The Woman in Blue

Prologue Twenty-one-year-old Misha Nichols entered the small convenience store. She had walked from the gym where she was an aerobics instructor just down the street. She had ten minutes before her next class began. I'd better hurry, she thought to herself as she headed for the refrigerator in the back of the store. She passed a young woman with a baby. They exchanged smiles as she continued on through the snug aisle. Misha swung open the door to the juice section when the screams began. She spun around with lightning speed. The woman with the child was now screaming frantically, clutching her infant tightly in her plump arms. Just then, a man began to shout. “Open the fucking register now!” Oh, no! thought Misha. You’ve got to be kidding. A robbery? With me caught in the middle of it? That’s only supposed to happen to other people! They were all in a line. Misha was in the back, the woman and baby were toward the middle of the store, and an older man was by the register with one of the two gunmen, a young Hispanic man. The young man seemed strung out on drugs and extremely nervous, as if he were unsure of himself. His partner, a young Black man, appeared much calmer—and much scarier as well. Just one look at him was enough to make even the toughest of people cringe. He had obviously been guarding the back door. Misha dared to sneak a peek at the man as he came closer. He held a shotgun similar to his buddy’s and stood casually chewing on a piece of gum as he eyed Misha. His ebony eyes blazed with hatred. “Don’t look at me, bitch, or you die.” She quickly turned her head. “But then again,” he continued, “izz too late. Y’all gonna die anyway. Scary Harry don’t leave no witnesses. Yous just in dah wrong place at dah wrong time. So go ahead, bitch, look all you want. Ain’t no guardian angel up above gonna save any of you.” Misha’s heart pounded frantically. Her breathing was shallow and shaky. Her legs trembled and her mouth was as dry as a desert. “Give me that purse,” he demanded. “Both of you. Throw your purses here.” Misha and the other woman did so, and Scary Harry rummaged through them both while still managing to hang onto his shotgun and keep an eye on the two terrified women. He pulled a card from one of them. “Mrs. Shelby Kaplan,” he said, looking at the woman with the baby. He pulled another card from the other purse. “And who do we have here? Oh, Miss Misha Nichols, huh? Nice name. It’ll look pretty on your gravestone.” The baby began to wail. Mr. Nervous, up front, spun on his heel to face the woman and child as the cashier quickly counted out money with shaky hands. “Shut that thing up!” he screamed. The baby began to wail louder and the woman whimpered fearfully. “P-please, don’t hurt us!” “Shut up, bitch!” Scary Harry commanded as he advanced toward the two. Mr. Nervous turned his attention back to the cashier and let his twisted partner deal with the crying duo. “N-no!” the woman pleaded pathetically. “Get moving!” screamed Scary Harry as he shoved the woman and baby toward the back of the store. “Move it!” The woman moved on shaky legs, all the while pleading for her life and the life of her child. Once Scary Harry had them in the office that was in back, a few shots rang out. He had shot the woman and child. At that point, Misha wasted no time. She ran full speed toward the front of the store. Mr. Nervous was still screaming at the cashier, and the old man looked like a frozen, lifelike statue. Misha stopped dead in her tracks just as Mr. Nervous spun around to glance back at her for an instant. She was now halfway to the door. Just as soon as Mr. Nervous was once again preoccupied with the cashier, she continued forward and darted for the door. The first shot rang out when she was about two feet from the door. The second, when her hand hit the door to push it open. Time seemed to slow down dramatically at that point. A second became more like a minute. Eventually, she stumbled out the door and into the arms of a police officer. Chapter 1 At the Sacramento Police Department, Misha sipped the hot coffee the policewoman had given her. She tried to steady her hands so as not to spill the steaming liquid. “Would you like a donut?” asked the officer, whose name tag read Mitchell. She was plain-looking, with wheat-colored hair pulled back in a tight bun. “No thanks. I don’t think I could keep it down.” “I’m sure you must’ve been horrified back in that store.” “To say the least!” agreed Misha. A tall redheaded man in plain clothes entered the area of the large room where Misha sat talking to the lady cop. “Miss Nichols,” he said, acknowledging Misha with a slight nod. “How are you holding up?” “I’m surviving. What about the others?” “Well,” said the officer, pulling out a chair and straddling it so he could lean on the back of it. “I’m Detective Hack, and you’re a very fortunate woman.” Misha gazed at the officer inquisitively. “Unfortunately, the older gentleman who was in there didn’t make it, the mother of the baby is in critical condition, but the baby was left unharmed. Guess the nuts figured she’d be too young to ever identify them.” “I’m glad to hear that the baby’s okay. Hopefully, the mother will pull through.” “Yes, it’s sad, and we don’t know if the mother will survive or not. It’s up in the air right now,” said Mitchell. Hack continued. “However, I’m afraid we have other bad news.” “And what’s that?” Misha asked nervously. “One of the gunmen was apprehended. That would be Carlos Gomez. He was the one who shot at you and the gentleman. On the other hand, Harry Lawson, the sack of scum, is still at large. He’s responsible for shooting the child’s mother.” “That’s too bad. I hope you guys get him real soon.” “We hope so, too. Meanwhile, we strongly recommend you let us enter you into the Witness Protection Program to keep you safe.” “The Witness Protection Program?” asked