anything was amiss until the blow to the back of my head.
My bag fell to the sidewalk. My knees buckled and my hands reached upward; my hair wet and sticky. But when I held my fingers to my face, instead of seeing red, they looked . . . yellowish.
I turned toward my attacker and another egg hit me, this time in the chest.
“See how you like it.” The man appeared familiar but it still took me about ten seconds to recognize Keith Avise, Buddy’s owner. “Doesn’t feel so good, does it?”
I dodged the next egg, and the yolk hit the station’s yellow limestone wall, blending nicely. But the succeeding one struck me across the chin. The edges of the shell sharp against my skin.
“Stop it,” I yelled, finally able to speak.
“No,” he said. “You deserve it.”
By now a crowd had gathered, at a safe distance, to watch the confrontation. Some looked puzzled. One sniggered and pointed.
“How’d you like to wake up every morning and find your truck egged?” He pointed to his black pickup, parked illegally, and I saw yolk and eggshell dried on the side. “They keep punishing me for that damn dog. It wasn’t my fault; it was an accident. You made it worse.”
He lifted his arm to throw another one, but a well-dressed young man stepped between us. “Beat it or I will call the cops.” He held up a cell phone to show he’d already punched 911 on the screen. All he had to do was hit Send.
My attacker hesitated.
“Do you want the police?” the man asked me.
As tempting as assault charges sounded, I knew the resulting police report would be emailed immediately to all the other media. I could only imagine the headline: Reporter Gets Egg on Face. The radio talk shows would be even worse, using words like “scrambled,” “cracked,” and “rotten” to describe me. Being called a crybaby after Buddy’s death was starting to look like a compliment.
“No,” I said. “Just let him go.”
Keith looked infuriated at being interrupted. His hand trembled and he seemed to contemplate striking my protector.
“Don’t try it,” the man said. “Or I will call the police.”
The crowd cheered at his bravado and started chanting, “Nine one one . . . Nine one one . . .”
Keith’s fist closed tight upon his fragile weapon. The mood was so quiet we could hear the shell crunch. Disgusting liquid oozed down his arm, dripping onto the sidewalk at his feet.
He shook the goo from his hand and everyone stepped back to avoid being spattered with yolk. Keith swore before driving away in his pickup truck. I noticed the shattered window glass, through which Buddy had been rescued, had been replaced. Other than the egg scars, the vehicle looked new.
I glanced around, trying to thank the man who aided me, buthe was gone. The incident was such a blur, I couldn’t remember what he looked like, other than his face was pallid.
When I entered the sanctuary of Channel 3, the first person to see me was Noreen.
“What happened to you?” she said. “You’re a mess. You’re not thinking of going on the air looking like that?”
CHAPTER 23
O n the walk to his office, he played back in his mind the scene of coming to the reporter’s aid. Such a gallant deed was out of character, but he was surprised how bold and strong playing hero made him feel. Where that confidence came from, to speak so cockily in front of onlookers, he didn’t know.
Acting the villain did not make him feel this powerful even when he lorded over their bodies. He attributed the rush of vigor to the witnesses, and pondered whether public credit for the killings would have the same impact.
Her vehicle plate and driver’s license were registered to the station address rather than her home. That’s why Channel 3 was the starting point. He had been waiting on that street corner to observe, not participate. To learn her pattern: when she came to work, where she parked, what door she entered. At the end of the day, he’d reverse the process. Then
My bag fell to the sidewalk. My knees buckled and my hands reached upward; my hair wet and sticky. But when I held my fingers to my face, instead of seeing red, they looked . . . yellowish.
I turned toward my attacker and another egg hit me, this time in the chest.
“See how you like it.” The man appeared familiar but it still took me about ten seconds to recognize Keith Avise, Buddy’s owner. “Doesn’t feel so good, does it?”
I dodged the next egg, and the yolk hit the station’s yellow limestone wall, blending nicely. But the succeeding one struck me across the chin. The edges of the shell sharp against my skin.
“Stop it,” I yelled, finally able to speak.
“No,” he said. “You deserve it.”
By now a crowd had gathered, at a safe distance, to watch the confrontation. Some looked puzzled. One sniggered and pointed.
“How’d you like to wake up every morning and find your truck egged?” He pointed to his black pickup, parked illegally, and I saw yolk and eggshell dried on the side. “They keep punishing me for that damn dog. It wasn’t my fault; it was an accident. You made it worse.”
He lifted his arm to throw another one, but a well-dressed young man stepped between us. “Beat it or I will call the cops.” He held up a cell phone to show he’d already punched 911 on the screen. All he had to do was hit Send.
My attacker hesitated.
“Do you want the police?” the man asked me.
As tempting as assault charges sounded, I knew the resulting police report would be emailed immediately to all the other media. I could only imagine the headline: Reporter Gets Egg on Face. The radio talk shows would be even worse, using words like “scrambled,” “cracked,” and “rotten” to describe me. Being called a crybaby after Buddy’s death was starting to look like a compliment.
“No,” I said. “Just let him go.”
Keith looked infuriated at being interrupted. His hand trembled and he seemed to contemplate striking my protector.
“Don’t try it,” the man said. “Or I will call the police.”
The crowd cheered at his bravado and started chanting, “Nine one one . . . Nine one one . . .”
Keith’s fist closed tight upon his fragile weapon. The mood was so quiet we could hear the shell crunch. Disgusting liquid oozed down his arm, dripping onto the sidewalk at his feet.
He shook the goo from his hand and everyone stepped back to avoid being spattered with yolk. Keith swore before driving away in his pickup truck. I noticed the shattered window glass, through which Buddy had been rescued, had been replaced. Other than the egg scars, the vehicle looked new.
I glanced around, trying to thank the man who aided me, buthe was gone. The incident was such a blur, I couldn’t remember what he looked like, other than his face was pallid.
When I entered the sanctuary of Channel 3, the first person to see me was Noreen.
“What happened to you?” she said. “You’re a mess. You’re not thinking of going on the air looking like that?”
CHAPTER 23
O n the walk to his office, he played back in his mind the scene of coming to the reporter’s aid. Such a gallant deed was out of character, but he was surprised how bold and strong playing hero made him feel. Where that confidence came from, to speak so cockily in front of onlookers, he didn’t know.
Acting the villain did not make him feel this powerful even when he lorded over their bodies. He attributed the rush of vigor to the witnesses, and pondered whether public credit for the killings would have the same impact.
Her vehicle plate and driver’s license were registered to the station address rather than her home. That’s why Channel 3 was the starting point. He had been waiting on that street corner to observe, not participate. To learn her pattern: when she came to work, where she parked, what door she entered. At the end of the day, he’d reverse the process. Then
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