Jackie's Week Read online

  Jackie's Week

  by M. M. Wilshire

  Copyright © 2010 M.M. Wilshire

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

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  Prologue

  The checkout guy scanned the Castle Rock cabernet, the hothouse portabellas with baby squash medley, and the package of Frenched veal chops priced at nearly twenty bucks a pound. Jackie handed him a fistful of twenties and got back a little change. The bagger fit the whole thing into one bag. Everybody wished everybody a Happy New Year.

  She was parked at the far end of the lot, a good 200 feet from the entrance. For some reason, the lights were out down there, and as she entered the shadows, she found herself feeling uneasy. She stopped and steadied the bag with her left arm and fished out her keys, pressing the remote start on the Malibu, feeling less alone as it came to life 100 feet away. She arrived safely at her personal island of noise and light and was about to pop the trunk when he materialized. He was short, not much taller than she was, but easily twice as wide.

  In the dim red glow cast by her tail lights, her first impression was that of a gentleman in formal attire. This benign assessment was quickly erased by something more sinister. The man was wearing a T-shirt tuxedo, oddly enough with real buttons. His bare forearms were thick, hairy and powerful. In the blink of an eye, he was in her personal space.

  She knew the key fob in her hand had a panic button, but she'd never tried it, and now it was too late. At the sight of the big revolver she found herself wishing she could disappear down a hole.

  "Vzjat’ na abordaž," he said.

  She tried to scream.

  Chapter 1

  It was a safe place. After the brutal assault, the cops had come up empty-handed, so Jackie abandoned her home in Van Nuys and went into hiding in the sprawling apartment complex in Tarzana. She liked the unfriendly facade which rose up forty feet into the air like a medieval castle. She especially liked the round-the-clock security guards who patrolled the thousand-plus units connected by a confusing maze of twisty walkways. You practically needed a personal GPS system to find your own front door. The front door itself was made of steel, and for a few extra bucks she replaced the peephole with a security camera. Of course, the apartment was not in her name and could never be traced to her.

  Naturally, the cops, when confronted about their failure, told her not to worry. She had nothing further to fear, they said, since it was doubtful lightning would strike twice in the same spot. But Jackie knew better. She knew he was out there. She could feel it.

  She was starting to run out of money. They held her job at the bank for awhile, but then the bank went under and somebody else bought it and now there was no job waiting and no prospects of finding any. She couldn't sell her house because it was underwater and 3 months behind to boot. None of that really mattered right now. The main thing was to be safe, to hide until somehow he was gotten rid of. If they ever found him. Dealing with the cops wasn’t like watching Cops on TV, where they wrapped everything up in half an hour. Of course, the cops were in no hurry. They had time on their side, and could afford to make mistakes, a luxury she could not afford. Sometimes she wondered if the criminals of Los Angeles had to actually walk in and surrender to get themselves arrested.

  Jackie established a careful routine, an orderly framework upon which to hang her frail psyche. A typical morning began with the vacuum cleaner. The carpet had perfectly aligned brush marks which she was careful not to disturb. When this was done, and most importantly, once a day, around 11 a.m., Jackie took a walk through the complex to the front lobby and picked up her copy of the LA Times. This was her personal sanity test. It was a huge problem for her. It took everything she had to do it, and over time, the amount of vodka to fortify her for the journey seemed to have increased. But she made the journey without fail, knowing the day she couldn’t do it, he would win. He would win without ever having to do another thing to her.

  For now she was somewhat satisfied. She had her vacuuming in the morning and her trip to pick up the paper, the court shows in the afternoon, poring over the L.A. Times at dinner, and plenty of vodka and old movies during prime time. She had no computer, believing he might somehow track her down over the internet. It was safer to stay off the grid. She was safe—for the moment.

  The only other problem Jackie had aside from the anxiety-ridden daily trip to the lobby pick up the paper was the dream she had every night. It always started the same way, with him popping up out of the shadows in that stupid T-shirt, showing her his gun and saying, "Vzjat’ na abordaž" in his deep whiskey voice. She then re-lived in nightmarish distortion the terrible events of the assault.

  In the rehab hospital, she learned if she slept semi-upright, she didn’t sleep as soundly and was able to wake up when she found herself in the dream. Sleeping on a big stack of pillows was the best way to manage the nightmare. But for some reason, last night, she’d fallen asleep on the bed while watching an old Rex Harrison movie and her pillows had collapsed and as a result she had slept supine and deeply and was unable to awaken from the dream, which then unleashed its full fury upon her.

  Upon awakening, she wished he had killed her. Being dead would have been better than having this dream slowly drain the life out of her. The dream, she felt, was sometimes worse than the actual attack, owing to the fact she knew what was coming and had learned to fear it in advance. The actual attack had only taken a minute or so, but the dream seemed to last for hours as her emotions screamed without relief.

