hear anyone anymore. Sweat has plastered my hair to my forehead and neck. My hip is digging into the metal of the trunk. I don't know if it’s safer to be quiet or keep making noise.
Right as I’m trying to get the courage to scream again, the trunk flies open, blinding me.
But it’s not Caitlin or the guy who punched me, like I expect. It’s old Mr. Heckler, holding a handgun that would have made Dirty Harry proud. It’s quite the addition to his outfit of brown polyester, pleat-front pants and Hawaiian button-down.
Mr. Heckler frowns down at me like it’s my fault I'm in the trunk. “Well,” he finally says. “Come on out.”
He walks slowly back to his shiny red mobility scooter. I gingerly climb out of the trunk.
“What happened?”
“You almost got yourself kidnapped,” he said, easing himself carefully back onto the padded seat. “Thank goodness the liberals haven’t stripped us of all our God-given rights, yet.”
He pats his gun fondly. I blink myself past all the things I could say.
“Are you supposed to have that? I thought Shady Lake had a no-guns policy.”
Yes, it’s a dumb thing to say, considering the guy probably just saved my life. But I think I’m still a bit in shock. If I weren’t, I might have thought to ask what happened to the bad guy, or what happened to Caitlin.
“I got special permission, seeing as through I’m a veteran and I wanted to keep it. Who else is going to defend this place if Germany wants to try for round number three?”
There’s lots to unpack there, but I let all of it slide. I'm too tired to ask questions. “Thank you, Mr. Heckler.”
“Remember me on homemade ice cream night!” Then he toots his horn as he zooms off.
“Caitlin?” I suddenly gasp.
“Over here.”
I round the car and find her sitting on her butt, her legs spread out in front of her, her arms propping her up.
“Just taking a little resty-poo,” she says, breathing hard. “Just trying not to have a little menty-b.”
“What happened to--”
Caitlin tips her chin toward Goldie’s cab. Thank goodness the guy is apparently slumped over in there so I can't see him well, but by the blood spray and the chunks splattered across the inside of the windshield, I can tell he didn’t make it.
My legs wobble; I sit down hard next to Caitlin. “I think this is a great spot for a rest.”
“It sure seemed like it. Almost as nice as our table. A shame I chucked my coffee at that guy, though.”
“Yeah, me too.” It sounds better than admitting I dropped it when he hit me.
“I need to do more cardio,” she wheezes. “I can barely sprint even when there's a really good reason to.”
We sit there for a moment. I’m surprised how quiet it is. Mr. Heckler fired at least three shots--you’d think someone would have noticed. Then again, ninety percent of the residents have some sort of hearing problem.
“So what’s with you and Mack?” she asks.
I shake my head. Despite everything that’s happened, I start to laugh. Leave it to Caitlin to pretend that everything’s normal, to pick up on our coffee date even though we’re sitting three feet from a guy who just got his head blown off.
At the thought, I groan and rub at my face. “Do you think death cleaners do vehicles?”
“I think this might have been Goldie’s last ride, sweetheart.” Caitlin says it with a sympathetic smile on her face, like she knows how much the car means to me.
It’s true--even though I grumble about the paint job sometimes, it was my parents’ car, and then my Grandma drove it. Goldie is special.
“Well, if it was, she went out with style,” I say, my nose pinching.
“Yeah. Did I hear that right? Goldie didn’t start?” Caitlin raises her eyebrows.
“For the first time ever.”
“What a good girl!” Caitlin grins. “I can almost forgive her for all those times I burnt my ass on her pleather seats.”