His Frozen Heart (7 page)

“
Libby’s not going to be
talking to anyone again, Princess. Now, give me my
money.”

Chapter 5

The hand he had inside his
sweatshirt emerged holding a gun. My hands shot into the air as if
he were a typical robber. Mr. Sander’s voice echoed in my head,
“
It’s just money. If it’s your life on the
line, give them whatever they ask for. We’re insured.”
He told me that my first night on the job.
Anything in the store could be replaced, but there was nothing
worth an employee’s life.

The man’s voice was low and
calculating when he slowly counted, “One. Two. . . “

“
Wait! Hold On!” I pushed
the “cash sale” button on the register and pulled a handful of
twenties, dropping them into the drawer without even counting them.
I did bank deposits every morning after my shift, and I knew the
pile I had just given him was well over $500. I was safely behind
bullet-proof glass, but, until this second, it had never occurred
to me to ask how well it would stop a bullet. Libby and I had
watched a show on the Discovery Channel where it said
armor-piercing rounds could get through bullet-proof everything.
There was no way to know what kind of rounds he had until he pulled
the trigger.

His left hand reached into the drawer,
groping for the cash and shoving it in the pocket of his jeans. He
smiled and nodded appreciatively to me. I let out the breath I had
been holding when he menacingly said, “Three.”

His finger pulled the trigger, and I
saw the muzzle flash. Inside my robber-proof cage, the bullets
ricocheted off the glass as one giant mark puckered the glass. At
least three hit the glass before I was able to react. I threw my
hands over my head and sprawled onto the floor. Images of my life
began assaulting me. I saw myself playing with my sisters on a
merry-go-round. . . baking a cherry pie with Mom. . .riding the
school bus holding my pink Hello Kitty backpack . . . a slow dance
with Dad at my cousin’s wedding . . . hundreds of images flashed
before my eyes. My hands were jammed hard over my ears, trying
their best to keep the sound out. He kept firing. The sound of the
bullets ricocheting off of the thick glass were deafening. I lost
count on the number of shots. It seemed as if they would never
stop, and time had slowed down for them to echo on
forever.

The shots finally stopped. I didn’t
dare look at the shooter’s face. For all I knew he was reloading
while I was paralyzed with fear on the floor. There was a ringing
in my ears as I heard the man’s muffled words shout at me through
the window. “The next time you see me, you better hope I’m in a
good mood, Princess.”

The lottery machine, which I hadn’t
heard at all before the assault, was the only sound in the room.
Some hypnotic computerized voice announced the upcoming jackpot as
I lay there on the cool tile floor, my body shaking like a teenager
after a six-pack of Red Bull. What had just happened? He wasn’t
trying to hold up the store: he had come here looking for
me.

I scrambled to my feet, crouched down
below the counter so I could steal a glimpse of the pumps. His Nova
was gone. My hands trembled as I fumbled for my phone. I called
Libby’s phone number – no answer. When her voicemail came on, I
nearly shouted into it, “It’s me! Are you okay? Some guy just came
to the gas station! Oh, my God, are you okay? Call me as soon as
you get this!”

A police cruiser eased into the
parking lot: lights on, no siren. I stood upright, my whole body
quaking, trying to make sense of what had just happened. The cop
shined his spotlight throughout the parking lot, as if looking for
a criminal to pop out of a shadow and say, “It’s me! Arrest
me!”

Why was he still in his car? I started
to feel sick. I looked through the glass directly in front of where
I had sat. One giant mark puckered the glass: my finger touched the
dented glass from the inside. Each shot he had fired had been
exactly where the previous one was – he was trying to create a hole
so he could shoot me. The enormous puckered hole was where my chest
would have been, had I not been cowering on the floor.

A second police cruiser arrived. His
spotlight was also fully lit and scanning the dark parking lot.
Both policemen seemed to be in no hurry whatsoever. After what felt
like a union-break, both exited their cruisers and talked briefly
together between the two cars. What in the hell were they
discussing? Couldn’t they see the enormous bullet mark in the
glass? Shouldn’t they be asking if I were okay?