  Because of the dream last night, the day was starting out badly. She felt jagged around the edges and out of control. For one thing, she hadn’t had time to vacuum, and there were a few footprints messing up the brush marks on the carpet. For another, it was almost time to go down to the lobby and get the paper. She could forego the paper and start the vacuuming and then watch the court shows all the way through dinner. But no. Then she would have skipped her trip to the lobby and have no paper to pore over in the dead spot before prime time. If she skipped once, then she might skip again and it would be all over.

  This was how it happened. You changed one thing and it all fell apart for good. She would be a virtual prisoner and who knew what kind of hell that would unleash? So just this once, she would have to forget the vacuuming and just start her day with her trip to the lobby for the paper. The problem was, somehow the vacuuming gave her some kind of mental edge as she worked up to going for the paper, and now she’d lost her edge. If she vacuumed now to get the edge, it would throw the timing off. She would meet more people on the twisty walkways, and there would possibly be no paper. She would have to go for the paper now.

  She went to the fridge and opened the freezer and stared at the ice-covered bottle of Stolichnaya lying on its side. Normally, a sense of propriety inspired her to dress up the first drink of the day with some tomato juice and serve it with a stalk of lettuce. Having neither, she took it out and unscrewed the cap, pouring a couple of fingers i
nto a clean jelly glass before going into the bathroom and regarding herself in the mirror. The hollow eyes stared back, the hair gone to gray, hanging like a mop. The first sip hit hard but went down smooth. At least it wasn’t the cheap stuff.

  It was time. She checked the security monitor on the kitchen counter to make sure the front door was clear. She retrieved the box cutter from her pocket where she always kept it and held it firmly while she opened the door a crack, first making sure it was still on its safety chain. All clear outside.

  But something was wrong. At her feet was a white envelope. She plucked it inside and closed and locked the door. There was something substantial in the envelope. She tore it open and out it came. Her charm bracelet. The one she had been wearing the night of the attack. The one he took from her on New Year’s Eve. He had found her at last.

  It was not a safe place. She called the police and then called her sister.

  Chapter 2

  When Donna arrived, she found Jackie sitting on her sofa in the company of Johnson, the cop assigned to Jackie's case. Ignoring Johnson, she assessed Jackie's condition.

  "I'm taking you to see my psychiatrist," Donna said. "Right now."

  It was a quick trip from Tarzana to Sherman Oaks, and after a no-frills introduction, Jackie found herself seated, facing the doctor. The third-floor Ventura Boulevard office was cool and quiet. It was a place where secrets were told, and kept, a place where good things maybe happened, and maybe not. There was something comforting about Dr. Black's calm demeanor, suggesting perhaps that things weren't so bad after all, although Jackie knew they were.

  "I'm not sure where to start," Jackie said.

  "Why not start at the beginning," Dr. Black said. Black was a tall woman of obvious Native American lineage who looked like anything but a psychiatrist. She was wearing a simple turquoise shift and sensible tan flats. Her long black hair was pulled back tight to reveal ears strikingly pointed at the tips. To add to her striking appearance, she had the whitest teeth Jackie had ever seen, with remarkably pointed incisors.

  "You're an Indian," Jackie said, then immediately regretted it. "I don't know why I said that. I'm sorry."

  "Navajo," Dr. Black said. "I was born and raised in New Mexico. And it's okay to say anything you want to."

  "I like the fact that you're tall," Jackie said. "What I mean is, you are nearly as tall as I am, which is six feet, three inches. You've probably suffered from big girl syndrome the way I have."

  Black offered a half-smile, incisors slightly protruding.

  "Hard to get a date, right?" Jackie said. "And all the teasing because you're fully developed in the 4th grade? Then when you get older, you are joining the big girls dating club and the nightmare really begins."

  Black laced her long fingers. In the heightened atmosphere of doctor-patient intimacy, her every gesture seemed meaningful and pointed straight at Jackie.

  "It's funny," Jackie said.

  "What is?"

  "I was wondering how many women have sat here for the first time, just like me. I can imagine them. I can almost hear their voices. I can imagine them wondering what good an hour with you could possibly do? Their problems are huge, and an hour is so little time. I imagine many of them felt like screaming."

  "Is that how you're feeling?" Black asked.

  Jackie became aware of the distance between them, a distance greater than mere measurement. A distance magnified by the awareness that Black was a serene, healthy woman and Jackie was anything but.

  "What I feel like," Jackie said, "is curling up in this chair and falling asleep. Maybe because it is so peaceful in here."

  "I gather it isn't so peaceful for you out there," Black replied.

  Jackie thought about this for a moment.

  "You really know how to ask questions," Jackie said. "I can see that little thing going on in your brain, there."

  "That thing?"

  "Yes. You know. The way you keep digging around my edges. The way you take anything I say and turn it into a question. Each time you do that, it's like you're giving me a little jab, trying to break through."

  Black continued to focus her unblinking stare.

