DUE THANKS
From the Journals of Maggie Davis
Part One: THANKSGIVING LOST
"The night is my companion, and solitude my guide."

Friday, November 26, 1999 10:54 PM, Chicago, Illinois--I left Indiana and Battle Ground almost three days ago now, never dreaming that my journey home to a simple and somewhat rowdy Davis Thanksgiving in Northern Kentucky would be so long delayed, nor so entirely complicated by a simple, yet critical, error in judgment.

I was about thirty miles-no, less, I had yet to pass Shelbyville-out of Indianapolis going south on Interstate 74. It was the way I always take, the fastest main road; four lanes, two each way, with the soothing hum of cornfields to both the left and right.

I've never been the kind of person to stop for troubled motorists, not out of lack of desire to be of service; only a single woman of my stature and youthful appearance is already at a moderate risk without compounding such a deficit by getting out of her own car. I'll usually call 911 on my cell phone if I see anything particularly suspicious or anyone in need of aid.

It was a beige late model Ford LTD. They don't even make them anymore, but we used to own one when I was a kid, which was perhaps what caught my eye. There was a dark-haired woman standing next to it in the median-she had clearly been heading for Indy when she must have experienced a massive blowout to her left front tire, unexpectedly sending the automobile deep into the grassed strip separating the two lanes. Just as I passed by, she was kicking at what was left of the tire. It wasn't much more than the rim. With each kick her long dark coat swirled about her, not buttoned despite the cold.

I sped past, doing just above the 65 mph that Indiana allows two-axled vehicles under law. But I couldn't get the image of her out of my head, standing there, kicking and probably cursing at that tire for all she was worth. It was then that I had a flash-she had been wearing high heels. Not exactly good for walking the distance to the next exit, for which I had yet to see a sign. It was a lonesome stretch of highway for that part of the country, and I realized that soon it would be coming up dark. Something told me to turn the car around, that if I didn't I'd regret it all night, and into the next day. That if I didn't circle back I'd be haunted by the image of her, her coat swirling in the wind, darkness and cold looming patiently all around her. So I did.

It didn't take long, U-turns legal in the state, and unpaved turnarounds abundant on even the major highways. I pulled onto the shoulder once I was in sight of her vehicle. Oddly she hadn't turned on either her flashers or her headlights to signal passersby for help, but I spotted her easily enough with the Mag-Lite that I had pulled from my own well-prepared trunk.

"Do you need any help?" I asked, then wondered if perhaps I should have introduced myself first. Being new to such a situation, I was uncertain as to the correct protocol. She didn't seem to notice, either me or the protocol.

"I'm Maggie," I continued when she didn't answer, but instead stood there as if contemplating the veracity of my offer. "If you like I can take you up to the next exit to call somebody-an auto club maybe?"

That seemed to get her attention.

"Yeah," she replied, cocking her head at an angle, her eyes narrowing slightly into mine. "That would be just great."

Now don't ask my why I didn't think to offer the use of my own cell phone, right there in the glove compartment, or why it never occurred to me to check and see if my full-size spare and jack wouldn't do for her car. As I said, it was my first time doing something like this, and I was a little nervous.

She thanked me for helping as we were getting into my car. She seemed like a nice person, a little pre-occupied to be sure, but nice enough.

So as I drove to the next exit, I asked about her holiday plans, meaning to be polite. She didn't say much, mentioned she had been heading to Chicago to see family, one of whom had recently been in an accident. She did not disclose the details. I told her I was sorry to hear it. Then she returned the question, and I told her about my own trip, as well as how many suitcases I had wedged into the trunk of the car, the necessary food that I had packed--as my mother was not the most inclined to cook beyond desserts--and even the fact that I had taken out a larger sum from the ATM than usual (I had a funny little bit I was working up about it), as I was planning on some pre-Christmas shopping.

It all seems a little silly now, a little obvious, but she was easy to talk to. We laughed together. I even started thinking that maybe I'd stay with her while she waited to get picked up, keep her company. Just being around her made me a little melancholy that I didn't have anyone to spend the coming hours of my trip with.

It was at this time, just as we were pulling into the first Shelbyville exit that she drew the gun from her coat. It didn't take much to threaten me, I have always been a person who avoided violence and confrontation at any cost, and I'd never run into someone issuing orders holding a weapon. She had apparently seen the power cord to my phone, which I had failed to tuck away since its last use.

"Take it out," she said, "and dial."

I dialed the number as she instructed me, I recognized the Chicago area code. We were sitting in the front seat of my car with the engine idling in the parking lot of the Waffle Steak. The dome light wasn't on, so to anyone who might have been curious, I was making a call and she was waiting for me to finish so we could go inside.

It did not seem possible that she could want anything enough to hurt me for it if I played along, or else I imagined that she would have simply killed me when I stopped and taken the car. At least that's how it seemed at the time.

