The Spaces in Between by Chase Henderson Page B

Janet Rockbell. This is St. Brendan’s.” Janet’s heart stopped. Not again. Oh, God sweet Jesus not again.
    “This is she.”
    “We found this number in your fiancé’s wallet. We need you to come over he’s been in a car accident.” The man’s voice had an unmistakable Irish accident, but a soothing quality to it. This man knew her and was her friend. “His condition has been stabilized, but you still need to hurry. We have some questions we need to ask you.”
    “I’m on my way.” Janet grabbed her things and made a beeline for the parking garage. A block away the Irishman put a payphone back on the hook.
     
    7
     
    Warren brushed glass shards off his coat and pulled himself out of his seat. He was fine aside from a cut on his cheek and his left arm was not moving – but that was normal. He threw his laptop bag over his shoulder and looked out the window to survey the damage. The black Cadillac had knocked the bus askew, but there was no major damage on board. Warren immediately recognized the man in the black suit as the one behind the wheel. The man shifted the car into reverse.
    A hit and run? The Cadillac slammed into the bus again this time knocking it on its side. No, he wants to finish the job. Warren knew that by staying on this bus he’d endanger all these people. The man in the black suit was definitely not law enforcement. He crawled over the panicked black men in the back and hopped out the emergency door.
    As he ran down Baltimore Street, Warren waved his hands in the air, and he didn’t get back to running until the man in the black suit had finally recognized him. The man in the black suit went into reverse and followed. The black Cadillac drove parallel to Warren on the sidewalk regardless of being on the wrong side of the road to do so. Warren knew once he ran out of parked cars to use as cover it would be over.
    He pulled the cell phone from his pocket and flipped it open. In the moment that Warren had opened the phone to call 911, Janet had called him.
    “Hello?” Warren answered, “Janet!”
    “Not so Warren,” said an unfamiliar voice over the phone. Not the same as the one that left the message, but it was a new one nonetheless. The voice had a strange Irish twang to it, he said Warrang instead of Warren. “I’ve got yir lass, and I’d advise you to meet me on the third floor of the old hospital on West Lafayette. Now if you show up late or call the cops – you’ll see her again, but she won’t be the woman you know anymore. She’ll wish I had killed her and you’ll feel awfully drawn to oblige her.” The call disconnected.
     
    8
     
    Moments before in the parking garage of Sanford and Son, Janet rushed to her car. She didn’t bother to tell anyone upstairs where she was going. It was an emergency and far easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. Once a tendon is stretched it is far easier to do the exercise the next time. The same would apply to convincing someone that their loved one was in a car accident again. It removed the fact-checking step that would have been very troublesome.
    In her hurry to extract her keys from her purse she barely took notice of the man walking over to the car. He was a man that was hard to miss with his ginger hair and beard. The bill of his leather newsboy’s cap obscured his eyes. She certainly didn’t notice the Smith and Wesson .38 special he pulled from his denim jacket.
    She did notice the thunderclap and corsage of flame erupt from its barrel and the two more that followed. Holes of twisted steel erupted from the hood of her Subaru and a third spider-webbed her windshield. The keys fell from Janet’s hand, and she went under the dashboard after them. She pressed the lock button on the car and it made a soft click to let her now that the car was already locked.
    As Janet groped around in the dark the Irishman calmly walked over to the car. No need to hurry he had plenty of time, and the parking garage was under the city so