Naughtier than Nice (28 page)

Within minutes Livvy's phone rang.

It was Panther.

Livvy was surprised but happy to hear her Southern voice, suddenly ecstatic.

Until she heard what Panther had to say.

Panther told her that she had horrible news.

She said that Frankie McBroom and Monica had been kidnapped.

Livvy asked her if it was a joke.

Panther told her it wasn't.

Livvy said that was impossible, because her sister was with her; then Livvy went pale as she searched the crowd.

She couldn't find Frankie.

She didn't see Monica anymore.

She saw Tommie and Blue off to the side, deep in conversation, one that had both of them close to tears, too close to their own truths.

Livvy hurried in their direction, still sure that this had to be some sort of McBroom prank.

Tommie's phone rang.

Blue's phone rang.

It was the same news, breaking news on KCAL 9.

There was another deadly high-speed pursuit in the car-chase capital of the country. Monica was in the car. Frankie was in the car. They all looked at the high-tech LA Marathon race monitors,
the high-speed chase now playing where the repeat of the race had played moments before. Word had spread over social media that one of the marathoners had been taken hostage, had been taken from the finish line. They caught the car chase as they were passing the 605. They stood and watched the red muscle car speed across four Southern California freeways. The news clocked them at one hundred miles per hour when they entered the Long Beach area. Thirty minutes went by and it felt like a year on the planet Neptune. The speeding car moved between big rigs and vanished for a second, the longest second God ever made.

Tommie screamed. Blue held her and he cried out in agony for his daughter.

As everyone held their breath the driver reappeared and left the big rigs behind like they were all parked at a truck stop in Barstow. Something flew out of the car, out the driver's-side window.

In a voice of outrage and terror Blue barked, “Is that Franklin?”

Tommie said, “He's been stalking her. He's been stalking her since they broke up.”

Tommie told them about the notebook of love letters, told them Frankie had gone to see him last night and threw his engagement ring in his face, told them that Franklin Carruthers had been breaking into Frankie's house and that was why she had moved all of a sudden, and he had broken into her new home and left flowers, and had stolen Frankie's underwear and left a giant vibrator on her bed last night.

The newscaster said the car with the kidnapped child was moving at incredible speeds and that this chase showed the driver had no intention of stopping. Over and over they said they were sure this one would end in a crash, in injuries, in fatalities. Officers followed but weren't going to try to stop a car moving at such a high rate of speed, not with a pit maneuver, not by dropping spikes, especially with a little girl inside being held hostage.

Then they had more information. They posted Monica's photo,
her full name, and no one knew the source. They posted Frankie's professional image from her Facebook profile. They posted the profile image of Phyllis Rosemary Stoltzfus-Carruthers's Facebook page as well.

Tommie shouted, “That's Rosemary Paige. What the hell? I saw her talking to Frankie and Monica a few minutes ago.”

Livvy said, “Her surname is Carruthers. She's Franklin's wife? This makes no sense.”

Tony asked, “Is she a hostage too? Did Franklin take all of them?”

Blue's cellular rang and he hurried to answer.

It was Monica's mother.

She was already at LAX, ready to board a plane to get to her next Beyoncé concert in China, had been watching television, and the breaking news had stopped her from eating her Chick-fil-A long enough to call and see what kind of madness had erupted since the madness she'd left behind.

They watched the pursuit, barely breathing, clinging to each other, mumbling prayers, and living in absolute disbelief, begging for it to end. Moments later the news reported that Franklin Carruthers had been located in Culver City. His home in Blair Hills had been burned. Franklin had been found in his garage. He had been murdered.

One of the helicopters broadcast an extreme close-up of the fleeing car. The passenger-side window was covered in redness, had been smeared in blood.

Matter-of-factly the chisel-chinned broadcaster turned to his Botoxed and enhanced cohost and said that at this point they had to apologize for that last graphic image, but they were broadcasting live. For the sake of journalism, they had to be honest; it seemed that the driver was on a murderous rampage that already included Franklin Carruthers. Therefore, without any communication as she fled southbound on the 5 into Chula Vista, they didn't know whether the two hostages in the car had already been slaughtered.

Going over one hundred miles an hour, Mrs. Carruthers stomped the accelerator to the floor. I knew that a car like the one we were trapped in, it could fly past one hundred sixty miles per hour.

That was if she had the proper tires. The wrong tires wouldn't be able to take the heat.

The wrong tires would explode, and the rest would be left up to gravity, friction, and God.

I bled a river. Monica cried an ocean.

I thought about what had been in the Starbucks cup.

Franklin's wife was crazy.

She was insane.

Then the unexpected happened.

The car stalled like it had vapor lock, sped up again, then slowed down.

For five seconds it felt like it wasn't getting any gas.

The car had run smoothly up until that moment.

It stuttered like it was starving for better fuel. My eyes had been closed as I held Mo's hand, that arm wounded and in incredible pain. I opened my eyes and tears from the pain fell before I could see through a sort of fog. Mrs. Carruthers hadn't taken her foot off the accelerator, but the car slowed down.

For a second I thought she was slowing to push me out the door or make me jump.