Slowly, the first officer to arrive
walked toward my window. He calmly asked, “You triggered an
alarm?”

My finger pointed to the puckered
glass, “Uh, yeah, there was a robbery.”

In a none-too concerned tone he asked,
“Have you phoned the owner?”

Mr. Sanders? Shit, I hadn’t thought to
call him. “Not yet.”

“
We’re going to need him
down here or at least talk to him on the phone.” He pulled a
notepad from his pocket, “What’s your name, miss?”

“
Candy Kane.”

He wrote down my name, then looked up
from his notepad with a raised brow. He wore the same look I got
from everyone when I introduced myself. Sheepishly I responded, “I
know. My mom had a strange sense of humor.” My sisters both got
normal names – I was the one who got screwed. Dad told me he left
the hospital to go home to take care of Kim and Carly, and when he
came back the next morning, she had already filled out my birth
certificate.

The police officer smiled
empathetically at me, “Don’t feel bad, mine named me
Charlie.”

I looked at the name tag on his
uniform, displaying the last name “Brown.” His humor gave me some
relief from the fear camping inside me. I confessed, “I’d rather be
a cartoon character over a Christmas decoration.”

He smirked, “Maybe, but to make it
worse, she gave me a beagle when I was six – guess what his name
was.”

Despite my fear, that made me laugh.
“No way! Snoopy? She didn’t dress you in a yellow shirt with black
zig zags, did she?”

“
No comment. Just remember,
as bad as it gets, it could always be worse.” I liked this guy. I
hated all the stupid jokes I had heard growing up, but my childhood
had to have been a cakewalk compared to his. Officer Brown turned
his business voice on and asked, “You want to tell me what happened
tonight?”

“
You want to come in out of
the cold?” He nodded and I let him in. I relayed everything from
the time the guy had first pulled up until I was on the floor; I
omitted the part about owing him money and what he had said about
Libby. He took notes and asked a few questions. When I mentioned
the part about him knocking out the security cameras, I added, “It
shouldn’t matter, though. I zoomed in on the guy’s license plate,
and I know I got a few pictures of his face. All the camera footage
is backed up on the internet. He bought gas with a credit card,
too; it was the last purchase on pump one.”

Officer Brown stopped taking notes and
asked, “Can you show me the surveillance footage from
here?”

“
You got a computer in your
car?” I knew he did – I could see it on his dashboard. I reached
for the rumpled up piece of paper Scotchtaped to the wall behind
the tray of cigarettes, scrawled down the information on a clean
sheet of notebook paper, and handed it to him. Go to the website
and use those credentials. The guy pulled up after 12:30; you’ll be
able to see all four camera feeds.”

Officer Brown took the piece of paper
with all the info on it. “I’ll go take a look. Pull up the credit
card information for me and notify the owner.” I locked the door
behind him as he returned to his car.

I picked up the phone,
wanting desperately to try calling Libby again. His words echoed in
my head
, “Libby’s not going to be talking
to anyone again, Princess.”
He knew where
we lived. He’d already been there. If I told the cops, they’d know
this wasn’t a regular robbery. Instead of calling Mr. Sanders, I
tried Libby’s cell – it went to voice mail again. She’d been
sleeping when I left, and she always turned her ringer off at
night. Maybe the man was just trying to scare me.

Before I’d gotten up for work, she had
called for me. Was she trying to wake me up or had she been calling
out for me to help her? My stomach lurched at the thought that
Libby may have screamed for my help and I ignored her. No, I had
seen her before I left the house: she was sleeping. . . or was
she?

I racked my brain trying to think of
someone I could call to go check on her. It was after 1 AM. Who
would answer their phone this time of night, then be willing to go
to the house? I’d locked the house up before I left, or had I? I’d
been in such a hurry, did I leave the door unlocked?

