Home of the Braised (14 page)

I WAS DEAD, OR WOULD BE IN SECONDS. I KNEW
it deep in my soul, the same way I knew that Gav would take the blame, somehow. He would never forgive himself.

Giving up and going along with a perceived inevitable, however, had never been my style. The helping hands above me, even if they managed to haul me up, wouldn’t be enough. There wasn’t time to get myself entirely clear of the train’s path. My brain’s calculations assured me that, even if I were lifted in time, enough of my body would remain hanging over the platform, smack in the train’s path. My brain’s best guess was that I’d miss my escape opportunity by about one second.

There was no footing for me to use to boost myself up. It was an open, gaping space at my feet. My heart pounded. There was a small, open space beneath the platform lights.

New information. Could I fit?

The only thing my brain knew for certain was that I didn’t have time to weigh options. I had to go with my gut or do nothing at all.

I dropped to my hands and knees and scrambled into the dank opening, turning sideways and rolling as deeply into the space—as far away from the tracks—as I could. My elbows hit the side of the wall, my knees scraped the filthy ground and my hand landed on a warm, furry body that squeaked and scurried away. Stifling a scream, I tucked my head, making myself as small as I could.

I pulled myself into a ball, my left foot catching on the rail for a breathless extra moment as the ground vibration grew.

I shut my eyes and covered my head, screaming to be heard above the clacking metallic racket. All at once there was nothing but roar—my own and that of the train—as I was surrounded with squealing, rushing, head-banging noise. The train shot bursts of hot, acrid air under my clothes, and sucked at me like a vacuum. In defiance, I yelled again, louder this time. I refused to die quietly.

When I lowered my arms from the sides of my head, I realized that the noises were exactly right.

The sound the train made as it arrived at my station was the sound it had always made, though quite a bit louder because my head was a mere inches away. I detected no collision, no interruption. It was certainly not silent, which I would have expected if I were dead. The squeaks, the shrill metal sounds, and the whoosh as doors opened above were no different than they’d ever been.

Was I safe? I opened my eyes.

The train blocked my view of the dull concrete wall I’d been studying only moments earlier. The giant, metal monster had stopped next to me. Huffing and idle, but tamed. Quiet.

As heated air continued to buffet my face and arms, I felt a nibble at my ankle. I shook my leg, new panic rising like bile in my throat.

But I was
feeling
it. Really feeling it. Not gazing down after death, via an out-of-body experience.

I came aware of screaming, shouting. People above me, calling for help.

Another nip at my ankle. Hoarsely I yelled, “Get away.” Instinctively, I twisted to look over my shoulder then wished I hadn’t. Beady eyes caught the scant light and glowed back at me. Two rats, maybe three. There was barely room for me to move. I clenched my eyes, shaking and wiggling as much as I was able. “Get out of here!”

I heard the skittering sounds of little claws over candy wrappers. Heard the hollow
bump
of an empty water bottle. The eager critters were gone for now. I hoped they were gone for good.

“Help!” I called. I braced my hands on the sticky concrete beneath me. Papers and goop. It smelled like sour milk. Or week-old meat left to simmer in the sun. But I didn’t care. I was alive.

• • •

WHAT PROBABLY TOOK NO MORE THAN
twenty minutes for them to get the train to move out of the way felt like an excruciating eternity. I fended off my rodent roomies’ advances, trying without success to conjure up pity for them. I thought if I could do that, I might have a better chance of staying calm.

My knees were weak, my whole body sagged. I had little energy left, but if I didn’t clamp down on my rising panic, I knew I could lose it here, quickly and badly.

Little squeaks and munching sounds behind me didn’t help.

I tried to convince myself this was the critters’ turf and I was the unwelcome giant thrown into their midst. If I were worried, imagine how frightened they had to be, right? I kept trying to feel sorry for them, because if I could manage that, maybe I wouldn’t be quite so terrified. As a coping mechanism, it fell flat.

