The Mermaid's Secret by Katie Schickel

Author:Katie Schickel
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
ISBN: 9781466879669
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2016-06-23T21:45:18.006000+00:00

SIXTEEN

It all happened so fast.

His hands on me, the weight of his body pushing me into the wall, the crack of bone. Cigarettes on his breath. The raw, rancid smell of aggression.

Did I scream? I don’t think I did. I don’t think I felt fear.

Instinct took over.

This I know: I struck his neck first, the way a shark, bear, or cat stuns its prey before it goes in for the kill. He froze, stunned, shocked by what was happening. I swept his legs out from under him. He fell to the ground. The rest is a blur.

There were punches, mine mostly. Kicks. Also mine. A small voice deep inside me pulling me back, telling me to stop. I overpowered him so easily it was like the time Sheriff took me spearfishing at night for black crappies in the creek behind our house. We shone a light into the dark water and the crappies raced toward it, rubbing themselves onto the tip my spear. There was no sport in it.

The lumberjack had that stunned look in his eyes. Like he couldn’t believe what was happening. And then he was flat on the dirt, a rivulet of blood beside him.

Had I killed him? Did I want to?

I checked for a pulse, but the carotid artery was hidden in the depths of his thick neck. Was he breathing? I leaned toward his face to listen, but all I could hear was the thrumming of my heart. There were people nearby, people spilling out of the bar. I could hear voices coming toward the alley.

I fled, a small voice inside of me tearing me away. I ran and only when I started running was I afraid.

* * *

I check the Daily News the next morning, and the morning after that, for anything about an assault at the Schooner Wharf. The police blotter has a wide assortment of freaky crimes: a teenager hiding a potato gun in his pants, a woman who was reported by neighbors for keeping a five-hundred-pound pig in her living room, a guy who stopped traffic by riding his bicycle naked down the middle of Ocean Road. Island living can screw with your mind. It can send you over the edge. There are also plenty of run-of-the-mill crimes: drunk-and-disorderly arrests, traffic violations, petit larceny, fire, a breaking and entering at Nipon Beach.

But no dead lumberjacks at the Schooner Wharf.

It’s a huge relief.

Lumberjack man didn’t report the assault. It makes sense. A guy like that would want it swept under the carpet. Wouldn’t admit to being beaten by a girl.

Sheriff used to warn me and Kay about scumbags like that. He taught us a thing or two about self-defense, showed us how to strike with an open hand. He explained which parts of the body to aim for. The red areas—the head, the neck, the spine—that’s how to take someone down. As a cop, you have to aim for the green areas first—the big muscle masses. Yellow areas second—the elbows, knees, and ribs.

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