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Then I stand outside in the darkness and wonder what the hell I’m supposed to do now. The next street over thunders into a chorus of hooting and a crackle of celebratory fireworks. Or perhaps it’s gunfire. I can’t tell the difference.
Ben is in danger. I’m certain of that.
The motive for his behavior was to get me to safety and while I’m technically safe standing out here by myself, I can’t bear to move away from the house. I take my phone out of my pocket with the intention of calling for help. I’ve never called 911 before. I have no idea what to tell them. According to all known facts, there are two men sitting in my boyfriend’s living room. I don’t know who they are and I heard no threats made.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
I don’t know what the emergency is. I just know that one exists. That probably won’t produce much of a reaction so I make something up.
“There’s a, uh, a home invasion. Two men broke into my boyfriend’s house. We need help.” I rattle off Ben’s address and again urge the operator to hurry.
I don’t know how long it will take for police to arrive. It’s New Year’s Eve. They likely have their hands full with emergency calls.
The sound of a shout captures my attention. Someone is yelling inside the house and I can’t make out the words. Ben may not have time to wait for the police.
I need to get back in there. I need a weapon. But all I have in my purse is lip gloss and a package of tissues. Frantically I search the ground in the darkness. I find a rock the size of my hand and judge the weight of it in my palm. If thrown with enough force it could likely crack a man’s skull. In Ben’s hand and with Ben’s superior baseball throwing arm it would be an effective weapon. In my hand it’s just a dirty rock. Helpless tears threaten to choke my efforts and the rock falls to the ground with a thud.
I am not strong.
I am the girl who gets slapped in the face by Bridget Spinelli and bursts into tears.
I am the girl who is powerless in the hands of the McGill brothers.
I am not someone who’s capable of rescuing anyone.
I am someone who needs to get rescued.
“FUCK THAT AND FUCK YOU!”
That’s Ben shouting and the raw agony in his voice is enough to jar me out of my weak tears.
Ben needs me.
Busting through the front door is a fool’s errand. The sight of me would frighten no one and the fact that Ben took such pains to get me out of there gives me pause. There’s a reason why he wanted them to believe that he cares nothing for me. He does not trust them. Even more than that, he must believe that they’ve hurt people before and would do it again.
Whatever I do needs to take them by surprise. If I break a window at the back of the house I could gain entry and perhaps they wouldn’t hear.
And then I remember that I don’t even need to break a window.
Ben and I were hot and heavy when we got here and we did not go through the front door. We entered through the kitchen. Running the sequence of events through my mind I clearly remember that his hands were occupied. He kicked the door closed with his foot and he never turned back to secure the lock.
I did not see the two men arrive but they would have knocked on the front door. The same door I left from. If the side door was left unlocked when we arrived earlier in the evening then it’s still unlocked now.
I’m not positive that I’m right. I can’t be sure until I try the door myself.
After a three second dash to the side of the house, I have my hand on the doorknob and my heart in my throat. The knob twists easily and I step inside. A shout goes up in the next room.
“ANGUS!”
Noise follows, the kind of noise that comes from furniture being toppled amid men locked in combat. There’s a guttural curse and a grunt of pain.
The kitchen is a better place to discover weapons than the front yard and I wildly rifle through the drawers, hoping to see a great big butcher knife. The most dangerous object I can find is a steak knife and I grip it tightly with the blade facing out as I rush into the living room.
One of the men stands beside the couch and he’s shouting, “Angus, stop!” but he’s not doing anything about the fact that the other man, who must be Angus, has Ben locked in a deadly pose. Angus is behind Ben and he’s holding Ben in place by wedging a thick wooden stick at Ben’s neck. With horror, I see Angus secure his hold on the wooden bar by moving one end to the crook of his elbow in order to apply maximum force while Ben struggles to breathe.
“Say hello to your dad,” taunts Angus and I’m ready. I have the knife in my hand and I’m prepared to plunge it in his back between his shoulder blades. A dim memory haunts me, something I read in a textbook once about the technical difficulty involved in stabbing a human being. I’ll have to get through the man’s overcoat and his clothes and hope that the blade doesn’t bounce off a bone. I’ll only have one chance to inflict a crippling wound before he responds.
I raise the blade at the same instant I spot the half empty wine bottle. Ben must have set it down there, on the seat of a chair, perhaps just as he heard the knock on the door. It only takes a split second for me to drop the knife and seize the bottle instead.
