There was a stifled cry behind him. He turned with a chill to see the creepy old man poking Misha with his fingers, his eyes glazed, drool dripping from his mouth. She was looking up at Sam with a deep fear. Without thinking he kicked the old man in the groin. The poor old guy hit the floor in a spastic agony with the cracking of bones.
Jesus, Sam, he might die!
“Hold my hand and follow me. We will call when we get outside.”
They passed a door in the hall and there was movement within.
When they reached the lobby it was empty.
At the vestibule Bica was absent. This panicked him and he dragged Misha through the exit and out onto the lot. There was no one in sight, very unusual for a late Friday morning.
“What is going on, Sam?”
“Sam, why am I still horny?”
“Is this a bad dream?
“Am I going crazy?”
He stopped and held her head between his hands and talked as calmly as he could.
“All I know, Misha, is that crazy old lady is the only person on earth that has made sense to me for days—and she wants me to get you safe.”
He turned and looked to make certain no one had followed, and looked the other way over his shoulder to the Porsche, afraid somehow that his car might have gone nuts too. He looked back into Misha’s frozen eyes, staring down at her phone. She quavered, “It’s locked up. I can’t make the call.”
He heard a shoe scrape on a curb and looked up to his left. Some orderly type in hospital scrubs had come out of nowhere, walking toward Misha holding a butter knife in his hand, just staring at her, as if Sam did not exist. Misha looked up and saw this and just collapsed; sitting and crying on the pavement.
I can’t let this happen.
Sam reached down and grabbed Misha’s foot and ripped off the high-heeled clog shoe and came up with a swinging backhand across the man’s face, staggering him for a moment. He then tripped the man, who fell head first into the curb. The sound of the head hitting the concrete sent a sick chill down his spine that spread out over his lower back. The little Latino man’s split head was draining into gutter.
Oh God I killed a guy!
I’m going to puke!
I can’t puke—have to stay cool for Misha.
This cannot be happening. I am having a Viagra-induced nightmare!
He grabbed Misha’s hand and let out a low whisper that sounded a bit crazy and somewhat cruel to his own ears.
“Do not fall again. Come!”
He dragged her by the hand.
“We’re going to my place. We have to get you off the street, and home is closer than the office. Marie only has one politician to deal with. She’s inside, armed.”
That look of clarity and knowledge from Mrs. Marsden had been like a switch of enlightenment, as if someone had shined a bright light on a murky world all of a sudden. All of the little things over the past week: the lack of men casually saying hello as they passed; the way men seemed to just stare vacantly at women; the extreme sex-starved nature of his mushrooming client list—all of this made sense now. After a life of muddling through he seemed to have a purpose. He had never ever felt this determined, not even at tryouts way back when, as the cocky new kid with the tree-trunk thighs.
There is a God and he had Mrs. Masden talk to me. I have to get Misha safe and look for another man who is not nuts so we can work together. I can’t do much on my own.
Misha was all but paralyzed and walked as if in a trance as he dragged her along on one bare foot and one high-heel. By the time he stuffed her in the Porsche the freak was on his feet and walking deliberately toward him.
Christ, I thought he was dead!
Now I wish he was dead!
Sam slid over the car, got in, and started her up. By the time he was in gear the freak was trying to open the passenger-side door. Sam put her into reverse and pulled off. The man would not let go of the door and was dragged. This put Sam in a panic and he shifted into first and ran the man’s feet over, ‘bubumping’ over the broken limbs. The man did not even cry out behind him as he pulled off.
“Sam, I’m scared, I’m so scared! My boyfriend has been so cold and distant lately. And, and, and, the last time I saw him he was staring at me like that freak was just now!”
He looked at her and thought he saw a will to live, a will to think.
“Do not put on your seatbelt. Curl up and hide.”
He kept it under the speed limit. There were still people out and about, just not many. Traffic was behaving normally, if light. The few female pedestrians seemed edgy. The few male pedestrians seemed to have those same vacant looks he had noticed in the last few men he had contact with—virtually every man he had seen since yesterday, not that he had been around many men.
How is Mrs. Dawson?
I have to check on Mrs. Dawson...
