“If I’m in trouble,” she said, “you won’t be able to reach me in time. Why can’t we put you under the trees someplace, hiding under those trees in the middle of the park? That’s where he hit the last three times. If you’re under the trees there, we won’t have four minutes separating us.”
“Three minutes,” Abrahams said.
“That’s where he hit the last three times,” she said again.
“Suppose he scouts the area this time?” McCann said.
“And spots two guys hiding under the trees there?” Abrahams said.
“He’ll call it off,” McCann said.
“You’ll have the transmitter in your bag,” Abrahams said.
“A lot of good that’ll do if he decides to stick an ice pick in my eye,” Eileen said.
“Voice-activated,” McCann said.
“Terrific,” Eileen said. “Will that get you there any faster? I could yell bloody murder, and it’ll still take you three minutes — minimum — to get from either end of that park. In three minutes, I can be a statistic.”
Abrahams laughed.
“Very funny,” Eileen said. “Only it’s my ass we’re talking about here.”
“I dig this broad,” Abrahams said, laughing.
“That radio can pick up a whisper from twenty-five feet away,” McCann said.
“So what?” Eileen said. “It’ll still take you three minutes to reach me from where you guys want to plant yourselves. Look, Morrie, why don’t you go in? How about you, Mickey? Either one of you in drag, how does that sound? I’ll sit outside the park, listening to the radio,
“I really dig this broad,” Abrahams said, laughing.
“So what do you want to do?” McCann asked her.
“i told you. The trees. We hide you under the trees.”
“Be pointless. The guy combs the park first, he spots us, he knows we’ve got it staked out. That’s what you want to do, we might as well forget the whole thing.”
“Lei him go on raping those nurses there,” Abrahams said.
Both men looked at her.
So that was what it got down to at last, that was what it always got down to in the long run. You had to show them you were just as good as they were, willing to take the same chances they’d have taken in similar circumstances, prove to them you had balls.
“Okay,” she said, and sighed.
“Better take off those earrings,” McCann said.
“I’m wearing the earrings,” she said.
“Nurses don’t wear earrings. I never seen a nurse wearing earrings. He’ll spot the earrings.”
“I’m wearing the earrings,” she said flatly.
So here I am, she thought, ball-less to be sure, but wearing my good-luck earrings, and carrying one gun tucked in my bra, and another gun in my shoulder bag alongside the battery-powered, voice-activated FM transmitter that can pick up a whisper from twenty-five feet away according to McCann, who, by her current estimate, was now two and a half minutes away at the southeast corner of the park, with Abrahams three and a half minutes away at the northwest corner.
If he’s going to make his move, she thought, this is where he’ll make it, right here, halfway through the park, far from the streetlights. Trees on either side of the path, spruces, hemlocks, pines, snow-covered terrain beyond them. Jump out of the trees, drag me off the path the way he did with the others, this is where he hit the last three times, this is where he’ll do it now. The descriptions of the man had been conflicting, they always seemed to be when the offense was rape. One of the victims had described him as being black, another as white. The girl he’d blinded had sobbingly told the investigating officer that her assailant was short and squat, built like a gorilla. The other two nurses insisted that he was very tall, with the slender, muscular body of a weight lifter. He’d been variously described as wearing a business suit, a black leather jacket and blue jeans, and a jogging suit. One of the nurses said he was in his mid-forties, another said he was no older than twenty-five, the third had no opinion whatever about his age. The first nurse he’d raped said he was blond. The second one said he’d been wearing a peaked hat, like a baseball cap. The one he’d blinded — her hand began sweating on the butt of the .38 in her shoulder bag.
It was funny the way her hands always started sweating whenever she found herself in a tight situation. She wondered if McCann’s hands were sweating. Three minutes behind her now, Abrahams equidistant at the other end of the park. She wondered if the transmitter was picking up the clicking of her boots on the asphalt path. The path was shoveled clear of snow, but there were still some patches of ice on it, and she skirted one of those now, and looked into the darkness ahead, her eyes accustomed to the dark, and thought she saw something under the trees ahead, and almost stopped dead in her tracks — but that was not what a good decoy was supposed to do. A good decoy marched right into it, a good decoy allowed her man to make his move, a good decoy—
She thought at first she was hearing things.
Her hand tightened on the butt of the gun.
Somebody whistling?
What?
She kept walking, peering into the darkness ahead, past the midway point now, McCann a bit more than three and a half minutes behind her, Abrahams two and a half minutes away in the opposite direction, still too far away, and saw a boy on a skateboard coming up the path, whistling as he curved the board in graceful arcs back and forth across the path. He couldn’t have been older than thirteen or fourteen, a hatless youngster wearing a blue ski parka and jeans, sneakered feet expertly guiding the skateboard, arms akimbo as he balanced himself, a midnight whistler enjoying the dark silence of the empty park, closer now, still whistling. She smiled, and her hand relaxed on the butt of the gun.
And then, suddenly, he swerved the board into her, bending at the knees, leaning all his weight to one side so that the board slid out from under him, the wheels coming at her, the underside slamming her across the shins. She was pulling the gun from her bag when he punched her in the face. The gun went off while it was still inside the bag, blowing out leather and cigarettes and chewing gum and Kleenex tissues — but not the radio, she hoped, Jesus, not the radio!
In the next thirty seconds, it couldn’t have been longer than that, her finger tightening in reflex on the trigger again, the gun’s explosion shattering the stillness of the night again, their breaths pluming brokenly from their mouths, merging, blowing away on the wind, she thought, remembered, Force part of psychological interplay, he punched her over the breast, Attendant danger of being severely beaten or killed, the gun went off a third time, his fist smashed into her mouth, But he’s just a kid. She tasted blood, felt herself going limp, he was grabbing her right arm, turning her, behind her now, forcing her to her knees, he was going to break her arm, “Let go of it!” yanking on the arm, pulling up on it, “Let go!” her hand opened, the gun clattered to the asphalt.
She tied to get to the feet as he came around her, but he shoved her back onto the path, hard, knocking the wind out of her. As he started to straddle her, she kicked out at him with her booted left foot, white skirts flying, the black heel of the boot catching him on the thigh, a little too low for the money. She wondered how many seconds had gone by now, wondered where McCann and Abrahams were, she’d told them the setup was no good, she’d told them — he began slapping her. Straddling her, slapping her, both hands moving, the slaps somehow more painful than the punches had been, dizzying, big callused hands punishing her cheeks and her jaw, back and forth, her head flailing with each successive slap, his weight on her chest, pressing on her breasts — the gun. She remembered the gun in her bra.