Клео Коул - Through The Grinder

“No.”

“Turn around. We’re taking a walk.” She cocked the gun. I looked into her eyes. She was ready to fire and we both knew it.

Bruce was coming. He’d be here very soon. Matteo was coming back, too. If I could just stall her…

“Okay,” I said. “Okay…where do you want to go?”

“First to the front door….”

She told me to lock the door. I turned the key back and forth, but I didn’t actually lock the door. I locked and unlocked it. Clearly, she thought I had obeyed her.

“Let’s go. To the stairs.”

I tried to walk slowly, but she jammed the gun into my ribs and pushed. We climbed past the second floor and third, past my duplex door and all the way up to the highest landing of the service staircase. Before us stood the door to the roof.

On the way up I’d been careful to push each door all the way open. I had told Bruce I’d be upstairs, so if these stair doors were left open and my duplex door was locked, I prayed he’d follow the obvious lead and come up to the roof, which was clearly where we were headed.

“Unbolt the door.”

I turned the heavy lock at the center of the roof door, retracting the thick bolts backward from the wall.

“Let’s go,” she barked, and we were out on the snowy roof, the door standing wide open behind us.

The wind was whipping off the river and it lashed my body with icy blasts. I shivered in the dark, stepped forward, and slipped, going down to my hands and knees. It wasn’t an accident. I wanted to be down here. My hands closed on the layer of snow still there from the night before.

“You’re going over, Clare. Let’s go.” She grabbed me by my hair and tugged.

“No!”

She pulled harder, forcing me toward the edge.

“You have two choices. Jump, and you might survive the four-story fall. Or I will shoot you dead and make it look like a smash-and-grab robbery. These idiot police won’t do a thing. Believe me, there are no geniuses in law enforcement these days.”

“Don’t be too sure, Maxine,” I said, shivering with pain and fear and cold and still trying to stall. “Detective Quinn already knows about the intern in Westchester.”

Once again, Maxine’s beautiful, confident face fell. “What? What does he think he knows? What? Tell me?”

“He knows you pushed that girl to her death. That it wasn’t a suicide. He knows you pushed Valerie Lathem, too, at the Union Square subway. He knows you lured Inga Berg to the roof and somehow made her jump or pushed her off. He knows about Sahara McNeil. He knows about Joy, too, and for that I hope they light you up like a fireworks display — ”

That’s when I let her have it. I sent the icy snowball right into her face and stumbled to my feet. The snowball landed hard, smack on the plastic surgery perfect nose, between the high cheekbones, above the collagen lips.

“You bitch!” she screamed, but I was already lunging away from her and the edge of the roof.

She dove for my legs and I went down. Now we were both in the snow and struggling near the roof’s edge. I felt her get on top of me, straddle me. I was kicking and screaming, then somewhere in the struggle I heard Bruce’s cry —

“My God! No!”

He ran toward us, and then I felt the gun at the back of my head.

“I’ll kill her,” rasped Maxine, her voice high-pitched and crazed. “I’ll shoot her, Bruce. I will. Then your little precious Clare’s brains will be all over the nice white snow.”

“No! Don’t hurt her, Maxi. Don’t. It’s me you want to hurt. You know that. Come on, Maxine. Hurt me .”

The gun moved away from my head for a moment. My god, I thought, what was she doing? Was she going to shoot Bruce?

“No!” I cried.

And then the gun was back, the cold barrel pressing against the base of my skull, and I knew I was dead.

A second later, I heard the explosion. The gun going off was like a cannon at my ear, but I wasn’t shot. My ears were ringing painfully now, but the bullet had missed, and I could no longer feel Maxine’s body straddling mine.

I was alone on the roof, and I realized Bruce had thrown his body at Maxi, knocking her off. The body slam had knocked the gun away from my head, but the momentum had carried them both a few feet beyond the edge of the roof.

I was very close to the edge myself. I looked down, into the alley behind the Blend, then closed my eyes. The image was one I’d have to live with for the rest of my life.

Bruce and Maxi were laying four stories down on the concrete, their still bodies in a terrible, twisted embrace.

Maxine died almost instantly, her neck broken.

Bruce had survived with injuries to his spine and internal bleeding. He was rushed to St. Vincent’s and, I was told, regained consciousness.

My friend, Dr. John Foo, a resident and a regular at the Blend, had been on duty in the emergency room when they’d rushed Bruce in. I remained in the waiting room, pacing. Matteo was there with me, sitting nearby. He stood up the moment Dr. Foo came out of the OR.

“How is he?” I asked.

Dr. Foo hesitated. “When Mr. Bowman regained consciousness, he asked the attending if you were okay. We told him you were fine and a short time after that we lost him…I’m sorry, Clare. We did what we could, but he let go. I’m so sorry. He’s gone.”

It’s a terrible feeling to lose someone. Losing someone you had just fallen in love with — there aren’t any words for that. None. I just felt myself falling — a hole, black and empty, was swallowing me up.

And then I was caught.

I don’t remember much after that, just feeling Matt’s arms around me, and hearing his voice saying over and over —

“I’ve got you, Clare. I’ve got you.”

The next day, I swore out my statement for the police. Quinn was very patient and more than kind. Within a week, he came by the Blend to spend some time with me, talking over the case at length.

Tucker brought a ten-cup thermos of Mocha Java to my office, then closed the door as he left and Quinn and I sat down.

He began by telling me that their search of Maxine’s apartment revealed some expensive surveillance equipment, high-powered binoculars, and the same printer and personal stationery used to write the note to Inga. Her laptop revealed evidence that she’d hacked into Bruce’s e-mail account. The police also found a folder on her laptop containing an extensive personal journal.

“The entries were rambling and full of wild rants. It was clear she’d been enraged by Bowman’s decision to divorce her. She believed he’d been nothing before her and now that she’d ‘molded’ him into a man worth having around, some other woman was going to benefit and she couldn’t let that happen. The first murder, the intern at Bowman’s Westchester offices, had apparently been an escalation of a confrontation. When the push led to the woman’s death, and the police ruled it a suicide, Maxine began the pattern, thinking herself a genius who was smarter than the ‘idiot’ police. You get the picture.”

“I don’t think I do, Mike…It’s so hard to equate that attractive, together woman with someone so out of control.”

Quinn took a long sip of coffee. “The Right Man.”

A shiver went through me, remembering what I’d labeled Bruce when I’d first met him. Was Quinn reverting to gallows humor? If he was, I wasn’t laughing.

“Excuse me?” I said stiffly. “Do you mean ‘Mr. Right’?”

“No, Clare. The Right Man is the term for a syndrome. It’s a way of explaining, for example, what happens in domestic violence cases. A man sees himself as always right. He can seem completely charming to the world, and be totally in control in most every aspect of his life, but he’ll choose to be out of control in one aspect — toward a wife, for example, beating her severely if he perceives she’s made a fool of him in some way or disobeyed him or cheated, any one of which could be a fantasy perception on his part.”