In the past, I’d faced killers straight on and still managed to keep my head. I’d managed to outmaneuver, or outwit. But I’d never encountered rats. There was no reasoning with rats. I shouted again, “Get me out!” There was more than a little “I’m freaking out here” tremble in my voice. I couldn’t help it.

On the edge of delirious fear, I worked harder to keep my revulsion at bay. In one of my favorite childhood books,
A Little Princess,
Sara Crewe named and tamed her roommate rat Melchisidec. If she could do it, why couldn’t I?

I was sweating, feverishly. What nonsense to think at a time like this. My nerves were raw, my skin tingling, and every inch of me was frazzled. No, I thought, nonsense was what I needed right now. And Melchisidec was a lovely name.

A shriek of metal against metal made me wince and clench my eyes. Slowly, the metallic monster that held me captive began to ease away. There wasn’t enough room in this confined, damp space for me to move and I remained as still as I possibly could, waiting for an escape route to open.

Every brush against my leg, every draft of wind through my hair built screams in my chest. My breathing ragged, I wiggled my feet and waved my head back and forth, hoping to keep Melchie and his buddies from coming too close.

With a
whoosh
, the last car cleared, engulfing me in a rush of fresher air. I nearly burst out of the small space, calling for help.

I was aware of the crowd’s collective gasp—they’d clearly been convinced I’d been smashed—but I ignored their cheers, shouts, and expressions of surprise.

I wanted out and I wanted out now.

The hands that reached down to help me this time knew what they were doing. I looked up into the face of a uniformed cop crouching at the platform’s edge, reaching for me. The beefy, middle-aged man had me by the wrists before I could say a word. Another cop hoisted me by the back of my shirt, their muscled teamwork bringing me flying up to the platform like parents playing “whee” with their toddler.

When my feet landed on solid ground, I sat straight down again.

The crowd formed a circle around us, the cops urging them to stay back. In my peripheral vision, I noticed paramedics making their way over. I scanned as many faces as I could but I knew deep in my soul that the homeless woman was long gone. At least four people were taking my photo with their phones. I hoped to heaven they weren’t recording this, too.

The beefy cop identified himself as Lawrence. Dragging me up had taken a toll on him; his face was red with exertion and sweat beaded his almost-bald head. He wiped himself down with a wrinkly handkerchief. “What were you thinking?” Patently furious, whether at me or at the situation, I couldn’t tell, his voice was raspy. “Did you jump?”

“If I was suicidal, that would be one heck of a way to start the conversation, don’t you think?” I snapped. Then, realizing that these guys were probably reacting to their adrenaline rush the same way I was, and hearing how sharply my words came out, I softened my tone. “I was pushed,” I said before I remembered all the cell phones snapping around me. I put a hand up to cover my face and stared at my feet.

The other cop was only a few years younger than Lawrence. Trim and dark-skinned, he squatted next to me. “My name is Durson,” he said. “Paramedics are here. They’ll get you to the hospital.”

Keeping my head down, I said, “I’m fine.”
Please don’t let anyone recognize me.
“I really am.” I fumbled for my purse, which—probably because I wore a cross-body version—was still tight at my side. It had been upended in the fall, however, and I could tell some of its contents were gone. I inched over the side of the platform to look for my cell phone.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Lawrence asked. Like he thought I was going to take another leap.

“My phone,” I said. “I have to call someone.”

He pointed down to the tracks. “That it?” he asked.

I followed his gaze and my shoulders dropped. Enough of the casing had jumped between the tracks for me to recognize it, but the device had been smashed to bits. “Yeah,” I said. “Looks like it is.”

The other cop was still by my side. “I know you,” he said quietly. His eyes were kind and I trusted him. To Lawrence, Durson said, “Get all the gawkers out of here. The young lady’s going to be okay. Give us some room.” He waved the paramedics forward. “Listen,” he said to me, “there are going to be a lot of questions. The sooner we get you out of here, the better.”

