Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [121]
As I walked past her into the dark library I thought, Use what’s around you to your advantage.
The next thing I knew a trainload of firecrackers went off in my head, and everything went black.
It was still black when I regained consciousness. Black and dusty and cold. The floor I was curled up on was concrete. A generator vibrated the air around me. My hands and feet were tied, and my head throbbed like an abscessed tooth.
I tried to struggle loose, but whoever had trussed me up knew something about knots. I had no idea how long I’d been out, but my extremities were already numb. Lying there on the icy floor, I worried about permanent damage. A hysterical laugh fluttered deep in my chest. Permanent damage? The woman had already killed once. Damage to the nerves of my feet and hands was the least of my worries.
I lay my head back down on the concrete and tried to assess my situation. Keep calm, I said, feeling an uncontrollable trembling start. I blinked my eyes over and over, trying to force them to adjust to the darkness. My skull felt as fragile as an egg, and I would have given anything at that moment for a handful of aspirin and a soft pillow. Think, I commanded my brain. Where could you be that would be this dark and cold? But my brain wouldn’t function, and all I could do was swallow the sob starting in my chest. Please, God, I begged. That’s all I could think to pray. Please, God.
I drifted in and out of consciousness, so it seemed like hours later when I heard a door open and the click of footsteps coming down stairs. A single fluorescent light came on, and I looked up into Jillian’s face. Then I realized where I was. The library’s basement. Used to store bulk office supplies, old weeded books waiting for the Friends of the Library’s yearly sale, holiday decorations, and custodial supplies, it was a standing joke among the employees.
“Going down in the Pit,” I’d heard them say to each other. “Send the search and rescue if I’m not back in an hour.” Was this where she killed Nora and hid her body until taking it over to the lake? It would have been the perfect place. My stomach churned. Were the ropes I was bound with the ones used to strangle Nora? I closed my eyes and contemplated whether screaming would help.
“She’s awake now,” she said. Even in the fuzziness of my confused brain, I wondered about her pronoun. Who was she talking to?
“What are we going to do?” a woman’s voice answered her. “Madre de Dios, what are we going to do?”
“Dolores, would you shut up,” Jillian snapped. “I need to think.”
I opened my eyes and looked up into Dolores’s frightened face. Jillian and Dolores? They were in this together? Boy, was Gabe going to be surprised. A wave of pain zigzagged through my head. Unfortunately I wasn’t going to be around to see it.
“Sit up,” Jillian said, reaching over and pulling me up by the upper arm. I leaned against some pasteboard boxes and finally found my voice.
“You two killed Nora?” I stuttered, my words tangling around a tongue that felt thick, like someone had shot it full of novocaine. “Why?”
“You know why,” Jillian said. “I had a feeling you found the missing Tattler columns. Where did you find them?”
“The Datebook Bum,” I said. “I think he found them in the library trash . . . but they don’t incriminate you. Not really.”
“They say enough,” she snapped. “Enough to get me”—her eyes trailed over to Dolores—“us, questioned again, and I can’t afford to let that happen.”
Dolores’s dark eyes looked as wild and frightened as a trapped animal’s. I realized what Jillian was worried about now. If the police questioned Dolores again, there was a good chance that this time they could probably break her down.
Through the basement’s open door I heard a buzzer. Apparently someone was at the employees’ back entrance upstairs.
Jillian frowned, then turned to Dolores and said,