Silenced by the Yams - By Karen Cantwell Page 0,51

over. As soon as we came to a complete stop, I was to roll down the window and hand the gun to an agent who would then whisk me away to safety. Randolph was to stay in the car until Howard approached him on the passenger’s side and ordered him out with his hands over his head.

“Now, Marr,” she said seriously, “if at any time he regrets this decision and the situation becomes dangerous for you again, either while driving or while parked, tap your brakes twice.”

“Right,” I said. “Should I hang up?”

“No, leave the line open.”

“Right,” I said. “I’m putting the phone down.” I started to lay it in my lap, then thought about something I wanted to say. I put it back to my ear. “Hey, Smith?”

“Nope, this is Howard.”

“Oh good,” I said with a smile. “Because I was going to tell her to tell you that I love you. But now I can tell you myself. And I promise I’ll never go off and try to solve murders by myself anymore. I’ll leave that to people like you.”

“Didn’t you promise that last time?”

“Howard, I’m perimenopausal. Loss of memory is one of the most common symptoms.”

“Right.” The line went silent for a minute. “Barb?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you too. You won’t forget that, will you?”

“Not in a million years. In fact, you’re stuck with me for at least the next ten lifetimes.”

“Good. We’re coming up on the three mile mark now, so put the phone down and get ready to pull over.”

“Here we go,” I said to Randolph as I began to decelerate. “Are you doing okay?”

He nodded and looked at me very seriously. “It’s comfortable, isn’t it?” he asked.

I didn’t know what he meant. “What?”

“True love. We have that too, you know—Jorge and I. Since college. It’s warm and it’s comfortable.”

Actually, I didn’t want to tell him that the love of my life would never kill a man in cold blood to protect his own interests and those of a corrupt politician. But it was obvious that he did love Jorge with all of his heart, and so mine broke for him. It must have been very hard to hide that love, pretending to be someone he wasn’t for all of those years.

Randolph stared out his window. “He’s gone,” he said. “Jorge’s dead.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know.” He tapped his heart. “I sense it—his absence.”

Truthfully, I believed that it was possible that Jorge didn’t survive. He’d been shot, we all saw it. But I wanted to give Randolph hope. “Let’s just wait and see, okay? He’s probably going to be just fine.”

We’d pulled to a complete stop and I threw the gear shift into park, leaving the car running, just as I’d been instructed. I powered down the window and went to reach for the gun between the seats, but I was too late. Randolph was pointing it right at my face.

A thought flashed through my mind—something that I was supposed to do if things became dangerous.

But frankly, there was no time, even if I did remember what it was.

Glass and blood filled the air the instant I heard the explosion, as if it were all occurring at the same exact microsecond in time.

Then I was floating. Howard hovered over my vision and he called my name from the end of a long tunnel that grew longer and longer and darker and darker. I was desperate to touch him, but was too tired to try. Eventually he slipped away, and the darkness enveloped me entirely.

Chapter Twenty-one

Steven Spielberg and Meryl Streep. They’re both on my bucket list of people to meet. And I will. I may have to break some laws, get arrested and have a couple of restraining orders slapped on me, but I will meet them. In the meantime, during moments of stress, Steven or Meryl often visit me in my dreams.

I’m standing at the edge of a large rectangular pool that reflects a high-noon sun. The blue water is motionless and I feel that I could walk right out onto the surface and not fall through. Laughter startles me and I turn to see Meryl and Steven, robed in white flowing cotton gowns. The two of them together, in the same dream. It feels like a miracle. They’re walking toward me from an orange grove, over a plush lawn of the greenest grass I’ve ever seen. Meryl has stopped laughing to sip from the tall glass that she carries—a glass that is exactly identical to the