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wedging his foot between the balusters, but they were
too closely spaced. He cursed, threw one leg over the
railing, and leaned down to push me away.
My legs swung forward, as my fingers slowly lost
their grip and I fell. Cut off in mid-scream, I slammed
with a painful crash onto the identical terrace of the
apartment one floor below. Stunned, I rolled to my
hands and knees, crawled painfully to a small patio
table and two chairs, dragged myself to my feet, and
beat on the sliding glass door.
Help me! Open the door! Please! I pleaded. No an
swer. The interior remained dark.
Overhead, Broussard s legs swung over the balcony
as he came after me. I staggered to yet another sliding
door around the corner. I fumbled desperately with the
latch but it, too, was locked. Sobbing and shaking, I
shouted, pounded, and kicked at the door, then peered
inside. I saw ghostly shrouds, sheet-covered furniture,
and the silhouettes of a ladder and paint cans. My face
left bloody smudges on the tinted glass only a hint of
what was to come. I moaned at a sound behind me.
Broussard had lowered himself and was clinging to the
ledge, ready to swing onto the terrace after me.
Get away! I screamed.
With no place to hide, I snatched up a patio chair,
brandishing it as one might to fend off a wild beast.
340 EDNA BUCHANAN
His long legs swung toward me, knees flexed, feet
together. Taller by six or seven inches, he had to lift
them to clear the railing. Screaming, I charged as
though wielding a battering ram. The legs of the chair
caught him just below the belt.
His expression, mouth open wide, was one of total
surprise. He clawed at thin air for a moment, then fell
away. The chair clattered after him, bouncing off the
building.
His scream faded, but I did not hear the dreaded im
pact. Lost on the wind, I thought, as I crumpled to the
floor, limp and weeping. I sat for a time, trying not to
think, focused only on breathing. Finally I dragged my
self to my feet, fighting back nausea as I gripped the
railing with both hands and forced myself to look
down. No crowd gathering below as I had expected. No
cops. Preston Broussard had not slammed into the
paved pool deck. Instead, he stared up at me, suspended
face-up in space, six feet off the ground, impaled on the
spear-sharp supports of the wrought-iron security gate
that separates the pool area from the street.
#
22
Numb and shivering, I sat with my spine pressed to the
cold outside wall of the empty apartment and waited
for sirens. But all I heard was the wind.
My mind wandered. Would I see my mother again or
be doomed to this high tomb forever? The dead moaned
around me, or was that the wind? In my mind s eye, or
was it ancient memory, I saw a distant time in a far
place when I stood alone on a towering cliff high above
the raging sea, the wind wild in my hair. Stars shone
above, doom waited below.
Eventually, I was roused by bright flashes of color
bouncing in eerie patterns off the south side of the
building: the spiraling lights of emergency vehicles. I
stood up slowly and waved stiffly, trying to shout from
my open air prison in the sky.
It seemed to take hours before the flashlight beams
342 EDNA BUCHANAN
of two uniformed cops pierced the dark interior of the
apartment behind me.
They found the light switch and unlocked the sliding
glass door, and I stumbled toward them. You know
anything about that guy down there? one asked,
steadying my arm.
Everything. There s another one upstairs, I mum
bled, and burst into tears. Call Rychek, I said, as my
knees gave way.
How did you get out there? The cop frowned as he
bent over me.
Fell, I rasped, my throat raw from screaming. He
threw me off, I said, from up there. I tried to point,
but a dark-eyed medic in a blue jumpsuit refused to free
my arm. He was taking my pulse.
I hadn t seen the medics arrive. They asked how I
felt. Tearfully I displayed my bloodied and broken fin
gernails.
They exchanged glances, fastened a brace around
my neck, and lifted me onto a backboard. I m not a
victim, I insisted. I m okay. They wanted to wheel
me out. I said I wanted to walk in a minute or two.
Until then it felt good to lie down. The blanket was soft
and warm and I closed my eyes for a moment. I opened
them after my teeth stopped chattering and saw an IV in
my arm.
I had to wait for Rychek, to explain everything, I
said. The medics insisted I go to the hospital instead.
They won.
The stiff collar around my neck made it difficult to
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