The phone rang at the other end and a woman answered, giving the name of a police precinct.

Downtown, I thought. "What do I do now?" I asked, thinking maybe I was going to be reporting my own kidnapping.

"Ask for Detective Ray Vecchio," she said, and for the first time I noticed that she looked tired, like she had been running for a long time. And though her hair mostly fell across her cheekbone and covered it, there was a bruise and cut, which looked bad enough for a band-aid, but was without. When she blinked, her eyes stayed closed just a moment longer than they should have. She was worn out.

I asked for Vecchio. "They want to know what it's about," I relayed to her, one hand over the microphone, certain I was more eager to know than the person on the other end.

"You only talk directly to him," she said, instructing me. "Tell them," she almost smiled, "it's about polar bears."

I did as she said and was quickly transferred. It was answered in the middle of the first ring.

A long string of curses and possibly broken Italian ensued, followed by-well, the basic gist of it was, "what do you want?"

I looked to her for what to say.

"Tell him who you are, and that I have a gun on you." Her voice flattened. "NOTHING MORE."

So I did.

"You'll be alright," the voice said to me, although despite the gun I didn't feel any pressing fear for my life. "Just tell me what she wants, we'll get you out of there. Where are you right now?"

"I can't say."

"Good," she said, moving the gun to just below my rib cage. "Tell him I want some answers."

Things went on between the two of them, with me as interpreter, each one coaching me on what to say to the other. And me, sitting there, holding a three-way conversation that I couldn't follow.

"You tell her to let me know where she is, and I'll be happy to give her what she's got coming to her," he threatened.

"She wants to know if he's dead."

"Yeah, tell her the funeral's Saturday, here in town. If she comes we'll arrange a special escort. Something real nice."

"She's knows he's not dead, she's been checking the papers."

"Let her know I am deeply touched by her concern."

"If he's there you have to put him on."

"Sure, sure, I'll go find him, he must have stepped out to the john. Just keep her talking," this was directed to me. "We've almost got a trace."

"It's no good," I let him know. "I'm on my cellular."

I saw her shift slightly in her seat, and she shook her head. Intuiting what she was thinking, I asked, already knowing, as did she, the answer. "He's not there, is he?"

"You listen to me," the detective said, again addressing me. "This woman is capable of anything. My partner's in the hospital right now with a bullet lodged in his spine that they can't take out. She put it there. She shot his wolf and tried to frame him for something she did. She even killed her own sister." He took a deep breath that echoed across the line. "You do whatever she asks and stay alive, Maggie. We'll find you."

Correctly sensing from the length of the dialogue on the other end without my responding that he was talking to me, she took the phone from my hand flipped it shut and hung up.

"What did he say to you?"

"He said you shot a wolf and framed his partner and killed your sister," I said. "Is that true?" I guess I was getting a little unnerved now.

"What did he say about him?" she asked, her voice strained. The circles under her eyes were shadowed in the light from the Waffle Steak sign. I had deduced that the "him" she was interested in was also the detective's partner. But she didn't use his name. As though "him" was all she needed to say.

"He said he's in the hospital with a bullet in his spine."

"Will he walk again?" she asked.

"I don't know," I said, "You hung up."

"He didn't die," she said, but not to me.

I felt the barrel of the gun ease for a moment away from my ribs. I wondered if she was disappointed.

A few moments passed and she directed me to the McDonald's drive-thru, where I ordered dinner for her, still with the gun to my ribs. I paid out of my own wallet-she made no move to get into hers. We got on a gravel road that ran parallel to the expressway, and within a few miles she instructed me to get out of the car. She let me take my jacket from the back seat and put it on. I asked-and in retrospect this was quite silly-that if I couldn't have my purse (I had realized by then that all that was mine was now hers) could I at least have my chap-stick. She shrugged and handed it over, making sure that I also had a pair of gloves.

"Get down on your knees," she said, and by now I was so used to doing as she asked, I did it without thinking, without even feeling the gravel as it bit into my knees through the jeans.

"You should not have been kind to me," she added, then used the butt of the gun to knock me unconscious from behind.

I don't know how much later it was when I came back around. It wasn't the loss of the car, or my clothes, or my wallet even that upset me. Nothing upset me. I had the peculiar feeling that if she had just asked to take them I would have obliged her. She was that sort of person. The kind you want to help. The kind you turn your car around on the highway to see if they need your assistance.

I reached in my pocket for where I'd put the chap-stick and was surprised to find my phone. It had not been in my coat when I got out of the car. I'm sure I would have remembered its weight against my side.

Just as I turned it on and fumbled with my gloved hands to press redial, and Detective Ray Vecchio, it began to snow. Thick, heavy flakes that fell all around me like the white feathers from a pillow I had burst once as a child, picturesque as a holiday snow globe.