Майкл Корита - If She Wakes

“Sir, we really do need to get going.”

“Yes. One moment.” Head down, tapping away. Then he said, “Did you ever have a nickname?”

“Pardon?”

He looked up and smiled. “You know, something only a good friend calls you, something like that? Or were you always just Tara?”

She started to say, Just Tara, thanks, and now let’s get a move on, but reflex took over and she blurted out, “Twitch.”

“Twitch?”

“My sister, Shannon, called me that because I was a jumpy kid. I spooked easily, I guess. Scary movies, in particular — I always jumped.”

When Tara was little, the nickname was just Shannon picking on her. But later on, it became affectionate. Shannon liked how much Tara cared about fictional characters, how emotionally invested she became in their stories.

“We really should be—”

There was a rustling sound behind them, and they whirled at the same time, Tara with a startled jerk that offered a live-action demonstration of the childhood nickname. Her response was still more composed than Oltamu’s, though. He gave a strangled cry, stepped back, and lifted his hands as if surrendering.

Then Tara saw the dog in the bushes and smiled. “That’s just Hobo.”

“What?” Oltamu backed farther away.

“He’s a stray. Always around the bridge. And he always comes out to bark at the morning train. That’s how I spotted him. If you come by often enough, he’ll get to know you. But he doesn’t let you catch him. I’ve certainly tried.” She knelt, extended her hand, and made a soft sound with her tongue on the roof of her mouth. Her rush to get Oltamu to the venue was forgotten in her instinct to show affection to the old stray, her companion on so many morning runs. He slunk out of the darkness, keeping low, and let Tara touch the side of his head. Only the side; never the top. If you reached for him, he’d bolt. Not far, at least not with her, but out of grasping distance. He was a blend of unknown breeds, with the high carriage and startling speed of a greyhound, the floppy ears of a beagle, and the coat of a terrier.

“He’s been here for a long time,” she said. “Every year people try to catch him and get him to a rescue, but nobody ever succeeds. So we just give up and feed him.”

She scratched the dog’s soft, floppy ears, one of which had a few tears along the edge, and then straightened.

“Okay,” she said. “We’ve got to hurry now. I can’t get you there late. So let’s—”

“Hobo?” Oltamu was staring at the dog as if he’d never encountered such an animal.

“It’s just what I call him. He likes to chase the train. Anyhow, we have to—”

“Stay there, please. I’d like a picture of him.” He knelt. “Can you get him to look at me?” he asked as he extended his phone.

I’ll tell Christine to look at his phone, Tara thought . I have exculpatory evidence now. “Do you see, Christine? He made me stop to take pictures of a stray dog!”

“His attention?” Oltamu said. “Please? Toward the camera?”

Tara raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips. Oookay. Then she turned back to Hobo and made the soft clucking sound again. He looked at her but didn’t move. Oltamu was a stranger, and Hobo didn’t approach strangers.

“Very good,” Oltamu whispered, as entranced as if he were on a safari and had encountered a rare species. “Excellent.”

The camera clicked, a flash illuminated the dog in stark white light, and Hobo growled.

“It’s okay,” Tara told him, but he gave a final growl, gazed up the hill at the dark street beyond, then slipped back into the trees.

“All right,” Tara said, rising again. “We really have to —”

“I need you to do me a favor. It is very important. Crucial.”

“Please, Doctor. They’re waiting on you at the auditorium, so—”

“Crucial,” he said, his accent heavier, the word loaded with emotion.

She looked at his earnest face and then across the river at the lights of the campus. Suddenly she felt far away from where she belonged, and very alone. “What’s the favor?”

He moved toward her, and she stepped back, bumping into one of the bike racks. Pain shot through her hip. He reached out, and she recoiled, fearing his hand, but then she saw that he was extending the phone to her.

“Please put this in your car. Somewhere secure. Can you lock the glove compartment?”

She wanted to object, or at least ask him for a reason, but his face was so intense, so worried, that all she did was nod.

“Put it there, then. Please. I’m going to walk across the bridge myself. I’ll find my way.”

What is happening here? What in the world is he doing?

“Please,” he repeated, and Tara took the phone from his hand, walked hurriedly past him, and opened the passenger door. She leaned in and put the phone in the glove box. It took her two tries to lock it, because her hand was trembling. She heard him move behind her, and she spun, hands rising, ready to fend him off, but he was just watching to see that she’d done what he’d asked.

“Thank you,” he said. “I don’t mean to frighten you, but that phone is very important.” He looked up the hill, then back to her. “I will walk from here alone. You should drive.”

She hadn’t spoken throughout this, and she didn’t now. She just wanted to get away from him. Driving off and leaving him here was fine by her.

“Thank you, Tara,” he said. “It is important. I am sorry you are afraid.”

She stood motionless, hands still raised, watching him as warily as Hobo had.

“Please go now,” he said. “Take the car and go. I will walk across the bridge when you are gone.”

She moved. Going around the front of the car would have been quicker, but she would have passed closer to him, so she made her way around the back. She’d just reached the driver’s door when she heard the engine behind her.

She glanced in the direction of the noise with relief, glad that she was no longer alone with this bizarre man, expecting to see headlights coming on. Instead, there was just the dark street. The engine grew louder, and with it came the sound of motion, but she saw nothing, so she just stood there dumbly, her hand on the car door. Oltamu had also turned to face the sound. They were both staring into the darkness when Tara finally saw the black van.

It was running with no trace of light. It came on down the road like something supernatural, quiet and dark but also remarkably fast.

She had only an instant to move. Her guiding thought was that she wanted to be away from the car, even if that meant going into the river. Down there, she thought she might have a chance.

She was scrambling away from the CRV when the van hit it squarely in the rear passenger door, pinning Oltamu against the side of the car, and then the CRV hit her, and though she got her wish of making it into the river, she never knew it. She was airborne when the front of her skull connected with the concrete pillar that marked the railroad bridge as a historical site, and by the time she entered the water, she wasn’t aware of anything at all.

When the flight from Portland to Detroit arrived and her asset didn’t walk off the plane, Lisa Boone moved from the gate to the Delta Sky Club and ordered a Johnnie Walker Blue.

“Rocks?” the bartender asked.

“No.”

“Water back?”

“No.”

An overweight businessman in an off-the-rack suit with a hideously mismatched tie and pocket square turned on his bar stool and smiled a greasy, lecherous smile.

“The lady knows how to order her scotch.”

Boone didn’t look at him. “The lady does,” she said and put cash on the bar.