when she sees she is
not alone.
The SUV’s door is open. Its driver is standing alongside her, looking at her. Studying her, in fact, his head cocked to one side like a curious puppy. He is tall and well-groomed. Could be
considered good-looking in other circumstances. And yet there is an absence of empathy in his face that is intensely disturbing.
‘P-Please,’ she says to him through quivering lips. It should be enough. It should tell anyone all they need to know about the predicament of the fellow human being in front of
them.
‘Sorry,’ the man says.
It makes no sense to her. It’s a word that doesn’t seem to fit the situation, as though it has been chosen at random.
In explanation, the man reaches toward her and plucks out the note still clutched between her fingers.
‘Like I said in the note. I’m sorry. About the damage I’ve done to your car.’ He waves the paper at her and smiles. ‘I like to apologize in advance for these
things.’
She tells herself it’s the shock. He cannot really be saying all this. She blinks and fights the shaking that is growing in intensity in her body. She feels cold. So cold. Why
doesn’t he do something?
‘Please,’ she repeats. ‘Help me.’
The man drops his smile. At last he seems to appreciate the seriousness of what he has done.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Of course. Help. You need my help.’
He gets back into his car and closes the door. She looks directly into his eyes through the windshield. She sees the slight jerk of his shoulder as he shifts the vehicle into reverse.
She braces herself and closes her eyes. She hears the pinging of metal and the tinkling of glass and her own cries as the cars separate.
And then she falls.
She knows she has fallen. She knows she has hit the ground. She knows she is alive. Reality is flooding back again.
She opens her eyes but does not look down. She is afraid of what she might see. Her legs must be a mess. Flattened useless ribbons of flesh and bone. She will never walk again. She understands
that now and accepts it. But at least she is alive. On the edge of death, sure. But there’s hope.
Good one, angel, she thinks. You really told me this time. Are you done with me now?
She can almost swear she hears a tiny voice tell her that she should be so lucky.
And so it’s really no big surprise when the SUV comes thundering toward her one last time.
SIX
The first thing Doyle does on Sunday morning is break his promise.
What was that he said to Rachel last night? Something about making it up to Amy, wasn’t it? And is he making it up to Amy? No. Because while Amy is trying to tell him all about what life
is like in her small world, mixing with all kinds of small people doing small things that seem oh so immense to her, her father is just grunting at her while he tries to concentrate on the local
news stories on the television. Grunting so often, in fact, that she eventually gets the message and gives up and requests the cartoon channel for its greater intellectual challenge.
The news programs continue to demand his attention on the journey to work too. Early Sunday morning is the one time of the week when driving to the precinct station house is a comparative
breeze, and so he knows when he finally gets there that he has listened closely to every local story deemed noteworthy enough to be broadcast without listeners wondering what the fuck they are
being told this for. And guess what? A murder in Manhattan did not figure among them. A councilman fracturing his toe – that made it in. A woman suing her cosmetic surgeon for botching an
enhancement job on her buttocks – that made it in too. But homicide? Uh-uh. Not in this city, buddy.
At his desk he reflects on this. What does it mean? Either butt-jobs have leaped ahead of homicides on the scale of what matters most to people these days, or else there was no killing last
night. The caller got it wrong. And if he got that wrong, then the stuff about the
not alone.
The SUV’s door is open. Its driver is standing alongside her, looking at her. Studying her, in fact, his head cocked to one side like a curious puppy. He is tall and well-groomed. Could be
considered good-looking in other circumstances. And yet there is an absence of empathy in his face that is intensely disturbing.
‘P-Please,’ she says to him through quivering lips. It should be enough. It should tell anyone all they need to know about the predicament of the fellow human being in front of
them.
‘Sorry,’ the man says.
It makes no sense to her. It’s a word that doesn’t seem to fit the situation, as though it has been chosen at random.
In explanation, the man reaches toward her and plucks out the note still clutched between her fingers.
‘Like I said in the note. I’m sorry. About the damage I’ve done to your car.’ He waves the paper at her and smiles. ‘I like to apologize in advance for these
things.’
She tells herself it’s the shock. He cannot really be saying all this. She blinks and fights the shaking that is growing in intensity in her body. She feels cold. So cold. Why
doesn’t he do something?
‘Please,’ she repeats. ‘Help me.’
The man drops his smile. At last he seems to appreciate the seriousness of what he has done.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Of course. Help. You need my help.’
He gets back into his car and closes the door. She looks directly into his eyes through the windshield. She sees the slight jerk of his shoulder as he shifts the vehicle into reverse.
She braces herself and closes her eyes. She hears the pinging of metal and the tinkling of glass and her own cries as the cars separate.
And then she falls.
She knows she has fallen. She knows she has hit the ground. She knows she is alive. Reality is flooding back again.
She opens her eyes but does not look down. She is afraid of what she might see. Her legs must be a mess. Flattened useless ribbons of flesh and bone. She will never walk again. She understands
that now and accepts it. But at least she is alive. On the edge of death, sure. But there’s hope.
Good one, angel, she thinks. You really told me this time. Are you done with me now?
She can almost swear she hears a tiny voice tell her that she should be so lucky.
And so it’s really no big surprise when the SUV comes thundering toward her one last time.
SIX
The first thing Doyle does on Sunday morning is break his promise.
What was that he said to Rachel last night? Something about making it up to Amy, wasn’t it? And is he making it up to Amy? No. Because while Amy is trying to tell him all about what life
is like in her small world, mixing with all kinds of small people doing small things that seem oh so immense to her, her father is just grunting at her while he tries to concentrate on the local
news stories on the television. Grunting so often, in fact, that she eventually gets the message and gives up and requests the cartoon channel for its greater intellectual challenge.
The news programs continue to demand his attention on the journey to work too. Early Sunday morning is the one time of the week when driving to the precinct station house is a comparative
breeze, and so he knows when he finally gets there that he has listened closely to every local story deemed noteworthy enough to be broadcast without listeners wondering what the fuck they are
being told this for. And guess what? A murder in Manhattan did not figure among them. A councilman fracturing his toe – that made it in. A woman suing her cosmetic surgeon for botching an
enhancement job on her buttocks – that made it in too. But homicide? Uh-uh. Not in this city, buddy.
At his desk he reflects on this. What does it mean? Either butt-jobs have leaped ahead of homicides on the scale of what matters most to people these days, or else there was no killing last
night. The caller got it wrong. And if he got that wrong, then the stuff about the
Similar Books
