Read Online Swift Edge by Laura Disilverio - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laura Disilverio
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young voice asked.
The overhead lights sprang to life, glaring down on the ice and the old woman crumpled there, red blood oozing from her head and making a halo around the matted gray hair. She’d lapsed into unconsciousness after the one word, and I couldn’t find a pulse. The dent in her forehead and the bloodied cane lying two feet away gave me some idea what had happened.
Screams bounced off the ice and echoed shrilly in the cavernous space as the young skater who’d turned on the lights skidded to a stop several feet away. Her blades stuttering on the ice triggered a memory: That was the sound I’d heard before entering the rink—something sliding across the ice.
I looked around and saw a trail scuffed into the ice, a trail made by shuffling shoes, not skates. It led to the far side of the rink. The first several feet of the marks glimmered red, and I felt sick. This was not a good morning to be hungover.
Swallowing, I looked up at the bug-eyed face of the skinny girl backing away from me. “Can you—”
“Help! Mom! She killed her,” the girl shrieked, spinning and speed-skating for the gate where she’d entered. She thudded into it and let out a squawk.
Running footsteps sounded in the hallway. “Jessica,” a woman’s frantic voice called. Mom. “Are you hurt?”
I ignored Jessica’s boo-hooing, dialing 911. As I waited on the line at the operator’s request, I couldn’t stop shivering, chilled as much by the brutality as by the frigid air.
9
“You look awful, Charlie,” Montgomery said some hours later, following the arrival and departure of the ambulance with Yuliya Bobrova, the influx of crime scene techs and police, and the endless questioning about what I was doing there and what I’d seen and heard. The first cops who responded had aimed guns at me, primed with Jessica’s hysterical assertions that I killed her coach. Montgomery and I were seated in the first tier of spectator seats, cold metal bleachers impressing ridges into my behind and thighs. Yellow crime scene tape roped off the rink, and cops had been posted to send skaters home as they arrived for classes and training sessions. Ice Hall officials hovered on the edge of the action, wanting to know if the hockey practices scheduled for the evening could still go on.
“Nice shiner.” His long finger gently traced the swollen area above my eye.
I resisted the urge to close my eyes. “You wouldn’t happen to have any aspirin, would you?” I asked. I felt beat-up and stained. Despite the twenty minutes I’d spent over the bathroom sink scrubbing at my hands and coat, Bobrova’s blood rimmed my nails and splotched my coat and the hem of my slacks. The fabric was dark enough I could hardly see it, but I knew it was there.
He handed me two Tylenols, and I swallowed them dry. “Is it Monday again?”
“No, it’s Friday. Did you bang your head? Let me see your pupils.”
“I don’t have a concussion.” I pushed his hand away.
“Let’s go over it again,” he said.
I rolled my eyes at him. “I need food.” The two Pepsis and the variety pack of headache medicines I’d consumed roiled in my stomach.
“Come on. I’ll take you to breakfast.” Montgomery helped me to my feet with a hand under my elbow and guided me down the hall that had seemed so spooky earlier. Now it was awash with light and activity. I carried my stained peacoat, not wanting to put it on, and the wind knifed through me when Montgomery opened the door. He guided me over to his car and put the heat on high for me.
Minutes later, I clutched a half-eaten bear claw from a nearby doughnut place while Montgomery stirred creamer into his coffee. Between bites, I ran through my story again. “What do you think happened?” I turned the tables on Montgomery before he could think up any more questions.
“Attempted murder,” he said. “Whoever clobbered her wasn’t messing around. If you hadn’t come in when you did, she’d be dead. Are you
The overhead lights sprang to life, glaring down on the ice and the old woman crumpled there, red blood oozing from her head and making a halo around the matted gray hair. She’d lapsed into unconsciousness after the one word, and I couldn’t find a pulse. The dent in her forehead and the bloodied cane lying two feet away gave me some idea what had happened.
Screams bounced off the ice and echoed shrilly in the cavernous space as the young skater who’d turned on the lights skidded to a stop several feet away. Her blades stuttering on the ice triggered a memory: That was the sound I’d heard before entering the rink—something sliding across the ice.
I looked around and saw a trail scuffed into the ice, a trail made by shuffling shoes, not skates. It led to the far side of the rink. The first several feet of the marks glimmered red, and I felt sick. This was not a good morning to be hungover.
Swallowing, I looked up at the bug-eyed face of the skinny girl backing away from me. “Can you—”
“Help! Mom! She killed her,” the girl shrieked, spinning and speed-skating for the gate where she’d entered. She thudded into it and let out a squawk.
Running footsteps sounded in the hallway. “Jessica,” a woman’s frantic voice called. Mom. “Are you hurt?”
I ignored Jessica’s boo-hooing, dialing 911. As I waited on the line at the operator’s request, I couldn’t stop shivering, chilled as much by the brutality as by the frigid air.
9
“You look awful, Charlie,” Montgomery said some hours later, following the arrival and departure of the ambulance with Yuliya Bobrova, the influx of crime scene techs and police, and the endless questioning about what I was doing there and what I’d seen and heard. The first cops who responded had aimed guns at me, primed with Jessica’s hysterical assertions that I killed her coach. Montgomery and I were seated in the first tier of spectator seats, cold metal bleachers impressing ridges into my behind and thighs. Yellow crime scene tape roped off the rink, and cops had been posted to send skaters home as they arrived for classes and training sessions. Ice Hall officials hovered on the edge of the action, wanting to know if the hockey practices scheduled for the evening could still go on.
“Nice shiner.” His long finger gently traced the swollen area above my eye.
I resisted the urge to close my eyes. “You wouldn’t happen to have any aspirin, would you?” I asked. I felt beat-up and stained. Despite the twenty minutes I’d spent over the bathroom sink scrubbing at my hands and coat, Bobrova’s blood rimmed my nails and splotched my coat and the hem of my slacks. The fabric was dark enough I could hardly see it, but I knew it was there.
He handed me two Tylenols, and I swallowed them dry. “Is it Monday again?”
“No, it’s Friday. Did you bang your head? Let me see your pupils.”
“I don’t have a concussion.” I pushed his hand away.
“Let’s go over it again,” he said.
I rolled my eyes at him. “I need food.” The two Pepsis and the variety pack of headache medicines I’d consumed roiled in my stomach.
“Come on. I’ll take you to breakfast.” Montgomery helped me to my feet with a hand under my elbow and guided me down the hall that had seemed so spooky earlier. Now it was awash with light and activity. I carried my stained peacoat, not wanting to put it on, and the wind knifed through me when Montgomery opened the door. He guided me over to his car and put the heat on high for me.
Minutes later, I clutched a half-eaten bear claw from a nearby doughnut place while Montgomery stirred creamer into his coffee. Between bites, I ran through my story again. “What do you think happened?” I turned the tables on Montgomery before he could think up any more questions.
“Attempted murder,” he said. “Whoever clobbered her wasn’t messing around. If you hadn’t come in when you did, she’d be dead. Are you
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