Amanda Matetsky - Murder Is A Girl’s Best Friend

“You lying bitch!” Elsie screamed at the top of her lungs. “Where the hell are they? What did you do with them?”

I didn’t answer. I was too busy squirming and whimpering and bleeding. And praying. Let’s not forget praying.

“You might as well give up now, you know,” Elsie said, suddenly reining in her violent emotions and speaking in a low, controlled, truly terrifying tone. She leaned down close and gave me a sadistic grin. “The longer you hold out, the more it’s going to hurt. I promise you that. There are five bullets left in this gun-one for each limb, and one for the grand finale. The sooner you tell me where the diamonds are, the fewer times I’ll have to shoot you, and the sooner I can put you out of your misery for good. That’s a damn fair deal. Right, partner?”

She wasn’t bluffing. I could tell from the glint in her eye (and the way she was holding the gun to my nose) that she was not only ready-but eager-to proceed with the tortur ous treasure hunt.

And I don’t mind telling you I was scared. Scareder than I’d ever been in my whole sad, sweet, tragic, magic, short, full, too-soon-to-be-over life. I was so scared I couldn’t think or speak. All I could do was blubber.

“Still not talking, eh?” Elsie heckled, raising herself to full height. The fake sprig of holly pinned to her hat was as off-kilter as her smile. “What are you, a goddamn masochist or something? Well, that’s okay with me, kid, ’cause I’m getting a real kick out of this.” She moved a couple of steps back and took careful aim. “Last chance,” she said, with a sickening giggle. “No talking, no walking.”

When I didn’t answer, she shot me in the leg.

I’M NOT TOO CLEAR ON WHAT HAPPENED next. I think I blacked out for a minute or two. And when my consciousness returned, my only wish was that it hadn’t. The shocking, blazing, bone-searing pain in my mangled left thigh was unendurable. And the hideous stench of burning flesh (my flesh!), coupled with the metallic smell of warm blood (my blood!), almost made me throw up. Head spinning and stomach turning, it took every ounce of strength I had just to keep breathing (and howling).

“How was that, Paige Turner?” Elsie croaked, leering down at me with a look of pure elation on her face. “Kinda uncomfortable, right? Bet you’re ready to turn the page now. ”

And I was, I was! I was ready to do or say anything that would keep her from firing another bullet into my wretched mess of a body. “Okay, I’ll tell!” I cried, lifting my unwounded arm up in the air, palm flat like a stop sign. “Please don’t shoot me again!”

Elsie grinned and took aim at my other leg. “I’ll stop shooting when you start talking.”

The words leapt out of my mouth like locusts. “The diamonds aren’t here,” I sputtered, not knowing what I was going to say, but not caring, either. “Terry Catcher has them. He’s had them all along. They’re wrapped up in one of his undershirts and stuffed down in the corner of his duffel bag.” Using my good arm, I tried to push myself up to a sitting position on the floor. But it was hopeless. I didn’t have the strength. My energy was seeping out of my body with my blood. I fell back to the floor with a thud.

“So where the hell is he?!” Elsie demanded.

“Who?” I muttered. (And, believe it or not, I wasn’t stalling now. My head was so crazed and groggy I think I’d actually lost track of what we were talking about!)

“You know who!” Elsie screamed, eyes bulging. “You better tell me where Terry Catcher is, and you better tell me right now! Or you can kiss your other leg goodbye!”

Unable to think of (let alone utter ) an expedient answer, I sucked up my breath, squeezed my eyes tight, and begged God to let the next blast kill me.

KABOOM! There was a sudden, shocking, deafening explosion-but it wasn’t the sound of a gun going off. It was the sound of my back door being kicked open, and smashing against the wall so hard that all the remaining panes of glass shattered and fell out in shards and splinters on the floor. I couldn’t see what was happening from my prostrate position, but I heard it-and sensed the broken glass falling all around me, and felt a great gust of freezing cold air sweep over my skin.

And then I heard the gun go off.

Steeling myself against a wallop of fresh pain, I was surprised when I didn’t feel any. (Any new pain, that is. The wounds in my left shoulder and left leg still hurt like hell!) My eyes flew open and immediately focused on my right leg. It was smooth and unbloody. It was whole. There wasn’t even a run in my stocking! My right arm was also intact. And these happy realizations gave rize to a sudden resurgence of energy-which allowed me to push my torso up to a near upright position, which meant I could finally see what was going on.

And that was when I almost died for real.

Terry Catcher-my dear late husband’s dear old friend, and m y dearest new friend-was crouched low in the middle of my kitchen, staggering in a sea of splintered glass, with his snowy white hair gleaming, and the snowy white sleeve of his crisp cotton shirt turning red as red could be. He had been shot! And I could tell from the way Elsie was standing, and raising both arms to eye-level, and taking aim through the sight of her ugly little gun, that he was about to be shot again.

“Look out!” I screamed, as loud as I could, hoping my cry would alert him to duck for cover. But I could have saved my breath. Because before those words were even halfway out of my mouth, Terry had sprung through the air like a Flying Wallenda, tackled Elsie below the waist, and brought her down-with a thunderous slam-in a heavy, lumpen sprawl on the linoleum. There was a fierce, vociferous struggle (you wouldn’t believe the filthy curses that came tumbling out of Elsie’s mouth!)-and then the gun went off again.

Shocked by the blast, Terry and Elsie were frozen still for a moment. But as soon as they realized neither one of them had been shot, they continued their ferocious wrestling match-flailing, thrashing, and rolling around on the floor-until Terry scrambled on top, sat astride Elsie’s heaving trunk, pinned her arms down with both knees, and socked her hard (really hard!) in the face with his fist. Twice.

Elsie grunted and groaned and loosened her grip on the gun. Terry snatched the gun from her hand, grasped it in his own, and pointed the hideous, hateful, heinous, horrid thing at her. (Sorry about the excessive alliteration, folks, but I couldn’t help myself. A girl’s gotta have some fun somehow! And besides, the string of h-words listed above seemed the thriftiest way to express my true feelings about firearms.)

“Paige! Paige! Are you okay?” Terry cried out, keeping his gaze and the gun fixed on Elsie. He was still sitting on top of her, fastening her flat on her back to the floor.

“I’ve been better,” I said. “But what about you? Your arm’s gushing!”

“It’s nothing but a flesh wound. Where’s Abby?” he yelped, whipping his head from side to side, frantically searching his limited field of vision. “Is she all right? Has she been hit?”

“Oh, my God!” I shrieked. “Is Abby here, too?” I hadn’t heard her. I couldn’t see her. Was she behind me? Why didn’t she say something?

“I told her to stay out,” Terry cried, “but she wouldn’t listen. She came through the door right after I did!”

I went into a total panic. Had the last bullet fired struck Abby? Using my good arm and leg for leverage, I madly scooched my disabled self around, until the area behind me was viewable, and the cold wind blowing through the wide-open door was blowing smack into my face.