My name's Terry Strong and I'm a private investigator. I'm not a clairvoyant.
You all know what clairvoyant means: ESP; fortune telling; some weird woman who sees things that aren't there.
Well, I'm not weird and I didn't see something that wasn't there.
That's how I knew there was something wrong in Connie's apartment.
#
Last Saturday night didn't seem like it would turn out to be anything other than a typical Saturday night: me and my dog, Tim, slumped in front of the TV watching old Fred McMurray reruns; semi-comatose from boredom. Mom was over at my sister, Kathy's, house babysitting. Kathy is one of my older sisters. Both she and Linda are married with kids. I'm divorced with no kids.
I wasn't paying much attention to the program on TV until I saw old Fred strangling my friend, Connie.
That got my attention.
I leapt up from the couch and pressed my nose against the screen. That was Connie with her tongue hanging out and her eyes bulging. But that wasn't Fred McMurray.
It was some guy with brown stringy hair tied back in a pony tail; his face all screwed up with the effort of strangling Connie.
I screamed at him to let Connie go, but he couldn't hear me. Then Fred McMurray and one of his TV sons came back on. I crouched there hyperventilating, clutching the sides of the TV, my nose smearing the screen; Tim whining and licking my face.
Connie. I had to call Connie. I scrambled on my hands and knees to the phone which sat next to the couch.
I pushed the wrong buttons twice before my fingers stopped shaking long enough to hit the right ones. I let it ring twenty times.
No answer.
I pulled myself to my feet and ran into my bedroom. I grabbed my jacket and purse and headed for the door. Just before I reached it, I spun around and ran back for the pistol I keep in my undies drawer and shoved it into my purse. The gun's just a small thing. The bullets are not much longer than my fake fingernails. But it's good enough for slowing someone down.
My eye caught the glint of my three-inch hat pin just before I slammed the drawer shut. I grabbed it up and stuck it in my jacket lapel.
Out the door and to the curb where my car sat languishing under the stars. I apologized to it and jumped in. When I turned the key nothing happened. It doesn't usually have to perform on Saturday nights and showed its resentment by refusing to start. I patted the dash and murmured sweet nothings, then tried again.
This time it started. All it takes sometimes is a little kindness.
I roared across town and skidded to a stop in front of Connie's apartment building. Her apartment was the one on the bottom right. I pounded on the door and yelled her name. No one answered. I tried the knob. It was unlocked.
I pushed open the door and peered inside. The lights were off in the living room, but I could see some light coming from down the hallway to the left. The vibrations were so strong in the apartment that I could almost see them. I eased inside and left the door open behind me. If I had to make a quick getaway, I didn't want a closed door slowing me down.
"Connie?" My throat was so constricted that my voice came out as barely a whisper. I swallowed and tried again. "Connie?"
No answer.
I commanded my feet to walk. It felt like trying to walk through chocolate pudding.
I kept my breathing shallow and slow, my eyes and ears straining and what little extra-sensory perception I possessed on high. Step by step I moved down the hallway. I passed the closed bathroom door on my left. The light was coming from Connie's open bedroom door further ahead on the right.
"Con--umph --"
A hand over my mouth stifled my words and a hairy arm grappled me around the throat. I dropped my purse and kicked and pounded backward with my elbows. It was useless, the man was too strong. He grunted and pushed me toward the bedroom.
I jerked my feet up and braced them against the jamb on either side of the doorway. There, on the bed lay Connie, naked and spread-eagled, her hands and feet tied to her four-poster bed, her mouth taped with gray duct tape; her terror-stricken eyes begging, pleading.
The man dragged me back and I lost contact with the door jamb. He turned around and tried to drag me backward through the doorway. I couldn't breathe right. He was strangling me.
My fingers searched the lapel of my jacket. Where was the pin?
The man's breath rasped in my ears. My eyes threatened to explode. I had to breathe. My frantic gropings found the pin. I seized it and thrust it back over my head. Again and again, striking blindly.
The man screamed. A bellow that rang in my ears and slammed into my brain. His grip on my throat lessened and I flung myself backward and down. My gun had fallen out of my purse onto the floor and I scurried toward it on hands and knees. I grabbed it in both hands, twisted around and fired.
The man with the stringy brown hair tied back in a ponytail, with blood spurting from his eye where I had stabbed him with the pin, fell backward like a dead tree.
I got to my feet. I was shaking so hard, my knees were knocking. Keeping the gun aimed at the man, I edged past him and into the bedroom.
"Oh, Connie." I pulled off my jacket and covered her as best I could. She had been tied with strong cord and I couldn't break it. "I've got to go get something to cut the cord." Her eyes signaled her gratitude.
I went back into the hallway. I held my gun aimed at the man and pushed him with my foot. He didn't move. The hole in his forehead probably prevented him from doing that.
I rummaged around the kitchen and found the scissors. I took
a moment to call the police on the wall phone, then went back
down the hallway to cut Connie loose.
#
So, now it's Saturday night again and I'm slouched here watching reruns, sharing my pizza with Tim. This time it's an old John Wayne movie. The Duke just pulled his six-shooters and stuck his horse's reins between his teeth. Guess he's gonna go get those bad guys.
Hey -- wait! That horse sure resembles my friend, Ralph ....
END
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