  "What I don't like," Jackie said, "is the feeling I get that I have to answer your questions, but you don't have to answer mine."

  "Did you have a question for me?"

  They sat in silence for another minute or so. For some reason, as the silence continued, Jackie felt the pressure building up, along with a feeling that she was expected to perform, somehow. To say something that might justify her presence, to make a case that she was worthy to take up an hour of the doctor's time. She wondered how long they had been sitting there, but it was impossible to tell; there were no clocks in the room.

  "To tell you the truth," Jackie said, "I'm feeling a little trapped in here. A little panicky, even. The truth is, and I know I shouldn't say it, but I could use a drink right about now."

  Black's level gaze was unblinking. She tilted her head slightly. "Is that how you've been handling it?" she asked.

  "Handling what?"

  "The anxiety. Is that how you've been coping? By taking a drink?"

  "Ah. It's not what you think. I was just thinking it might make it easier for me, that's all. And that's not why I am here. I'm not here because of a drinking problem, if that's what you mean." Jackie rolled her eyes. "Oh my God, I'm babbling, aren't I? I'm just wasting your time. "

  "I have an idea," Black said. "I will ask you a question and you give me a quick answer. Just whatever comes off the top of your head. Then I will ask another question, and so forth."

  "Sounds fair," Jackie said. She took a deep breath and with it the realization she'd been barely breathing. Her entire body was practically rigid, for some reason. She wondered if she'd even be able to stand at the end of the session.

  "What happened to you, Jackie?"

  "Oh God. The first question. Okay. Here it is. I was attacked."

  "Okay," Black said. "Where did it happen?"

  "You'll never believe this, but it was in the parking lot of Gelson's supermarket."

  "When?"

  "New Year's Eve."

  "Who did it?"

  "A man I never saw before."

  "Can you describe what happened?"

  Jackie stared at her hands. "He mumbled something in a foreign language. Then he grabbed me. The next thing I remember, I was in the hospital."

  "And what did you do after that?" said Black.

  "Now that is a long story, " Jackie said. "I was in the hospital for about three weeks. When I got out, I moved to a new apartment."

  "Why?"

  "The guy took my car and my purse. He knew where I lived. I had to find somewhere safe. I found this place where there are a thousand apartments that all look alike, and where there is a lot of security. Kind of like a prison."

  "And what did you do after that?"

  Jackie laughed. "What did I do?"

  Black did not fire another question. Jackie felt her body becoming even more rigid. The air in the room seemed warm, as though the heater was on, unlikely, as it was late summer in Los Angeles and hot as hell outside.

  "I guess that is the reason I am here isn't it, Dr. Black? Because of what I did after the attack. I am here talking to you because for the last six months what I did was hide in my new apartment and drive myself crazy. Oh. I probably should not use the word crazy, should I?"

  Blacked laughed softly, a pleasant sound. "So tell me again," Black said, "why you are here today. What gave you the courage to come see me."

  "Okay," Jackie said. "First of all, it isn't courage. It's fear. That's why I am here. The reason I am here today is because the guy who attacked me six months ago found me this morning. I am here because my sister said you could help me. Not just with my emotions, but also help me with safety issues. She said you had a group or something. That you teach women how to fight back"

  "You said the man found you," Black replied. "You saw him?"

/>   "No. He left me a message. When I opened my door this morning, there was an envelope on the doormat with my charm bracelet in it. The one I was wearing the night I was attacked. When I saw that bracelet, I guess I kind of fell completely apart."

  Black leaned forward, the gesture pregnant with concern. "The random attack you experienced six months ago has gone to a whole new level. You're worst fears have been realized. You're being stalked," she said.

  "Yes."

  "By the same man who attacked you."

  Jackie nodded.

  "Did you notify the police?"

  "Oh yes. In fact, the cop who has been handling my case is sort a friend of mine. He came and stayed with me this morning until my sister could bring me here. But there is nothing he can do. Not really. You know how the police are."

  "Your sister was right to bring you here," Black said. "I do assist with safety issues as well as emotional healing. Right now, we have to arrange for your safety. You shouldn't be alone."

  "I do have my sister with me," Jackie said.

  "You need more than that. In fact, you need protection." Black got up and walked over to her desk and speed-dialed someone on her Blackberry.

  Good Lord, thought Jackie. What is this? She could hear Black speaking softly to someone, just a few words, before ending the call. Black came over and sat back down in the opposite chair. "A few years ago," Black said, "I started a group for ladies just like yourself. It became to me apparent that women facing the threat of a stalker need more than therapy. They also need personal protection."

  "You mean like a bodyguard?"

  "For the moment," Black said, "yes. Until we can get a better handle on things."

  They sat in silence for a minute or two.

  Black checked a fresh text message on her Blackberry. "There's someone outside I want you to meet," she said. "With your permission, of course."

  "Who is it?" Jackie asked. This was all getting a little too crazy, and she was starting to feel way out of control.