Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

him alone,” she said. “He has nothing to do with this.” She slipped the card into the pocket of Marty’s coat.
    With a ferocious growl, the dog sank her teeth into the gunman’s calf, the gun went off. Marty fell hard. She scrambled to him, cradled his head. Bubbles of blood formed on his lips.
    “Where are you hit?”
    He groaned. “Shoulder.”
    The screaming was shrill, louder than she could stand. Someone lifted her and dragged her from the building, her cries blending into the rest, squandered.
    On the street the snow was thick and fine and the gray Mercedes was waiting. He shoved her into the back and climbed in the front, then leaned over and smacked her hard on the side of the head, slamming her against the window frame. The Krispy Kreme slopped down the coat in undigested clumps. Vomiting will keep a rapist away. Was that true? She tried to jump start her brain, but the numbness was taking over. Fight back. You have to fight.
    “Fuck, she’s barfing. She’s ruining my car.”
    “Shut up and drive.”
    The car made the turn on Eighth and headed uptown.
    She thought, I’ve killed someone else. That nice man, or his dog ...
    “Hey, what’s that? You get shot?”
    “Dog bit me. Hurts like hell. You got a bottle somewhere?”
    “Look in the glove compartment.”
    “Okay, okay, I got it.”
    “Don’t do it here, for crissakes.”
    “Well, fucking pull over.”
    “Wait a minute. Let me make the turn.”
    The car pulled over, the locks clicked, passenger-side door opened. “Fuck, I can’t see a goddam thing.”
    “Just get it over with.” The driver was leaning across the seat, intent on his partner.
    They’d stopped near the park at Columbus Circle. She felt around on her door for the lock, let out a moan, threw open the door. But the driver grabbed her as her feet touched the ground, getting tight hold of the coat. Slipping out of the coat was easy.
    She dodged a taxi, just, feeling the whish of the wind and the splatter of moisture. They were shouting at each other. She laughed. It was wonderful. The park beckoned to her. It was her special place. She flew through Merchants Gate, dancing on the soft white footpath, leaping and pirouetting in the snow. Perfect jeté passes.
    I’ll protect you, the park said.
    She knew it would.

4
    C HOCOLATE . S HE smelled chocolate. It floated in the air around her. She got up from the bench, searching. The street lamp splayed light on a bus shelter where a black woman, bulked up by coat, scarf, and hat, stood waiting, looking up the street for a bus. As she came near, she saw the woman was taking bites of something she held in bakery paper. A chocolate croissant.
    “Don’t you come any closer, y’hear!” the woman yelled. “I got pepper spray—”
    A bus came and stopped in front of the bus shelter. The woman got on, shaking her fist at the specter holding on to the side of the bus shelter. The door to the bus closed and the bus moved on down the street, taking the smell of chocolate with it.
    Confetti began to dance in the light of the street lamp. Pieces glanced her face, her arms. White confetti like snow. Snow. It was snowing. What was she doing in the snow without a coat? She must have left it somewhere. The bench. She’d been sitting on a bench. Where was the bench? She went up and back on the sidewalk, frantic. Now she’d lost the bench.
    She knew the bus shelter. She returned to it, trembling violently, and squirmed into a corner to keep warm.
    A car passed, and another, and another. She counted them, reached eleven, started from one again, then lost count. The noise was filling her head.
    “There she is! Pull over.”
    Tires screeched. She made herself invisible.
    “Where?”
    “There. The fucking bus shelter. Hey!”
    “Shit!”
    “Miss? Are you all right?”
    She shrieked, but no sound came out. Make the noise stop. She could hardly open her eyes. Hiking boots. Brown corduroy knees knelt beside her. A beard blurred. Spearmint. She closed her eyes. A hand touched her shoulder and she thought, turtle, and did just that.
    “She’s gone fetal.” A woman’s voice, very close. “What a mess.” Warm breath drove a wedge into her shell. “She’s hypothermic. Can you hear me, Miss? We’re going to help you.”
    “Here you go.” Warmth. “Jeeze, she’s like an ice cube.” Hands lifted her. “Try to relax, Miss. We won’t hurt you. Just want to get your blood pressure.” The strap pinched her arm. “Where’d you