The car slowed, became jerky, coughed like it was getting sick, and refused to accelerate again.

There was a downhill slope and we rode that way, no engine, all gravity, coasted until we were on a bridge; then the freeway was flat. We were no longer in motion. Behind us the flashing lights stopped.

She put the knife on the floor at her left side, away from me, and shifted into neutral.

She tried to start the car again, again, again, again, again.

I set free a painful chuckle and with much irony said, “I guess somebody has a bad fuel pump.”

“No, no, no. Gas, gas, there has to be enough gas in the tank . . . has to be . . . has to be.”

Jaw tight, I took a breath, ached, put my hand on the car door, let my fingers grip the lock.

I snapped, “Get out of the car, Mo. When I open the door, push my seat forward, get out, and run to the police.”

Mrs. Carruthers pushed a button, made the two doors lock before the confused child could respond.

I said, “Mo, when I let my seat up to let you out of the back, I want you to hurry and get out.”

“No, Frankie. She gets out on my side, not your side. You let her out, you might try something, and I would not appreciate that. This is how we're going to do this. You get out first, Frankie. You get out and come around the car to me. Come to me and I'll open my door and let her go. I'll let her walk to the police after I get out. I need you on this side, by my door, and after I get out she can walk toward the police.”

“You want me to be your shield. You want her to walk because you know they won't shoot while she is heading toward them. Don't do this, Mrs. Carruthers. Please, don't.”

“I'm not giving up. God didn't bring me this far to fail.”

“Let Mo out first.”

“You come to me first. Then I will let her go after I am out of the car, while you are here with me.”

“If the car starts when I get out, you'll leave with Mo.”

“I won't leave you, Frankie. This is between me and you.”

“Pinky promise?”

She nodded. “Then we're in this together.”

“We're simpatico. We're a two-member sorority.”

“I need you to hurry.”

I said, “Monica.”

“Yes, Auntie.”

“Be brave.”

“Yes, Auntie.”

“I'm going to get out of the car and I'm coming around to the other side. When this nice lady has gotten out, she's going to let you go to the police. I want you to walk toward them and don't look back. You're going home.”

“I'm not going if you're not going.”

“Do what I say, Monica.”

“Okay.”

“You're going home.”

Mrs. Carruthers said, “Going home. That's what they tell us at the end of our tour. We're going home.”

“Why does that make you chuckle?”

“I have no home to go to. You stole that from me, Frankie. Only one home left for me and you.”

I knew where this was going. I knew what she meant.

I told Monica, “When you get to them they will take you home. Tell Tommie, Blue, Livvy, and Tony I love them, okay?”

“Okay, Auntie. I'll be brave.”

“I love you, Monica.”

“I love you, Auntie.”

It was hard to do, but again I said, “Mo mo bo bo, banana fanna fo fo.”

She cried. “Frankie Frankie bo bankie.”

“I can't go with you, Mo. But Auntie will always be with you.”

I opened the door with my bloodied right hand and swung my feet around, pausing with the pain, the sweat dripping from my forehead more than it had during the marathon. I didn't know where I was in the world, but I knew we hadn't made it to Mexico. We were north of San Diego, as far as I could tell. My vision focused and I saw officers were behind their cars, behind their car doors, guns aimed. It took me a moment, helicopters still flying overhead, apartments in the distance, the air cool on my dehydrated skin as I hobbled inch by inch to the other side of the car, to Mrs. Carruthers's car door.

This would be my last Sunday on top of soil.

Afternoon sun on my head, I had run my last race.

Mrs. Carruthers let her window down. The car still had power. She continued trying to make the engine turn over. She had lied to me. She would've left me in the middle of the freeway and driven away with Monica if it had.

That made me angry.

Hardly able to breathe, I panted, lightheaded, and said, “Let Monica get out, as you promised.”

“Try to run to the police, I'll shoot you.”

“Does it look like I can run anywhere?”

“Try me. I will shoot you in front of the kid.”

“That's evil.”

“Franklin was evil.”

“He saw you as the evil one in the union.”

“I
never
abandoned him. I
never
cheated on him. I was a faithful wife. I loved him the way I loved God and country.”

She showed me a nervous grin.

The grin went away, left severe anger behind.

The bloodied knife rested in her lap, the gun in her hand.

She had terrified me, had become my terrorist, but I didn't back down, couldn't back down, not until Mo was okay.

I said, “Look behind you. Police. News. People are watching
from the other side of the freeway. This is a spectacle. Is Franklin worth it? Would he have done this for your love?”

Her eyes began to tear, and I saw the innocence that used to be inside of her, saw the innocent little girl who grew up in Pennsylvania and was given the core values that centered around the Son of God, a man born of a virgin, who then died three decades later for humanity's sins, and was bodily resurrected from the dead. But her world was not like mine. I bet she had thought life back there in the heart of Lancaster's Amish Country was too mundane and wanted to escape her bubble and be part of the world I had grown up in.

She was a long way from where she had started.

She swallowed and clenched her teeth.

