“Thanks, Simon,” Carolyn said, pushing back a little to let the big police captain know the hug was much appreciated, but he could let go now. “I’m so sorry.”

She realized she was apologizing, but for what? She hadn’t asked to be kidnapped. Again. And she’d struggled, hard, using karate and expensively-capped teeth. She rubbed her chafed wrists; she could see the ghost of her Gucci watchstrap where it had dug in deeply.

“How’s Jimmy?” she asked softly. Carolyn searched for truth in Simon’s eyes and found it, knowing it would be just like Simon to protect her with soft lies and gentle half-truths. “He’s all right, isn’t he?”

To Simon’s reassurance, she replied, “Just a graze. Thank God!” And thank God for good insurance, she thought. Jim’d come home from the hospital with a bloody bandage, expect cereal and cartoons and sex during which she did all the work, and make dumb “just a flesh wound” cracks for weeks.

“I’d just like to go home, please. You understand, don’t you?” And Simon did—perhaps not the details, but things were rocky on his home front as well, or so a half-toasted Joan had confided at their last get-together.

“I just want to go home,” she repeated. She tried to be grateful for Jimmy’s timely arrival, but in the back of her mind, she knew she wouldn’t have needed rescuing if her dear husband didn’t skip through life pissing off every psychotic nut-bar around.

“No. I’m fine. I don’t need a hospital myself, thank you. Sorry you made the trip out here for nothing.” She smiled gratefully at the paramedic. God, he was young enough to be her… nephew. She felt tired, old and sad. A little angry, as well.

“Just tired, thanks.” She touched a tissue to the corner of her eye, careful not to smudge her mascara. She was embarrassed to be seen crying. She wasn’t scared or weak; she was just so, so frustrated.

She accepted a ride home with a uniform who was probably baby-paramedic’s younger sister.

“Why, yes. I do believe we ‘career gals’ should stick together.” She stared out the passenger window, recognizing the set-up for what it was. “Traffic duty? Since the Academy? Of course, I’d be happy to pass along your resume.”

“I’m sorry, dear, but do you mind if we just sit quietly? It’s been a rather trying day.” Carolyn wasn’t sure she could agree that Britney’s last CD was “the bomb”, or that “bomb” was the best choice of words considering the circumstances. Or that this was really the best time for networking one’s next career move.

“Thank you for the drive. Sorry to have taken you out of your way. Best of luck with the re-assignment.” Carolyn stepped away from the police car, remembering back to a time when she too had thought she could save the world. She wished Officer Bubbly strength for real fieldwork and wondered how she’d deal with her first week-old body. That was where maturity and experience had a real advantage over perky breasts.

Carolyn headed up the path to their apartment building, unbelievably grateful that the front door was propped open, except… isn’t that how the psychotic nut-bars usually got in?

In the lobby, the superintendent was just taping a handwritten sign to the building’s single elevator. Out off ordor, it read.

“No. No problem, Mr. Stiltskin. I’ll just take the stairs.”

She faced the steep slope of stairs. Sure it was only two flights, but she’d just spent five hours tied to a chair with a bomb strapped under it. Somehow she didn’t feel like hauling ass up two flights of uneven staircase. If only she’d taken it easier at Pilates last night. Why hadn’t she stuck to her guns and insisted on that condo out in Oak Park? They could have sold the loft at a profit, maxed their 401Ks and taken a romantic trip somewhere. Bali, maybe. Jim said he’d liked it well enough last time.

“Do you think it will be fixed soon?” She placed one well-manicured hand on the banister, noticing it wasn’t quite so well-manicured after hours of picking apart rope fibres. She was ridiculously proud of having freed herself and diffused the bomb by the time Jim had come charging into the abandoned warehouse. “Well, have you considered calling the elevator repair company?”

She nodded politely as he itemized an impressive litany of excuses that were both whiney and creative. She’d successfully escaped today’s murderous villain; now if only she could dodge Mr. Stiltskin as easily.

Why in the world were these people called “supers”? There wasn’t much “super” about Mr. Stiltskin. A rather different descriptive word came to mind, but she chided herself for being uncharitable. There but for the grace of God, and all that.

The stairs proved to be every bit as exhausting as she’d anticipated, but eventually she reached the door to the loft… only to realize that her keys were in her purse which was in her car which was back in the Qwik-E-Mart parking lot where she’d been grabbed… “Oh, shit!”

The trip back down the stairs was even tougher than the trip up had been. “Excuse me, Mr. Stiltskin. I seem to have misplaced my keys.”

“ID? But you know me!”

“My ID is in my purse with my keys.”

“Yes, just this once. I understand. Thank you.”

“No, I didn’t know you had lumbago.”

And so she trudged up the stairs again, unlocked the loft door, headed back down, and returned the master keys to Mr. Stiltskin. “Thank you, Mr. Stiltskin. I’m sorry to have troubled you.” Then back up again, possibly for the last time, ever.

These certainly weren’t the heels she would have worn had she known today was going to be a kidnapping day. Again. Maybe, she thought as she dropped onto the sofa, she should wear comfortable flats everyday, just in case. She rubbed her left bunion while answering the phone.

“Oh, Mom. No, I didn’t forget. I was… sort of tied up. I’m sorry.” She clenched her lips together in a tight, white line to keep them from trembling. Her lowered gaze came to rest on a great scratch in the hardwood from the last time their loft had been invaded. She’d pulled her great-grandmother’s china cabinet onto its side and ducked behind it, the layers of thick oak planking protecting her from the madman’s axe long enough for her to yank her pistol from her purse. Luckily, the reddish patina of the hardwood hid the bloodstains well. Nothing a tasteful Persian throw rug couldn’t hide.

“I’m so sorry, Mother, but I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you back.” She took a deep breath. “Actually, Mom, I think I might be coming home for a while. No, I’ll tell you when I see you. Is that all right?”

She rested a few more moments, then heaved herself up and headed for the shower. The bullet-cracked tiles needed a good scrubbing. They couldn’t be replaced until the trial was over in case the forensics guys needed another look at the crime scene. Although it wasn’t her precinct, she knew the team and cooperated as best she could.

The shower was the best thing that happened to her all day.

She fluffed her damp hair a bit and applied a little corrective cream under her eyes, donned Liz Claiborne sweats and waited for her husband to return. A message left while she was sluicing away dust, C4, and sweaty handprints informed her he was fine and on his way home. She sipped her tea—real tea with real caffeine for once—no herbal blends tonight. She doubted she’d be sleeping tonight, anyway.

A small leather overnight case waited by the door. She could only hope the elevator was working by the time she left. And that no vengeful miscreants lurked between here and the taxi stand on the corner.

She was done with this. She loved Jim dearly, and always would, but it was foolish to continue to endanger her life this way. She’d been kidnapped more than once, held hostage, threatened, attacked and robbed. In their few years of marriage, she’d garnered contusions, scars, shocks, traumas, an undeserved reputation as a trouble magnet, and truly outrageous insurance rates.

It was only her own self-reliance, Jimmy’s eleventh-hour rescues, and a lifetime’s allotment of really good luck that had kept her from being fallout along the scary road that was Jim Ellison’s life. It was enough already. Let the next Mrs. Ellison get kidnapped, chained up, drugged, stabbed, shot or pushed in and out of helicopters. Her time was up. She was done here.

Maybe she’d move to San Francisco. She had a sister there.

An old song ran through her head. She hummed a few bars: “Sometimes love just ain’t enough.”

The key turned in the lock, startling her even though she’d been expecting it.

“Jimmy. I’m sorry, but we need to talk.”

End

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