What aggravated the hell out of me, in the brief time I had for reflection, was the thought of all the time and energy I wasted learning to fight. Success at hand-to-hand combat is predicated on traction and balance, on the landing of solid kicks, on strikes with knuckles, elbows, and knees. I thought about all the orderly exercises I’d participated in, learning self-defense. In class, grabbing your opponent’s arm gave you sufficient leverage to turn the tables on him, dispatching your assailant with speed. Hair grabs and forearm blocks, heel stomps to your attacker’s instep, a chop to the back of his neck. Head butt, followed by elbow smash to the solar plexus. I could flip my opponent with the best of them. I couldn’t remember a training scenario in which I’d been flung to the floor while my aggressor stopped my breathing by the leaden application of dead weight, mouth and nose blocked until death ensued. I pictured the books on self-defense with the stern admonitions to jab your attacker’s eyes while you snapped a knee to his groin. In my current prone position, none of that was possible. I was going to die here and I wanted my money back.
I was tipping toward the swelling black. My hearing had begun to fade and a rising tone sounded in my head. The good news was that the pain was beginning to recede. It crossed my mind that you never think you’re going to die until you do.
He pressed his cheek against mine, and I realized he’d eased the weight of his knee and he was no longer pinching my nose shut. This allowed me to take in a teaspoon of air, for which I was profoundly grateful. He was whispering and it took me a moment to hear what he was saying. I expected to hear threats until it occurred to me that a threat would be silly when he was already in the process of killing me. I was still immobilized, but he’d eased his weight just enough for me to suck in a bit more air; not enough for normal breathing, but enough to ease my panic. I blinked and took stock.
His breath against my ear was hot, a cloud of Listerine fumes disguising whatever he’d eaten earlier. His voice was strained. Despite the efficiency with which he’d taken me down, he’d had to exert himself, and even though my struggle was minimal, his efforts had taken a toll. He whispered hoarsely, as though short of breath himself. When I’d seen him at April’s, I remember thinking he was soft. Judging from his pasty complexion and the bags under his eyes, I’d assumed he was weak. A miscalculation on my part.
He said, “I’m good at this. Really good, because I’ve had lots of practice. I can bring you back from the brink or take you out so far you’ll never get back. Are you hearing me?”
He seemed to be waiting for a response, but I couldn’t manage it. Warm breath against my ear. “Listen carefully,” he went on. “You have to stop, okay? Don’t insert yourself in business that’s none of your concern.”
I tuned him out, rejoicing at the feeling of air on my face. The pressure had lessened just enough for me to take in half breaths. I wanted to gulp. I wanted to suck huge mouthfuls down into my lungs. I didn’t want to hear what he had to say, but just in case it was pertinent, I decided I better pay heed.
“Leave it alone. What’s done is done and nothing will change the facts. Do you understand? No more of this.”
I couldn’t nod. I couldn’t even move my head. He was so matter-of-fact, it was disconcerting. If I screamed, if I even managed to moan (which I wasn’t capable of in any event), the mouth and nose clamp would come back. The idea filled me with horror.
“Don’t make me come after you again.” He spoke as though it pained him to spell it out, but anything that transpired from this time forward would be my fault.
He got up. The absence of pressure was so sudden, I thought I might be levitating. I didn’t hear the office door close behind him, but I knew he was gone. I pulled myself up onto my hands and knees and then to my feet. I staggered shakily as far as the guest chair and sank into it. My chest hurt. I could feel darkness gather, my peripheral vision closing in. It would be odd to faint when I’d just stumbled back from the brink of unconsciousness.
I put my head between my knees and waited for the shimmering blackness to go away. I was clammy at the core and a line of sweat trickled down my face in a rush of heat and ice. I could still feel the weight of his knee. I could feel the warmth of his palm across my mouth, the fleshy clothespin of his fingers pressing my nostrils shut. My heart was still thumping hard, apparently not in receipt of the news that we were alive. Or perhaps not convinced.
AND IN THE END . . .
In my final report, I must warn you there’s good news and bad. In the bad news department, Ned Lowe vanished. By the time Cheney Phillips reached the Lowes’ residence in Cottonwood, he was already gone. While Cheney was quizzing Celeste about Ned, he was busy burking me on my office floor.
Celeste said her husband had packed everything in the Argosy Motorhome after dinner the night before. At two in the morning, she’d been awakened by the sound of the vehicle pulling out of the drive. No note, no good-bye, no hint as to his destination. When Cheney suggested she call the bank, she discovered that Ned had emptied their checking and savings accounts, which suggested he was on his way out of one life and onto something else. Maybe this was the big change he’d mentioned to her.