Ariel

 

My left eye is swelling shut, there’s a throbbing pain in my head, and I expect Davie to barge in at any moment. It won’t be long until they’ll discover that I don’t have all of the money, just some of it.

Some of it paid for a down payment on the apartment. I guess they could always sell it and get the money back. That gives me a little hope. But only a little.

It’s dark outside, and I haven’t seen or heard from anyone. I can’t sleep. Not for worrying about what will happen next. If he did this from just asking about his money, what will he do when he finds out it’s not all there?

Sometime during the night, I doze off and wake to sunlight streaming through the window. I can barely see out of my left eye, and I’m afraid to look into the mirror.

The door swings open, and in strolls Davie with a half-empty drink in his hands. The alcohol seems to have calmed him some. “It seems you have a short reprieve. There are FBI agents posted outside, but as soon as my men get a chance . . .” He winks and takes a swig of his drink.

If I can only put the liquid medicine in his drink, but it’s impossible while he’s holding it.

“You better hope my money is there.” One last drink and he turns around and stalks out, leaving my hands trembling by my sides.

No knock or warning of any kind, and in walks a large burly man carrying a plate of eggs and toast. Honestly, I’m surprised they’re feeding me. He doesn’t speak as he sets the tray on a table and walks out. I hear the loud click of the lock.

That night, Davie pays me another visit. The look in his eyes is more terrifying than when I first saw him. He drains his glass of dark liquid, and by the looks of him, it’s not his first drink. Frank always became violent when he drank, but when Davie’s eyes roam the length of me, I want to cover up.

He sets his glass down and stalks over. I take small steps backward as my breathing becomes shallower. One hands snakes around my waist, slamming my body against his. I try to push away, but he’s too strong.

His lips brush my ear as he says, “If I can’t get my money, I’ll take it other ways. You owe me.”

No! No no no no. With as much strength as I can muster, I pound his chest with my trapped fists. He laughs, the sound so menacing my toes curl. Just as his hand snakes under the skimpy dress, rapid gunfire sounds in the distance.

Everything turns to chaos. Another man rushes in and speaks to Davie in hushed tones. Davie’s face transforms to worry.

More gunfire.

Somewhere down the hall I hear, “FBI . . . Drop your weapons!”

Davie yanks me to him once again, my back to his front. He grabs the knife that’s strapped to his ankle. The blade is cold, sharp, as he presses it to my neck. “I am not going to prison,” he whispers in my ear with a flat, determined voice. I’m frozen in place facing the door when it bursts open and three people rush in with weapons drawn.

Tears stream down my face. I swallow my whimpers of fear and pain as he presses the tip of the blade into my skin.

“Drop the knife,” the one in front says, his eyes never leaving Davie.

Davie presses harder, and I feel a trickle of blood running down my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Let me go or I’ll kill her.”

I have no doubt he’ll do it, too.

“That’s not going to happen. The only one that will die today is you. Choose.”

Just as I think he’s going to drop the knife, I feel it slice into my throat.

Shots fire.

Blood gushes in my hand as I cup my throat.

Davie’s grip on me releases, and I hear a heavy thump behind me.

A man rushes forward and catches me before I hit the floor. “I’ve got you,” he says as he scoops me up in his arms. He carries me from the house as if I weigh nothing.

Outside, I hear at least one chopper overhead, maybe more. People wearing FBI jackets are everywhere but all I can think is today is the day I will die.

With me still in his arms, the agent climbs into the back of a waiting helicopter and yells, “Let’s go!” and we take off.

It’s a short ride. At the hospital, the staff hurries out with a gurney while the guy gently lays me on it. They rush it inside, and in the distance, I see my rescuer standing there, watching, with my blood on his hands.

“What do we have?” the doctor asks while the nurses place gauze over my throat, someone else places an oxygen mask over my face, and I feel a stick in the bend of my arm. Everything is happening so fast.

“A knife wound to the throat,” a female voice says.

The doctor leans over, and I see his round rimmed glasses and sagging skin as he stares at my neck. “I need to take a quick look.” I feel him lift the gauze. He twists his head to get a look from different angles and then says, “It’s not as bad as it looks.” Looking up at someone in the room, he says, “Call the OR.”

Surgery? The doctor leans over and says, “The knife barely nicked the carotid, but it needs to be repaired right away.”

I’m whisked away, the ceiling tiles passing by quickly until I’m in the OR. Someone else is leaning over me. He’s wearing a blue hospital cap and a mask. “I’m Dr. Arnold, the anesthesiologist, and I’m going to give you some medicine in your IV.”

I feel strange.

Warm.

My eyes close.