Officer Brown was in his squad car – I
wanted to get his attention, but my feet were planted. They didn’t
want to leave the security of my booth. I eased myself around the
counter and made it as far as the thick glass double-doors. My
hands were shaking so hard I looked like a Parkinson’s
patient.

“
Get it together,
Candy
,” I told myself. Reaching for the
heavy metal deadbolt, I turned it a quarter-turn and cracked the
front door open. Officer Brown hadn’t noticed that I’d budged, so I
stood in the cracked doorway and shouted, “Excuse me!!
Hello???”

The officer looked up from his
computer, but made no effort to get out of his squad car. I
motioned for him to come to the door. It was freezing outside, so I
didn’t blame him for wanting to do as much investigating as
possible in his car, but I kept waving until he slowly exited his
sedan. I held the door open for him to join me inside. “Hey, that
guy, um, he said something that bothered me.”

“
What’s that?”

“
I don’t remember exactly
what he said, but it was something about seeing my roommate and me
at a bar.” That was close to the truth. “I tried calling her, but
she’s not answering. I think she’s probably sleeping, but do you
think someone could check on her?”

For the first time since his arrival,
a look of concern flashed in his eyes. “Did you recognize
him?”

“
No. I mean, I don’t
remember seeing him, but he was. . . I don’t know. Could someone
see if she’s okay?”

Less concerned than he had been a
second ago, he asked, “If you didn’t recognize him, what makes you
think he knows your address?”

I shook my head, “I don’t remember
exactly what he said, but he knew my roommate’s name. We live
alone, and she isn’t answering my calls.”

“
What’s your
address?”

I gave it to him. He didn’t waste any
time asking for a car to be dispatched – he radioed my address in
from the radio’s microphone that he wore on his shoulder. When he
turned his attention back to me, he asked, “You’re sure she’s at
home?”

“
Yes. I mean, she was
asleep on the sofa when I left for work less than an hour ago.”
Libby slept like a rock. It wouldn’t be like her to wake up in the
middle of the night and go anywhere. She was probably still on the
couch where I left her. I hoped she was.

The guy was here within five minutes
of me showing up. He couldn’t have done something to her, then sped
over here, could he? He didn’t have enough time. The guy had to
have been trying to scare me.

Then it hit me – I hadn’t seen Libby
before I left, not really. I saw her on the couch – but could she
have been hurt and I hadn’t noticed? I had left the house in such a
rush, I really hadn’t seen her. Could he have been in the house
when I was there, and he followed me here? I was in such a hurry
that I wouldn’t have noticed a jumbo jet following me to
work.

The second policeman joined us inside.
He had been checking the perimeter of the building while Officer
Brown was watching surveillance video from his car. The second
officer began briefing Officer Brown, “Three of the four cameras
were disabled, damage to the front window, and a shot through the
windshield over there.” He was pointing at my car. “I didn’t find
any other damage. You think gang initiation?”

I couldn’t help myself, “The jackass
shot my car?”

Officer number two answered in a
clinical tone, “Looks that way. Unless you drove here tonight with
a bullet hole through the driver’s side of the windshield. The
forensics team is going to need to recover the slug.”

I careened my neck to try to see my
windshield over the rack of candy bars. There was a hole in the
driver’s side with cracks spread out encircling it in an ugly
spider web. Great, more money I didn’t have.

Officer Brown’s radio shrieked to
life, “Ambulance requested at. . .” I heard my address as my ears
strained to hear each word. “Female, early twenties, head trauma,
lacerations to her face and hands – unresponsive. No sign of forced
entry. Victim was seen through a window.” The words had crackled
out through the radio on his shoulder, and my knees went out from
under me. Libby, he had hurt Libby.

No sign of forced entry. Had she let
him in while I was sleeping? Was he still in the house when I left?
Libby had called out to me a few minutes before I was supposed to
get up to leave for work. I thought she was giving me a wake-up
call. Had she been calling for my help?