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Authors: Linwood Barclay
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window and get a good look at the baby. He made a fist and banged on the glass. “Open the goddamn door!”
Marla screamed a second time for him to go away.
I was to the car now, fumbling in my pocket for the keys. I’d be able to unlock the doors as quickly as Marla could lock them, but I wasn’t sure that doing so was a good idea. Marla and the baby were better off in that car, at least until the police arrived.
“Matthew!” Gaynor shouted. He ran around to the other side of the car, but before he could reach the back door, Marla leaned over awkwardly, baby still in her arms, and locked it, too. He yanked on the handle a second too late.
“He’s mine!” Marla yelled, her voice muffled by the cocooning effect of the glass.
A woman who’d no doubt heard all the commotion was coming out of a house on the other side of the street. She took two seconds to take in what she was seeing, and ran back inside.
Make the call, I thought.
Gaynor banged on Marla’s window twice with the flat of his hand, then decided to try the driver’s door.
Shit.
Marla hadn’t been able to reach into the front to lock that one.
I raised the remote, hit the button, but I was too late.
Gaynor got the door open and dived in, putting his knees on the driver’s seat so he could reach into the back. As he lunged for Matthew, Marla freed one hand and slapped at his arms.
“Stop!” I shouted. “Stop it!”
I wasn’t sure which of them I was yelling at. I just wanted everything to stop before anyone got hurt.
I got behind Gaynor and put my arms around his waist, tried to pull him back out of the car. He kicked back at me, catching me on the front of the leg, below the knee. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but I kept my hold on him.
“Stop!” I yelled. “We’re trying to help!”
Although, as I said it, I had to wonder at the truth of my words. Maybe I was trying to help, in the sense that I was trying to figure out what had happened here.
But Marla was another story.
Marla had Bill Gaynor’s child, and I was not yet in a position to explain how that had come to pass.
And in that instant, in that millisecond, in the midst of all this chaos, I recalled the bloody smudge on Marla’s door.
Oh, no.
“Give him to me!” he shouted at Marla, who was still hitting any part of him she could catch. She landed a couple of blows on his head.
“Marla! Stop it! Stop it!”
While I struggled with Gaynor, managing to drag him almost all the way out of the car, Marla tucked Matthew under one arm like a football, threw open the back door on the other side, got out, and started to run.
Gaynor managed to turn around—he was younger and in better shape than I was—so that he could push me up against the inside of the driver’s door and drive a fist into my stomach. I let go of him and my knees hit the pavement.
The wind was gone from me. I gasped for air as Gaynor tore around the back of the car and caught up to Marla as she ran across the lawn. As I struggled to my feet, I saw him grab Marla by one arm.
“Go away!” she screamed, twisting her body, shielding the baby from the baby’s father.
Again I yelled, “Wait!”
Gaynor kept his focus on Marla, and his hand on her arm. He was digging his fingers into her flesh, and she was screaming in pain.
“I’ll drop him!”
That did it. Gaynor released his grip on her, took half a step back. For several seconds, everything froze. All you could hear was breathing. Shallow and rapid from Gaynor, his tie askew, hair tousled, arms down at his sides. Marla, jaw dropped, inhaling huge gulps of air. And then there was me, still struggling to get my breathing back to normal after that punch to the gut.
Half doubled over, I came around the car, one arm raised, palm out, in some weak kind of conciliatory gesture.
Gaynor’s wild eyes went from Marla to me and back to Marla. There were tears running down her face, and Matthew was starting to cry, too.
“Please,” Bill Gaynor said to
Marla screamed a second time for him to go away.
I was to the car now, fumbling in my pocket for the keys. I’d be able to unlock the doors as quickly as Marla could lock them, but I wasn’t sure that doing so was a good idea. Marla and the baby were better off in that car, at least until the police arrived.
“Matthew!” Gaynor shouted. He ran around to the other side of the car, but before he could reach the back door, Marla leaned over awkwardly, baby still in her arms, and locked it, too. He yanked on the handle a second too late.
“He’s mine!” Marla yelled, her voice muffled by the cocooning effect of the glass.
A woman who’d no doubt heard all the commotion was coming out of a house on the other side of the street. She took two seconds to take in what she was seeing, and ran back inside.
Make the call, I thought.
Gaynor banged on Marla’s window twice with the flat of his hand, then decided to try the driver’s door.
Shit.
Marla hadn’t been able to reach into the front to lock that one.
I raised the remote, hit the button, but I was too late.
Gaynor got the door open and dived in, putting his knees on the driver’s seat so he could reach into the back. As he lunged for Matthew, Marla freed one hand and slapped at his arms.
“Stop!” I shouted. “Stop it!”
I wasn’t sure which of them I was yelling at. I just wanted everything to stop before anyone got hurt.
I got behind Gaynor and put my arms around his waist, tried to pull him back out of the car. He kicked back at me, catching me on the front of the leg, below the knee. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but I kept my hold on him.
“Stop!” I yelled. “We’re trying to help!”
Although, as I said it, I had to wonder at the truth of my words. Maybe I was trying to help, in the sense that I was trying to figure out what had happened here.
But Marla was another story.
Marla had Bill Gaynor’s child, and I was not yet in a position to explain how that had come to pass.
And in that instant, in that millisecond, in the midst of all this chaos, I recalled the bloody smudge on Marla’s door.
Oh, no.
“Give him to me!” he shouted at Marla, who was still hitting any part of him she could catch. She landed a couple of blows on his head.
“Marla! Stop it! Stop it!”
While I struggled with Gaynor, managing to drag him almost all the way out of the car, Marla tucked Matthew under one arm like a football, threw open the back door on the other side, got out, and started to run.
Gaynor managed to turn around—he was younger and in better shape than I was—so that he could push me up against the inside of the driver’s door and drive a fist into my stomach. I let go of him and my knees hit the pavement.
The wind was gone from me. I gasped for air as Gaynor tore around the back of the car and caught up to Marla as she ran across the lawn. As I struggled to my feet, I saw him grab Marla by one arm.
“Go away!” she screamed, twisting her body, shielding the baby from the baby’s father.
Again I yelled, “Wait!”
Gaynor kept his focus on Marla, and his hand on her arm. He was digging his fingers into her flesh, and she was screaming in pain.
“I’ll drop him!”
That did it. Gaynor released his grip on her, took half a step back. For several seconds, everything froze. All you could hear was breathing. Shallow and rapid from Gaynor, his tie askew, hair tousled, arms down at his sides. Marla, jaw dropped, inhaling huge gulps of air. And then there was me, still struggling to get my breathing back to normal after that punch to the gut.
Half doubled over, I came around the car, one arm raised, palm out, in some weak kind of conciliatory gesture.
Gaynor’s wild eyes went from Marla to me and back to Marla. There were tears running down her face, and Matthew was starting to cry, too.
“Please,” Bill Gaynor said to
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