Round Robin Chapter 3 (they made me do it)

here for ch. 1
here for ch. 2

I heard the water run in the other room. Actually, I felt it, the rumble of ancient plumbing vibrated the worn wooden floor boards under my feet.
“Writer, huh? Journalist? Or is it house-breaker and thief?” he said over the noise.
“Yeah.” I scanned the room. This was freaking awkward. I’d broken in to his room and now he wanted me to wait around for conversation? He was big, weird, and could easily over-power me. No one knew where I was. This was A Sunday Night Murder Investigation Episode in the making. Heart in my throat, I put my foot back on the window sill. Escape being the only plausible option. Either this guy was going to want to call the police, or I was.
“Ashley Whitaker? You write editorials for the Cliffside Chronicle, don’t you?” The water switched off and the pipes stopped their moaning.
Holy crap. Why had I told him my name? I couldn’t stay. Not Safe. Call me super-stupid. I ducked under the frame of the window, reaching for the safety of the thick branch of oak.
“Hey,” He shouted. Right behind me. I felt a grip on my shoulder, firm and unforgiving, pulling me backwards.
I panicked. Kicked out like a bee stung horse. Wiggled to get away and dug my fingernails in to the bark of the tree. I might have been screaming, I’m not sure, I only heard my frantic heart beat as I tried to escape. His hold slipped from my shoulder to my wrist, I twisted and hit him a blow from my foot toa suspiciously soft area. He bit out a curse, something dark and ugly and his grip loosened. I thrust myself out of that window, forgetting the height, forgetting the old creaky tree the tree, and knew only that I was free.
And falling.
I had never broken a bone before. Had never even had a cavity. My body is young, pristine, slightly pudgy and crack free. Or it was. I heard the snap of wood, felt the thundering crack of pain that notified me of damage. Something wasn’t right. Damn. Something really wasn’t right. But if I held my left leg at an angle and didn’t touch it on the ground or try to stand on it, it didn’t hurt at all. Maybe it was just a sprain.
Overhead, the man from the tower room was leaning out the window, his expression murderous. “Are you hurt? Why did you do that? Wait there!”
Like hell I would. I crawled, feeling like young Jamie Curtis in that Halloween movie. I pulled myself up, determined not to be a slash movie victim. There should not have been a tall, able bodied good-looking, man in that room. Some version of the Elephant man, chained to a bed and suffering at the hand of his deranged parents, in need of help-grateful for rescue-that’s what I’d expected.
Maybe I had let local lore get the best of me.
Wouldn’t be the first time. I am a writer, after all.
Past the revolutionary war era stature, past a patch of thorny, half-dead vines, I hobbled and forward. I heard a door open. Angry, male blustering. I turned my head to see where he was-and saw him behind me holding the world’s largest ax. Hefted on his broad shoulders as casually as a Louisville slugger baseball bat, honey colored wood gleaming in the light from the doorway, the broad ax head wickedly curved and ready to cut me up into bite sized pieces.
He said something, I have no idea what. I don’t know how I did it, it’s such a blur. I guess it was one of those adrenalin things. I got out of that yard faster than Red Riding Hood running from the Big Bad Wolf, into my car and drove myself ten miles to the nearest hospital.
XXX
At six thirty the next morning I sat in a room made of blue curtains and called my roommates with an old fashioned rotary phone. Crappy old antique. I had to do it three times before I figured out how to make it work. Maya answered the phone. “I’m on my way.” Her deep alto was grumpy with sleep.
“You are? How did you know? Don’t you have to work?”
“Who is this?”
“Ash!”
“Oh. I thought you were my manager. He’s already called me three times. I was supposed to be at the Bean Bistro at six. Well, too bad for him. Hey. Where the hell are you? You left your cell here again.”
“Yeah.” I eyed the bright pink cast that covered the lower half of my leg. “I left it on purpose, you know how irritated cell phones make the librarian.”
Maya paused to think. I could almost hear the ticking in her head. “Why were you at the library all night? You sure you didn’t have a love connection, huh? Doin’ the frisky in the psychology aisle?”
