Mean Woman Blues

she pulled her wrists apart. The fabric gave, a little. But she could do it. She knew now that she could do it.
    She kept working, wondering where they were, what Earl was doing in there, how long he’d be, whether she was going to make it. And finally, with a mighty tug, she did. Her elbows hit the padded sides of the trunk, and she brought her hands around to her front, rubbing them together to restore circulation. And then she sent those fingers out to work, not even bothering to tear the tape off her mouth.
    The button would be near the front
, she thought,
near the lock.
In a moment, she found it. The trunk flew up, and she breathed real air, not moving for a moment, except to free her mouth. Then she tore at the tape on her ankles, using a combination of the cable grips and her own fingers, nails torn and ragged, to rip it off. Still, she couldn’t walk. Her feet had no feeling at all.
    She sat on the edge of the trunk and rubbed them till she could stand, then stomped like a child whose foot has fallen asleep. Slowly, the feeling returned, and, as it did, she surveyed her surroundings. She was behind a small building, in a parking lot. There were other cars there. She realized how fortunate it was that no one had come to rescue her. Because how the hell was she going to kill her husband in front of witnesses? How was she going to do it, anyway, without a weapon?
    Maybe she could improvise one. She set the gas can on the pavement.
    He must be in the building. She walked to the front and opened the door. No guard, she noticed, though there was a desk for one, with an ashtray and a pack of cigarettes beside it, a lighter neatly laid on top.
A gift from God
, she thought, palming the lighter.
    Thinking Earl might be back any second, she took stock quickly, wondering what the hell he was doing here. She grabbed the guard’s sign-in book and started leafing through it. She had to go back two weeks before she found what she was looking for: an entry for Karen Wright, Room 214.
    That was where he’d be. She went back for the gas can.
    * * *
    Skip parked her car in front of the building, illegally. She walked into the building, noted that the guard was missing, and wondered briefly if that meant anything. She checked the directory and took the elevator to the second floor.
    The door to 214 was closed, but she could hear voices, a woman’s voice, at any rate. She thought briefly of calling for backup but decided it was too soon. Two little old ladies could be in there, phoning around in aid of making the world right for women.
    She leaned close and listened. And there it was, a voice she knew, silky and smooth as ever, saying, “Now, Karen, no need to get excited; just put the gun away, now. This is not the bogeyman; nobody’s here but your loving husband.”
    Okay
, she told herself.
Be calm. Take a minute
. She walked back down the hall and called Shellmire. “Turner. I’ve got him. I think he’s armed.” Well, somebody was armed, anyway. She gave the address, walked back down the hall, drew her gun, listened a moment more. “You asshole!” Karen screamed, and Skip heard the desperation in her voice. So, apparently, did Jacomine. “Karen, no!” he yelled.
    Skip kicked the door open.
    The two people in the room turned toward her, shocked. Karen was holding a gun, hands shaking, and Jacomine was completely bald. For a second, Skip was unnerved, not so much by the gun, which she’d expected, as by seeing Jacomine looking so much like his old self; somehow, hairless, he was no longer Mr. Right, just her old enemy with a better jawline.
    He recovered first, making some sort of motion that could have started out to be a step. Karen fired, but the shot went wild. Jacomine jumped her, knocked the gun out of her hand.
    Skip shouted, “Hands up, or I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
    The two kept struggling. He was on top of Karen, had her nearly on the ground. Skip had no shot.
    She took a step forward and kicked him, but he grabbed upward for her gun. He caught her by surprise, nearly twisting it out of her hand, and held on. She kicked again. Karen grunted, at the bottom of the pile.
    Jacomine still had the gun in his grip; Skip felt her own grip loosening. He was getting it. She held tighter, kept kicking. He twisted hard, and she dropped it, heard it skitter across the room.
    They both dived for it, giving Karen a chance to struggle out of the pile. Skip could sense people in the hall, having come out