Mrs. Carruthers leaned forward in her seat as Monica squeezed, crawled out. When Monica's feet were out, as soon as her body had cleared the seat, I saw what I needed to do, saw what I
had
to do. I couldn't hesitate. I
didn't
hesitate. Before Rosemary Paige realized what was going on, I threw my weight toward the space that had been left open one second too long, jammed my body like I was trying to squeeze into the backseat. Monica was out. Nothing mattered after she was free. I yelled for her to run as hard as she could.

She was confused.

I shouted for Monica to run.

She took off toward the police.

I tried to use my weight to wedge the seat against Mrs. Carruthers, to push her into the steering wheel, would have smashed every bone in her body if I could. She was strong. She had trained and carried weighted bags for miles in the military. She had strength; I had adrenaline. I was bleeding, dizzy, but determined. Halfway in and halfway out of the car, I called for the police to come quick. I could barely breathe, so I knew no one heard me over all of the noise. I was ready for Franklin's wife to shoot me for not honoring the deal, but that deal had been made under duress,
so as far as I was concerned, there was no fucking deal. She grunted, got her position, and pushed her seat back against me, and that pressed against where she had stabbed me. I screamed, saw the world turn bright red, then backed away from the pain. She found enough space to twist her body. She struck me in my wounded arm and pushed back against me again, made the seat push against that fiery wound. Blood. There was so much of my blood. My legs refused to support me. I wanted to flee like Monica had done, wanted to run so hard and fast my feet would kick my backside with each stride. I took a step and the pain consumed me. I collapsed to the freeway. I fell like a rock dropping from the clouds. It felt like minutes had gone by, but only two or three seconds had passed since Monica had escaped toward those sworn to protect and serve. Mrs. Carruthers was out of the car in a flash, and I expected her to grab me by my short hair, force me back to my feet, hold me by my neck with the blade at my throat or with the business end of the gun aimed at my head, and make me her human shield. But with guns on her, with me flat out on the ground, I guess her fight-or-flight kicked in.

She took off running with her weapons in her hands.

In my mind she moved like a kangaroo, each step putting her thirty feet away. She was fast. Police moved by me with their guns drawn. Stabbed, skin abraded with road rash from the fall, I looked up and saw Monica was near the police.

Seemed like they were a thousand miles away.

That was all I needed to see.

I was done trying to be strong.

Helicopters remained in the sky. I tried to raise my hand and wave, but I didn't have the strength to lift a finger. I couldn't feel anything. I didn't want to, but I closed my eyes.

I'd lost a lot of blood. Then there was a pain in my chest.

It was hard to breathe. I was suffocating.

The world became my merry-go-round.

I was spun into darkness.

Then the world was bright.

*   *   *

I heard Monica's voice again. She had dashed back to me, had outrun the yells of the police. Ambulance sirens warbled in the distance.

“Auntie, I'm not going to leave you.”

“I told you to run to safety.”

“I'm not going to leave you. We're family.”

“Obey me, Monica. I need you to run back to the police so they can get you to Blue and Tommie.”

“You saved me. I'll save you now. I'll protect you. I'm being brave.”

“Look . . . stand your brave ass up and wave at the helicopters. Stand up and wave so Mommy and Daddy will know you're okay.”

She did what I asked her to do but only waved for a couple of seconds.

Law enforcement called for her to come back to them, but she refused, tried to attend to me.

Her pained expression intensified. “I want you to be okay, Auntie, because you are very special. You are special to Mommy. You taught me how to play Monopoly and I win every time. Please be okay.”

“You're stubborn. You're as stubborn as a McBroom, you know that?”

“I know. When Mommy and Daddy marry, Daddy can be a McBroom too.”

As her little hands held my bloodied hand, I swallowed and closed my eyes.

“Frankie Frankie bo bankie. Don't die, Auntie. Please don't die.”

I couldn't respond to her. Her voice faded, was swallowed by
the pandemonium. In between blinks, officers were around me, like they had magically appeared, and were taking her away.

She was taken away, rescued kicking and screaming my name. They had to pry her hands away. She wanted to stay with me. There were shouting voices and many sirens warbled and warbled and warbled. Before the next blink ended, that entire ruckus faded too. I closed my eyes. No more blinking. I walked into the bright light. Dressed in white, I went on a journey to see my deceased momma and my daddy. With invisible wings on my back, I floated over the scene. I saw what had happened.

In that short span of time, an instant that felt like an eternity, Rosemary Paige had sprinted to the edge of the freeway. She jumped from the twenty-foot bridge, and the news helicopters stayed with her every desperate move. She dropped, fell badly, didn't have her balance, and she broke her left leg. She was down and within seconds three officers surrounded her with their guns drawn. She held her gun, screamed at them as they barked at her, was seconds from being double popped, but pushed her gun away and put her hands on top of her head. The lunatic surrendered.

With the world watching the tragedy unfold, it was all over but the crying.

It was time for black suits, black ties, black dresses, for McBrooms and Wimberleys to stand with friends and strangers. It was time for all to meet on Crenshaw Boulevard at Angelus Funeral Home and shed tears as they stood over my coffin.

On the asphalt, underneath the warmth of the sun, helicopters overhead, I died.