May 3, 2004

Elizabeth knew her understudy could take her place and perform beautifully.

There is no need to feel guilty; no one is indispensable. That's what she had to keep telling herself as she drove toward the old cottage. No phones, no TV, no computers — silence! That's what she needed. Silence. Her mind needed it, and her body needed it.

When she was almost at the turnoff to the cottage, she saw a lot of motorcycles on the shoulder. She thought she had come upon an accident. She soon saw that, instead, it looked like some kind of confrontation. The idea of a group of motorcycle gang members realizing that she had come upon their "business" petrified her, especially with all the blood she saw on the side of the road. As she hurried by, she noticed that one man was getting beat up. A few men were holding him, and a few men were hitting him.

None of your business. Keep going! Go to the cottage.

It had been a long time since she'd experienced the serenity and security of the old cottage. She desperately needed her grandmother's cottage at this point in her life. Her grandmother was no longer living, and she missed their special bond and relationship. Her grandmother would know exactly what to say to make her feel better; she always knew when she was troubled or sad. She missed her so much. She was hoping that the cottage itself would fill in for her grandmother and offer her the solace that she desperately needed right now.

Peace and quiet ... no rehearsals, no performances, no pain, no sorrow, no stress!

Her mother and grandmother had sacrificed everything for her dance lessons. Her grandmother was her cook, her chauffeur, her cheerleader, and her most precious promoter. Working countless hours had enabled Monique, Elizabeth's mother, to finance the lessons. She had carried their dreams with her over the years, and she was tired. She was tired of having the weight of performances on her shoulders. She was tired of always being the reliable and fully controlled prima ballerina. She needed a rest and a change of pace.

Elizabeth stared straight ahead so they wouldn't think she had seen anything and then sped away from the scene. She had driven for ten minutes when she saw a number of headlights coming up behind her. Her heart raced wildly. She thought for sure that the motorcycle gang members decided to remove any witnesses to their altercation. She increased her speed slightly. Her hands were trembling, and she was watching in the mirror as they quickly approached.

Much to her surprise, the motorcycles started passing her. She slowed a little to let the whole bunch of them pass. They did. They swerved around her car and kept on going down the road. She didn't know what to do. "Shit," she said. "Shit, shit." She knew that she could not keep going and ignore what she had seen. She did not want to stop, but she couldn't help herself.

I'm the one in the theatre always saying to myself, "Don't go back," and, "Don't go down the basement!" The killer is waiting for you! How stupid can you be? Why am I driving back? Away from the cottage where there is no one and only peace? I should have my head examined! I'll just drive by and take a peek, and then I'll be satisfied and on my way. Okay ... it was close to here. I don't see anything. Oh there — there's a motorcycle on its side! It's only a motorcycle. They must've had the man on the back of one of those bikes that passed me. Okay, now you're satisfied ... turn around and get on with it. Conscience appeased. Deep breath and turn the wheel. It's really late now.

"Shit."

Was that a hand? No ... keep driving! Why did I pull over? My caution lights are flashing in my head! I'm sitting in the theatre thinking, Don't go there; the killer is waiting.

Having pulled over onto the shoulder, she continued looking in her rearview mirror. She reluctantly opened her door and started running back to the spot where she had seen a group of motorcyclists beating up a man. She saw a hand lying on the ground.

Oh Shit! It was a hand! Oh God! It's the man.

The man was twisted, with torn clothes, and lay on the ground in an unnatural position.

So much blood!

She had to check to see if he was alive. She couldn't turn her back on an injured person. If something as terrible as this happened to her, she certainly wouldn't want someone to just pass her by. She was sure the man was dead and hesitated on checking his pulse. The fear of returning motorcycles was making her think a mile a minute. But she couldn't turn around without checking. She had come this far and decided to continue.

Okay, I'll check his pulse, and if he's dead, I'll call the police and leave an anonymous message. There's nothing I can do for him ... it's a motorcycle gang thing!

She didn't actually believe that; she was trying to convince herself to mind her own business and leave the man alone. She bent over and put her hand around his wrist. There was a pulse. He was still alive. Now she had to decide what to do. If she left him and called the police anonymously, she might not get any more involved. But what if he stopped breathing while she went to the cottage? There would be no one around to help him. She did know first aid and CPR. Her mother had insisted on her getting certified so that she could be prepared in case of an emergency. Her mother had been right. But if she stayed, her involvement might get back to the motorcycle gang, and she might be in danger. What should she do? She knew the second she had seen his hand that she could not leave this man alone in the dark on the side of a road. That's not the way she was raised; you helped people to the best of your ability. You did not abandon someone in their hour of need.

Shit!

Elizabeth did not realize that Michael was aware of someone touching him and leaning over him. He couldn't see because his eyes were swollen shut, but he could feel a soft hand wrapping itself around his wrist, even though the pain removed the softness of the touch. He couldn't think straight. All he felt was pain and the hand on his wrist. His instincts took over. He grabbed it.

Elizabeth jumped and screamed. "Jesus! Oh, my God!"

It felt like her heart was going to jump out of her throat. She stood staring at the body. His right hand had just grabbed hers and now lay across his shoulder. She was breathing hard and fast.

Shit! What do I do now?

"I have to do something," she said.

Her first-aid skills kicked in. As the instructor had told all the students, she had to reassure the injured party. She decided to reassure the man and tell him that she was going for help, that she was going to call the police and emergency assistance. She would cover him to keep him warm and then make her calls.

She knelt down on the ground and spoke softly into his ear.

"Hello, please don't grab me. I'm here to help you. You're really hurt. You shouldn't move. I'm going to get a blanket, and I'll call for help, and someone will come take care of you. I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to make sure that someone comes to help."

"No," whispered the man.

What was that? What did he say? Shit!

Elizabeth's brain was working a million miles per second. She couldn't believe that he had been able to talk.

Michael could not let her call the cops; too many questions to answer and too much attention. He had to...