Killer Pancake

I heard the scream first, then a horrid, sickening thud. The scream echoed from the concrete walls all around. Then the engine roared again and the tires screeched. Far over at the entrance, two uniformed cops started running in the direction of the scream. I willed myself to start breathing again, and looked around for Claire. Where was she? Had she seen what happened? My skin prickled. After being momentarily stilled, the demonstrators started up again with their “hoo-ha!” shouts that sounded like an ominous pep rally.

When Claire did not appear I whacked the steamer, the bowl, and the vegetables down on the hood of a nearby Jeep. Unencumbered, I started briskly off in the area where I thought Claire had parked her Peugeot.

I saw the policemen first. One was talking into his radio. The other knelt on the pavement. A woman was lying at his feet. Had she passed out? As I came closer, I realized the body could not have landed in that contorted way from a faint.

The kneeling policeman looked up and saw me. “Get back!” he yelled. “We need to clear this area!”

But I took no heed. Blood pooled on the cement near the inert body. The woman on the pavement was Claire.

I’m going to be ill. My mouth opened but no sound emerged. A car drove slowly by behind me. In one of its windows, children’s faces gawked at the policemen. I lurched forward through a shock wave of car exhaust. Had Claire been struck by a car? But of course, that was the only explanation. There has to be some way I can help. Where was that vehicle I’d heard screeching through the garage? What were the two cops doing? Why wasn’t someone else coming? I knew I would regret walking closer, but I kept moving forward anyway. My footsteps gritted loudly. Please let her be all right.

“Go back,” said the policeman again, this time in my face. His wide shoulders and deeply lined face loomed in front of me. He was not someone I knew. I murmured Claire’s name and felt my knees buckle. Then the policeman seemed to change his mind. “Wait.” His powerful hand gripped my elbow. “Did you see what happened? Do you know this woman? Were you with her?”

“No. I mean, yes.” It came out a croak. “I only …” What? My face was wet. Tears. When had I started to cry?

The policeman’s gruff voice insisted: “The woman who was hit—you knew her or not?” So Claire had been hit. Of course. The policeman’s eyes bored into mine. Surely he didn’t think I was responsible? “Her name?” he demanded.

My mouth fumbled around Claire’s name. I did not know her address. Julian would. Oh, God. Julian.

Behind us people began to gather. The policeman sharply ordered them to stay back, then continued with curt questions: What exactly had I seen? Had I observed any vehicles before I heard the scream? Why was Claire in the garage? Not far away, the other uniformed cop continued to speak urgently into his radio. There was no movement from the twisted body on the pavement.

The man questioning me took his fierce eyes off my face and looked over my shoulder. “Oh, good. Schulz,” he murmured. I turned to see my husband walking swiftly toward us between parked cars. Relief rushed through me. Over his street clothes, Tom wore a raid jacket, a gray wind-breaker with the Furman County Sheriff’s Department logo emblazoned on the left pocket. The jacket was what the plainclothes police put on when they needed to distinguish themselves from regular folks. But distinguishing Tom Schulz from regular folks was not now, nor had it ever been, difficult.

He did not see me at first. I wiped my cheeks hard and watched him stride toward the uniformed officer with the radio, who was again kneeling on the garage floor. Tom wore his purposeful, commanding look, a look that I knew both comforted and cowed those who worked for him. It was also an expression that cut like a cleaver into a suspect’s babbling. Tom dropped to one knee to talk to the cop with the radio. The officer motioned in our direction. Tom glanced over, gave a brief, puzzled shake of the head when he saw me, then turned back to Claire.

I shivered, coughed again, and clasped my arms. I felt ridiculous in the double-breasted chef’s jacket and apron. The blood in my ears pounded as worries about Claire and Julian crowded my mind. Tom took the radio and talked into it. The policeman beside me seemed to sense there was no point in continuing his interrogation. Tom would join us momentarily and take over. An approaching siren wailed. Too soon, I thought. But of course—the new hospital was right across the street from the mall. Suddenly the red, white, and gold EMS truck careened around a cement column, then screeched to a halt and disgorged two paramedics. They ran over to Claire’s dreadfully inert body. Tom straightened and walked over to us. His face was grim.

“This is—” began the uniformed cop.

“Yeah, okay, I know who she is. Go help Rick with those demonstrators.”