"Think it over, dumb fuck. Who's got a wife? Who's got kids? Come on. Move over. Let me do it. I'll be okay if I keep low. Besides, Tracey'd kill me if I let anything happen to you."
Noah reluctantly crawled back a few paces.
"Shit," he called after her scuttling butt. "Don't make me have to call Maggie."
Frank heard him but didn't hear. She'd seen the almost invisible line tied around a closed doorknob. She traced the line to where it retreated into the doorjamb. She didn't see a connection across the hallway and continued. Sweat tickled the underside of her arms, incongruously erotic, given her state of terror. She eyed the walls. They were lined with snapshots in cheap frames and shelves crowded with knickknacks. Anything could be rigged up there. With amazing recall she remembered every war story she'd ever heard in the Academy or patrol room about walking into booby traps.
Continuing to creep along the carpeted floor, she realized the baby had stopped crying.
Shit, she thought. Hang in there, little guy.
She paused at the open door to an unlit room. Reasoning that the door would likely be primed only when it was closed, she hustled past, glancing into a darkened bedroom. She was bone-jellying grateful as Noah encouraged helplessly, "You're doing great."
"Yeah," she tried to joke. "Think I'll make the back of the Law Enforcement Bulletin?"
"Only if you die."
"You sure know how to make a girl feel good."
She approached a third door. It was open. Frank searched for a telltale line, saw none, and proceeded beyond a brightly lit bathroom. In addition to fingering her way through the dirty brown carpeting, she remembered to check above her head. There she saw an axe head peeking from behind a high framed mirror. She had visions of it flying down at her, as if swung by demons in a horror movie.
"Jesus T. H. Christ," she mumbled, pausing on her elbows, ass low.
"What? What is it?" Noah called.
"He's got a fucking axe up there. Doesn't look like it's wired to anything, though. What a fucking nut."
"Be careful," Noah answered.
"Ain't gonna get up and tango with you, if that's what you're thinking."
"Damn," was the game reply. "One of these days."
"Don't hold your breath, buddy."
The ribbing calmed Frank as she faced two more doors. The one on the right was closed and she easily spotted the rigging on the knob. The door opposite was open. She sidled along the carpet, approaching the darkened doorway until she made out a crib against the curtained windows.
"Hey, little guy," she called to the baby, more to comfort herself than the baby, who was still disquietingly silent.
Using her prior logic, that an open door wouldn't be rigged, she started crawling into the dim room. Rustling, then a gurgle came from the crib, and Frank saw a lump that looked like a baby.
She stopped four feet from the crib, shouting, "Why's this guy booby-trapping his house, Noah?"
The quick answer was, "To keep his wife from stealing the baby?"
"That's what I'm thinking. So what would be the first tiling you'd rig?"
"The baby's room."
"Bingo."
The lump in the crib moved, and large brown eyes looked at Frank.
"Hey," she said to the baby. "If I didn't want anybody to take you the first thing I'd rig would be your crib."
The baby stirred listlessly and Noah asked, "See anything?"
"Uh-uh. That's what's scaring me."
"Is the baby okay?"
"Looks like it."
"Frank, get out of there. If the baby's not bleeding to death or unconscious, let's just wait for demo to get him out. He'll be all right a little longer."
The anxiety in his voice belied the rationality of Noah's suggestion. It sounded like a good idea and Frank weighed it seriously. She asked, "Shouldn't the baby be crying if there's nothing wrong with it?"
"He's probably exhausted. Been crying since yesterday. A few more hours won't kill him."
Christ, Frank thought. What am I doing here? Why didn’t I just leave this for demo?
Then she said to Noah, "In for a penny, in for a pound. Besides, I gotta get on the cover of the Bulletin."
"Next year," Noah whined. "Come on."
Hearing his concern, she was tempted to turn around and crawl back the way she came, but she advanced toward the crib. Stretching gently onto her belly, she swept her fingertips around the bed's legs. Then she raised an arm and fingered the railings for line. She almost pissed her pants when she touched a sprung mattress thread.
The bottom of the crib seemed safe enough, but Frank wondered how to get the baby out without standing.
"Where are you?" Noah asked.
"Right by the crib."
"Shit. Come on, Frank. Let the demo birds do this."
Frank tugged at a blanket on the floor, waited, then pulled it toward her. Waving it above her head, she prepared for a blast. None came. She waved the blanket over the crib with similar results. Still waiting for a gun to go off, Frank slowly raised herself to a kneeling position, a crouch, and then tentatively stood. She reached for the baby.
"I got him!" she yelled to Noah.
She turned with the baby against her chest just as she heard the KABOOM and felt the concussion of the blast pass her head. The blast deafened her but she felt the baby renew its crying and she lifted her head just enough to yell, "I'm okay, No! I'm okay! I got the baby!"
Not sure how she'd tripped the blast, she froze where she was. Remaining face down in the rancid, crumby carpet seemed the best option. Just sit tight and wait for the bomb boys to come. At least wait for her ears to clear, but Frank wanted desperately to be out of this room and out of this house. Her body insisted she move, but her mind demanded she stay. Paralyzed, she'd listened to the warring inside her. Eventually an overpowering need to pee had forced her to scuttle back to Noah.
Tonight, bedeviled by dead friends and lovers, haunted by busted relationships, a precariously maintained job and an incomprehensible craving for alcohol, Frank feels exactly like she did on the floor of that filthy bedroom fourteen years ago. She is terrified to move forward and can't go backward. Stasis seems the only alternative. It's enough just to keep breathing.
Frank imagines calling in sick tomorrow and staying on the couch until she runs out of Scotch. She can call a liquor store and have them deliver more. She'll write checks until she's out of money, and that'll be a long time. She has months' worth of vacation and sick time. She could just sit here until she dies or the bank forecloses and sends her to an institution. Neither ending seems unpleasant, nor implausible.
With marvelous effort she pulls herself upright. Leaning over the guns on the table, she fingers each one.
"You been with me the longest," she addresses the .38. "Outlasted everyone."
She cradles the wheel gun in her left hand.
"Remember that duster that came at me? You saved my ass that time. And that Piru that wanted to eat me for lunch? Saved me then, too. Hell, you had my back first day on the job, with that pig FTO Roper. Don't think I didn't know you were there." Trading the .38 for the .357, she tells it, "He's my boy, but you're my girl."
The barrel is long and blue, as finely turned as a beautiful leg, and Frank easily pulls Gail from her memory drawer.
"Aw, Doc. Best legs in the world. Miss Universe legs. Betty Grable got nothin' on you." Frank draws the satiny barrel across her lips, mumbling, "God, I fucked that up. Righteously and completely fucked it up."