“I don’t think so, girlfriend. Not only is there no one to have a connection with, why would I make-out in the library when there are all those beautiful books to read? Weren’t you even worried about me?” I stretched, trying to get comfortable. Was that warming feeling in my toes a sign that the pain killers were wearing off? The doctor had only prescribed me six of the little buggers, but said I’d probably want every one of them, with a Tylenol chaser, for the next forty-eight hours. I’d broken my ankle, and bruised my tail bone very nicely. The ankle he could put in a cast, my tail bone…well. He had just looked at me and shrugged.
What does it mean when the doctor shrugs?
“Worried about you? Nah. Should I be?”
I wanted to say yes. Yes, Maya, you worry when your friend and roommate doesn’t come home from the library on a weekend night. But Maya wasn’t my mom and didn’t pretend to be. She had the irritating tendency to treat me like an adult and expect me to take care of myself.
“No, I guess not. But I need a ride.”
“Oh. Your car break down again? No can do. But Angela is still here. I’ll go get her.”
There was a long pause while Maya went to get Angela. A nurse entered the room, looked at my purple toes, and stuffed another pillow under my leg. “You’re going to want to stay elevated for awhile,” she said before leaving.
Angela answered the phone full of her usual morning sunshine and daisies. “What?” Her voice was as welcoming as an empty, dirty, coffee cup.
“I love you too. I need a ride. Can you come pick me up?”
“In an hour, I guess. You need to get your car fixed. I don’t understand why you won’t call your parents. You know they would help you.”
“Strings.” I reminded her. “Everything comes with strings attached. I am at St. Mary’s, just come to the urgent care desk.”
There was suddenly more animation in her voice when she said, “What are you doing in the hospital? Did you get in a car accident? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” I could hear Maya in the back ground, echoing everything Angela said only at a higher, more outraged pitch. I answered with a creative version of the story, leaving out the breaking and entering, omitting the part where I was so desperate to write a story worth selling that I would go where no sane person had gone before, and telling them as little as possible.
Angela, no idiot, knew I was leaving something out, but not even her concern and our long standing friendship was going to get her out of the apartment before showering and coffee. I hung up the phone and leaned back with a sigh.
My entire night consisted of waiting for doctors, waiting for x-rays, the return of the doctor, waiting for nurses to put the cast on, all equaling a lot of time to think. I saw myself standing outside of Woodbury Manor, counting windows, imagining the interior. Replayed walking past the statue. I’d been in such a hurry, hadn’t paid much attention to what it was made of. Stone? Marble? Or some kind of metal, like bronze? It had been an incredibly well crafted piece of art, detailed and frighteningly huge. My library research said nothing about the statue, when it must have been a part of local history. Something like that should have serious history.
I should have gone deeper- looked into the city records to see who presently owned the house, like a mountain climbing, thirtyish guy with an English accent. I could see his face, heavy eyebrows over intense, brown eyes. Proud nose, a bump in the middle suggesting a break. Strong cheek bones brushed by long waves of black hair. Broad shoulders. Nice smell. Holding an ax as he stalked me with a furious expression.
Why would he live in the smallest room of a house old enough to be in the historical registry? Why did no one seem to know he lived there? Why the rumors about siblings and incest?
Cliffside was a small town. Even though I’d only lived here a year, I knew everybody. And everybody knew me. If a tall hottie had recently come to town and moved into the Woodbury Manner it would make the coffee gossip rounds before he finished unloading the truck. But no one knew he existed.
Except me.
XXX
By the time Angela rescued me I was so tired I could barely sit up. I’d spent a total of ten hours in the hospital. Most of them waiting in a cubical made of starched bleach-scented curtains and reclining awkwardly on a five inch mattress with a thin styrofoam pillow under my head. More maternal in nature than Maya, Angela pelted me with questions, her blond cap of hair bouncing each time she jerked her head to look from the road back to my leg. I don’t know what I told her. My tongue felt thick, my eyes crusty and I hurt under the dull hum of numb from drugs. She helped me into the apartment, helped me in to a sleep shirt, supplied me with a gallon of purified water and a package of saltines, and then went off to work. I was grateful to her, and when I felt alive again, I would tell her.
My room was dark when the ringing of my cell phone woke me. Feeling fuzzy and stiff I tried to sit up, and quickly thought better of it as pain exploded in my behind, up and down my spine with all the power of fireworks gone wrong. The ringing stopped after seven times, picked up by the answering service. Only to start again.
And again.
And again.
Damn it. Whoever it was wasn’t going away.