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Chapter 1
He heard her voice first, as usual. She always lead with her
voice,
singing at the top of her lungs to keep the crazies and rapists at bay
as she walked through the parking garage to her battered blue Honda
Civic.
Tonight, it was Tin Pan Alley. "After the ball is over/After the break
of morn/After the dancers' leaving/After the stars are gone/Many a
heart is aching/
If you could read them all/Many the hopes that have vanished/After the
ball"
He shifted from his perch in the shadows of the garage scaffolding as
she came up the stairs. He trained his binoculars on her as she headed
to her car. He liked Songbird, even if she had a touch of tin ear. She
had an hourglass figure in a city filled with waifs and wore her
titan hair unapologetically. He was a sucker for red heads. And out of
all the renters in this particular garage, he felt protective of her.
She was new to the city; she was still afraid of the city. She walked
through armed with her car keys through her fingers and a can of mace,
and her voice, her voice inadvertently announcing, "HERE I AM! GIRL!
ALONE! COME GET ME!"
He was certain another couple of month’s exposure and she'd stop
singing. He'd miss that.
His right calf began to throb under the prolonged crouching, and he
dropped his binoculars to rub it absent-mindedly. He'd step out of the
shadows and stretch once Songbird was safely in her car. His work was
almost done for the night, anyway.
He picked up his binoculars again. Songbird was almost to her car,
parked directly to the left of his perch, just out of reach of a
security light. He wondered what she'd think if she looked up and saw
him watching her. Probably scream bloody murder.
He adjusted the glasses' focus. Her voice became muffled as she
hunched over to open the black tote slung over her left arm. Her denim
jacket had ridden up to show the creamy skin of the small of her back,
and the modest moss green scalloping of her underwear that peaked
above the waistband of her jeans. Awesome. That was worth the pain in
his calf.
For a blind moment, he weighed the possibilities of climbing out of
his position and trying to talk to her, maybe ask her to dinner. He
wondered if he'd come off as too creepy, dressed in all black, with
the black stocking cap pulled over his hair. Maybe, if he just waited
around tomorrow, and wore jeans and a rugby shirt and ditched the
hat...but he'd have to do laundry...
She was still singing when an orange blur grabbed her and pushed her
against the wall. "HELP!" she screamed before the hulking guy in a
dirty orange hoodie and a camouflage knit cap could clamp a hand over
her mouth.
"Shut up!" he shouted as he started fumbling at his pants. "Shut
your
mouth, or I'll cut you!"
He didn't hesitate, even though he was unarmed. He dropped from his
perch, landing with a subtle pit-pat, lost under the noise of the
thug's threats. How had he missed this guy? How could he let himself
get so caught up in a girl that he'd miss this?
He crept through the shadows, crouched over and shielded by the other
cars in the garage. He heard a staccato "WHAP-WHAP-WHAP" and glanced
up to see the Songbird bring her tote bag across the thug's face. The
unexpected blows stunned the thug long enough to let her make a break.
"Fuck!" She swore as she fumbled with her car keys, struggling to
work
them into the car lock. The thug shook off her blows and started
advancing on her anew. "Fuck! SOMEBODY HELP ME!"
He heard the keys tinkle as they hit the concrete floor and then heard
them skitter as the thug kicked them away.
"YOU WANT IT!" he raged, as he pushed her to the ground. He saw her
head hit hard and her limbs go slack. "I KNOW YOU WANT IT!"
It was time to move. He slunk up behind the thug and clamped a hand on
him. "Funny," he said, channeling Clint Eastwood as he spun the thug
around. "I don't see a knife."
The thug, bleary-eyed and smelling of booze and acidic smoke, didn't
have time to react. It only took three punches to drop him; a fist in
the face, a knee in the groin, and a quick sweeper kick to bring him
to his knees. The thug hit his head on the Civic's bumper on his way
down. He was out cold.
He turned to the girl, unconscious, her pretty hair pooled around her
head like a bloody halo. He patted her cheek. "Hey," he said, gently.
"Hey."
She opened her eyes. Green. She blinked twice before focusing on him.
"Ow," she said, struggling to sit up. "Ow." She saw the
thug splayed
out in front of her car's bumper, and she sucked in her breath. "Oh,
God. Oh, God."
"Shh," he soothed. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you, and
he's not
going to hurt you. He didn't hurt you. It's okay. Do you have a
phone?"
She nodded.
"Call 911," he commanded. "Tell them where you are. Tell them
that you
fought off an attempted rapist. Ask them to send an ambulance. And for
pity's sake, you've got to take care of yourself. The city's bigger
and meaner than you are, but you've got to learn how to fight back.
Okay?"
She nodded.
"Now call them," he said.
She dug in her purse obediently, but stopped. "What about?" she
asked,
looking up, but he was already gone.
He watched as a couple of uniformed officers and an EMT crew responded
within minutes of her call; he watched as the thug was wheeled away,
handcuffed to the paramedics' gurney. He listened as she told the
truth: "And then, I woke up and this guy came out of like nowhere and
told me to call you, but when I looked up, he was gone again."
"She hit her head pretty hard," the senior paramedic said to the
investigating officer. "Wouldn't be surprising if this was part of it.
I wanna take her in for observation."
"No," she protested. "I know what I saw. There was a guy, but he
just
vanished. Took off all quick, like a bunny."
The assembled emergency responders chuckled, and one of them patted
her on the arm reassuringly. "Sure, hon. Sure."
He watched her for another eight months before his life took him
elsewhere. The incident toughened her; strengthened her. She walked
with the gait of a survivor: quick, with a purpose. Her gaze remained
unfixed, always taking in her surroundings. Sometimes, she would look
around the garage with a mixture of confusion and determination on her
face. He liked to think that she was looking for him. He liked to
think he molded her into that tough broad. He wanted to buy her a
beer.
But more than anything, he wanted her to sing again.
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