He stood up and took charge. The crowd dispersed, many of them complaining about the delay I’d caused by my tumble onto the tracks. I grabbed Durson’s sleeve when he crouched to speak with me again. “There was a homeless woman,” I said. “She’s the one who pushed me. It was intentional. No question about it.”

“We’ll need a description,” he said. “Let’s get you out of here first.”

“Whatever you say.”

• • •

DURSON ACCOMPANIED ME AND SAT WITH ME
inside the parked ambulance as two young techs hooked me up to devices that checked my pulse, my breathing, and my blood pressure, and then sped that information to the nearest hospital.

“You’re the chef at the White House, aren’t you?” Durson asked.

Safe within the closed vehicle, I leaned back against the cushion and nodded. At least they’d allowed me to remain upright. “I need to call someone,” I said. “It’s important.”

Durson dug out his cell phone and started to hand it to me. “Use mine.”

“Just a moment, please,” one of the paramedics said. “I need to ask you a few questions, first.”

“Let me make one phone call,” I said.

The paramedic pushed Durson’s phone out of my reach without comment. “Did you hit your head when you fell? Were you ever unconscious?”

Durson shrugged an apology. “Want me to wait outside?”

His was the only friendly face I’d encountered since I’d left the White House. Plus he was willing to let me use his phone. I wasn’t about to let him out of my sight. “No, please stay,” I said.

It took a while, but after I’d been poked, prodded, and assessed, the paramedics determined that I’d managed to escape unharmed. My pulse was a little fast, my blood pressure a little high, but both were normal after the sort of trauma I’d been through.

“I don’t need to go to the hospital,” I said, for probably the fifteenth time in as many minutes. “Please,” I begged. “The media will find out and show up there. You know they will. I need to get home as quickly as possible.”

Durson stared out the vehicle’s back windows. “The media is here now.”

I groaned.

He turned to the paramedic. “You’re sure she’s okay?”

“Yeah,” the young man said. “I sent in all her telemetry. There’s no problem. As long as she didn’t hit her head. As long as she’s not suicidal.”

“I was pushed.”

“Tell you what,” Durson said to the paramedic. “I’ll tell the news trucks to meet you at the hospital. As soon as they pull away, Lawrence and I will get her safely home.”

“I don’t know.” The paramedic turned to me. Something in my expression must have helped him make up his mind. He asked, “That okay with you?”

“The best idea I’ve heard all day.” To Durson, I said, “Thank you.”

• • •

DURSON WANTED TO BRING ME IN TO THE
police station first, but I begged him to let me go home.

He conferred with Lawrence, and although they debated it for a moment, the two men finally decided that my position at the White House granted me a little latitude. They also made me promise to make myself available soon to complete paperwork. I couldn’t agree fast enough.

When I was finally ensconced in the passenger seat of a squad car that, despite its stale-body-odor aroma, was still fresher smelling than the cavern under the platform had been, Durson let me use his cell phone. I called Gav.

“Where are you?” he asked as soon as he realized it was me on the other end of the unfamiliar number. “What happened? Your face is all over the Internet. They said that you’re en route to the hospital. I’ll meet you there.” He took a breath, but not enough of one to allow me to jump in. “Thank God, you’re all right. You are all right, aren’t you? Thank God you called.”

“Don’t go to the hospital,” I said, then explained about trying to avoid further encounters with the network news. “Officer Durson is bringing me home.”

“Shouldn’t you get checked—”

“I’m fine.” I wasn’t about to argue this point any more than I already had. “Please. Trust me. I’ll be there soon.”

“I’ll meet you there.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “If anything had happened to you—”

“Nothing did,” I said. “I’ll be there really soon.” I knew I was repeating myself but I was too shaken right now to think straight. I didn’t have it in me to be quick or clever. “I’ll tell you all about it then. Let me give this phone back to Officer Durson and take a minute to catch my breath. Honest, I’m fine, Gav. I really am.”