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“911, what is the location of your emergency?” the female operator says.
“Uh, Block Island. The last house on Bayberry Road—at the top of the rise.”
“Is that your current location?”
Maybe the operator can tell from the screen that she isn’t calling from there. “No, I’m in the parking lot of the ferry, but I need the police to go to Bayberry Road. It’s urgent.”
“Ma’am, tell me exactly what’s happened.”
Emma does her best not to trip over the words, explaining that she has good reason to believe a man she spotted in the parking lot is headed on a bike to her house, intending to harm her husband. That he’s wearing dark pants and a dark hooded sweatshirt—and might be armed.
“Please stay on the line while I transfer your call to the New Shoreham police,” the operator says.
A male police officer answers, giving his name and rank in a blur. After the 911 operator recaps the situation, Emma is assured by the officer that local police will be dispatched to the house as soon as possible and that a police car will be sent to pick her up at the ferry.
The call over, Emma attempts to reach Tom one more time. Still nothing. She gulps air, trying to calm down. It’s going to be okay, she reassures herself. The police are on the way, and the island is small. They’ll get there in time.
She hurries to a spot closer to the road so the police will be able to find her, and after dropping her duffel bag to the ground with a thud, starts to pace. The sky is dark now, and the parking lot behind her is empty of people, but she can see plenty of island residents and tourists moving about the town, their laughter and shouts carried by the breeze.
Wherearethey? Emma wonders as she covers the same ground back and forth. She checks her watch. It’s been more than ten minutes since she made the 911 call.
She digs her phone from her pocket and googles “North Shoreham police,” clicks through to the webpage she finds, and scrolls down until she finally finds it at the bottom—a local number. She jabs the link.
This time a young-sounding woman answers, her voice bright and friendly. Emma reminds her of the 911 call and pleads for an update.
“Yes, we have the information,” the woman says. “Officers are being dispatched to the house.”
“Arebeing dispatched?” Emma exclaims. “They haven’t left yet?”
“We’ve been dealing with a serious medical emergency,but someone will be there, I assure you. And a car will be coming to your location as well.”
It’s clear the woman can’t be any more committal than that.
“All right,” Emma says, chagrined. “Just please, do what you can—my husband might be in grave danger.”
Emma tries Tom yet again, but there’s still no response.
Kyle must be closing in on the house by now, she realizes. He would surely have researched their location and used his GPS, and from what she recalls, he’s a serious biker. Knowing it’s crazy, she calls the cab company she used to get to the ferry and begs for a cab. Because she can’t wait for the police.
“It’s probably going to be at least fifteen minutes,” the woman says, her voice nearly drowned out by background noise.
“It’s an emergency, please,” Emma tells her.
“We’ll try, hon, but that’s probably going to be the best we can do. All our cars are out.”
Emma says she’ll wait, but once the call is finished, she phones the other company she has a listing for. She gets only a busy signal, and then again when she tries two seconds later.
There’s got to be another way to get there, Emma thinks, hoisting the duffel bag onto her shoulder again. A moped? She jogs across the parking lot, the bag banging against her leg, and then into the center of town, navigating through the clusters of people sauntering along the street. There’s a moped store where she and Tom rented a pair for fun when they came to the island before, and she knows it’s nearby, right at the edge of the tiny town. But before she’s even reached the front of the shop, she sees that it’s closed.
Nearly crazed now, Emma notices a car at the intersection, and on the spur of the moment, she darts toward it.
“Please,” she calls into the driver’s window. “Is there any chance you could give me a ride to Bayberry Road? I have an emergency.”
She’s talking to a girl barely out of her teens, raven-haired and possibly inebriated.
“Sorry,” the girl says with a shrug. “This isn’t my car and I need to take it back right away.”
Emma steps away without saying another word. How can she blame this stranger? And what would she even do if she got there? She’s no match for Kyle, with or without a gun.
