Marcia Talley: In Death's Shadow

"You both need an ambulance," the officer said. "It's on its way."

I shivered. "My friend. Is she okay?"

The officer smiled. "She's fine. Just a little beaten up. We've made her comfortable. Don't worry."

A blanket appeared from somewhere and I pulled it over my head and around my shoulders. "What took you so long?" I complained. "I called 911 and told them where we were."

The tips of the officer's ears reddened. "Do you know how many blue vans All Seasons has?"

Under the blanket I shook my head.

"Six. And one of them was parked on Rowe Boulevard in front of the Hall of Records. The crew was weeding the median." He grinned. "We had a very surprised driver and his assistant spread-eagled among the pansies when your call came in. By the time we'd realized our mistake and got around the corner to the construction site, you were gone."

Although it wasn't particularly funny, I smiled. "So near and yet so far."

"Something like that"

"They took my cell phone," I said.

The officer immediately got my drift. "Is there somebody we can call?"

I thought about Paul. If he had already gotten home, he must be frantic. "My husband." I gave the officer our number. Then I ticked the others off on my fingers. "And my brother-in-law, Lieutenant Rutherford with the Chesapeake County Police. And Officer Mike Tracey. He's one of you. He's working on the case this is related to."

"Ma'am," the officer said with a broad grin, "are there any cops you don't want me to call?"

I smiled. "It runs in the family."

"Do you mind if I ask?" the officer said after a moment.

"Ask what?"

He tapped the painter's mask that still dangled from my neck. "Why this? Your friend has one, too."

"I'll show you," I said.

He followed me over to the van, where I pointed out the yellow canister. "I sprayed 'em with that."

"What's in it?" he asked, picking it up and hefting it in his hands.

"Nothing now," I grinned. "But it used to be insecticide."

"'Kills chewing, sucking, and other hard-to-kill insects,'" the officer read off the label.

I thought about Pottorff in his beetle-brown suit. "Sounds about right to me."

The next time I saw Officer Mike Tracey, I was perched on a gurney in the emergency room of Anne Arundel Medical Center, and the plastic surgeon was humming "I've Been Working on the Railroad" while sewing six stitches into my noggin.

Tracey had been leaning against the wall, silently watching the doctor work. "That's quite a gash," he said as the doctor moved aside and the nurse began to apply a bandage.

"I'll live. How's Mrs. Bromley?"

"She's just a few cubicles away. Why don't you ask her yourself?"

Holding my head stationary, I waggled a hand at the doctor. "Almost finished?"

The doctor nodded, smiling. "Call my office and make an appointment. I'll want to see you in five days." He pulled a prescription pad from the pocket of his lab coat, scribbled something on it, tore off the page and handed it to me. "This is for Percocet, if you need it for pain. My phone number's there, too."

"Thanks, Doctor." From the throbbing going on in my forehead, I predicted I'd need to corner the market in Percocet.

The nurse put the finishing touches on my bandage then took us to see Naddie. She was in a nearby cubicle, lying on a gurney. "We've given her a light sedative," the nurse told us. "And we're keeping her overnight for observation. Don't tire her out," she said before slipping out.

I approached the gurney from the side and gazed down at my friend. Mrs. Bromley's eyes were closed and her breathing was slow and regular. "How peaceful she looks," I whispered to Officer Tracey. "I can't believe that I put her life in danger like that."

Mrs. Bromley's eyes fluttered open; she turned her head in my direction and smiled. "Hi," she said groggily.

"Hi yourself," I said. "How are you, Naddie?" Mrs. Bromley usually wore a headband, but sometime during all the excitement, it had disappeared. I smoothed the snow-white hair back from where it tumbled over her forehead.

"I could use a drink," she said.

I filled a blue plastic cup with water from the sink and supported her head with my hand while she drank it. When she was done, Naddie relaxed against the pillow, looked up and seemed to notice my bandage for the first time. "What happened to you?"

I touched my bandage gingerly. "A bump on the head. A few stitches." I smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry, I'll be just fine. How about you?"

"They just read the X rays," she said. "My arm's broken in two places. They're going to set it. Ouch! I'm really looking forward to that! And I'll have to wear a cast."

"Casts come in a full range of designer colors, I hear."

Mrs. Bromley's face clouded over. "But my art show? It's next week!"

"Don't worry, Naddie. I'll help you with your show. You just relax, now. Everything's going to be fine."

"Do you ladies feel up to answering a few questions?" Mike Tracey extracted a notebook from his pocket and flipped it open to a blank page. When we agreed, he disappeared into the hallway, returning a few moments later, dragging a couple of chairs.

After we were comfortably seated, Mrs. Bromley launched with surprising enthusiasm into her version of our recent adventure, while I offered my two cents' worth about Jablonsky, Pottorff, and Steele. We had begun to describe the house where we'd been held prisoner when Paul burst into the cubicle, with Dennis only a few steps behind.

"My God, Hannah!" Paul fell to his knees in front of my chair as if he were about to propose marriage. He touched my bandage with his fingers, took my face gently in his hands and kissed me softly on the mouth. "What on earth am I going to do with you?"

"Why didn't you call me?" Dennis's scowl said it all.

"I'm always bothering you, Dennis. I thought you'd be proud of me. I called 911, like a good girl." I grinned, to let him know I was teasing. "I would have called you next," I added, "but they took away my cell phone."

"Who's 'they'?" Paul asked.

Mike Tracey leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, notebook still in hand. "We picked up the gardener and a guy named Pottorff when they tried to escape after the crash. Pottorff, it turns out, works for a fellow named Jablonsky. We've picked him up, too. They're so busy pointing fingers at each other it'll be a while before we get it all sorted out."

Dennis turned to me again. "Do you have any idea where you were being held?"

"Yes and no," I said. "I think it may have been Jablonsky's house in Fishing Creek Farm, but there's a way we can find out for sure." I looked around the cubicle for my purse but couldn't see it. Where the hell was it? I'd had it with me in the van, I knew that for sure. Had it gotten lost in the accident? Was it still in the ambulance? Had it been stolen? The warm pride I had been feeling about my coup with the GPS was quickly turning to ice cold panic. "My purse! It's gone!"

Mike Tracey laid a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry. It's probably back in your cubicle," he said. "I'll take a look."

It seemed like hours, but it was only minutes before Tracey returned with my purse. "Whew!" I took it from his outstretched hand and crushed it to my chest. "If I'd lost it-"

I handed the purse to Paul. "Look in the bottom," I instructed.

His brow furrowed, Paul set the purse on the foot of Mrs. Bromley's gurney, opened it and plunged in with both hands. He came out holding the GPS, still carefully cushioned in bubble wrap. I prayed that it hadn't been damaged in the accident.

"What does this have to do with anything?" Paul asked as he unwrapped the device.

"They may have taken away my cell phone, but they missed your GPS. I hit the M.O.B. button, Paul."