Misha in shock. “Ever heard of it?” “I have. I just never thought I’d ever qualify as a candidate for it.” “But he does know your name, where you live, and what you look like. He also knows you’re alive and can help put him away for the rest of his sorry life.” “That’s true,” said Misha, not sure if she was more bummed out or angry at the moment. “Do you have any children, Miss Nichols?” “No, it’s just me. I have a little studio apartment in central Sacramento.” “Any significant others, parents, siblings, friends?” “No one I’m close to or siblings. My parents were killed in a plane crash a couple of years ago. All I have right now are a few friends who live nearby. I work with one of them at the fitness center.” “It’s very, very important that you don’t tell them or anyone else where you’re going,” stressed Hack. “And where will that be?” “Don’t know yet, but when we do, they mustn’t know anything. You just never know who could slip up and what it could lead to. Silence is always the best policy.” “But if I simply up and disappear without a word, they’ll be frantic, running to the police to file a missing person’s report.” “You don’t have to go to such extremes, Miss Nichols. You can use our phone to contact them to tell them you’re okay and that you’re entering the program—assuming you agree to do so—but nothing more than that till Lawson’s captured.” “Okay. Then what?” asked Misha. “There are a few others waiting downstairs for placement in the program as well. You can join them till you’re given further instructions by someone in that department.” At first, Misha was determined not to let these bastards run her out of her apartment, but then she realized the danger wasn’t worth taking any chances. After Misha agreed to the terms, Officer Mitchell escorted her downstairs and then down a long corridor. At the end was a room with a few desks behind a rather high counter. A couple of uniformed officers were standing near one of the desks, engrossed in conversation, while a woman in a blue business suit stood thumbing through a large notebook at the counter. She looked up the moment Misha and Mitchell approached. Misha’s breath caught. The woman eyed Mitchell, then focused intently on Misha. Misha gazed back at the woman with equal intensity. While most might consider the woman rather ordinary-looking, there was something about her that caused Misha to feel an instant attraction she’d never experienced before. Although she could only see the woman from the chest up as she leaned on her elbows with the notebook between them, she could tell she was a bit tall, about five-six or seven. She was slim, with brown eyes and shoulder-length brown hair parted on the side. It was shorter in front than in back, with a slight wave to it. Her overall appearance was simple yet stunning. Misha couldn’t tear her eyes away. What it was about this woman that seemed to awaken a spark deep within her very soul, she did not know. “What’s up?” asked one of the uniforms at the desks. The woman glanced at Mitchell, then back at Misha. She stared deep into Misha’s blue eyes. “She’s entering WitPro,” said Mitchell. “Stick her in with the other three. The safehouses are currently full to capacity, so they’ll all be taken to a hotel later.” “Will do,” said Mitchell. They turned to walk back down the hall, with Misha daring a quick glance behind her to find the counter woman in the blue suit still staring at her. She thought she caught a slight smile beginning to form on her lips. Misha smiled, then turned to face forward. She was brought to a room where there were two others—both men—entering WitPro along with herself. One looked to be somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties, while the other appeared to be in his forties. Misha had no idea why they were entering the program, and she didn’t ask. Using the phone in the room, arrangements were made—without giving out any information other than that she would be entering the program—to care for the houses, apartments, and pets of those who needed it. Since Misha had nothing more than a furnished studio, it was agreed that her friend Meagan would pack up her personal belongings and store them at her house if she was gone that long. Meagan, whom Misha had met at a gay parade in Sacramento, promised to let Freddie, Samantha, and Rick know that she’d be gone for a while. Freddie was also gay, and he and Misha had worked together for quite a while at the fitness center. Samantha and Rick were married. She had met them at the poolside of an apartment complex they once all lived in. “You can’t tell me anything?” asked Meagan, concern in her voice. Misha glanced at Mitchell. “Nope. Nothing. Sorry about that, but I’m sure I’ll be just fine. Maybe I can call you from time to time till this mess gets cleared up, and I can see you. I doubt it will be very long.” After a few more minutes, she thanked Meagan wholeheartedly, then hung up. Mitchell and the men sat talking at the table in the center of the small room. Surrounding it were vending machines and a couch with two matching chairs. Magazines were strewn on the small tables between the couch and chairs. “Everything okay?” asked Mitchell, turning to look over at Misha. “Yes,” Misha answered, plopping herself down on the couch. She felt like her whole world had changed in minutes, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d soon be entering a whole new life. She only hoped it would be a good one. It was then that Mitchell announced that they’d all be giving blood and urine for testing. “I know you guys aren’t the criminals here, and I hate to have you feeling like you’re being treated like you are, but it’s for everyone’s own safety,” said Mitchell. “People have been known before to lie about either physical ailments or the usage of drugs, not to say that any of you are necessarily going to do the same.” Misha and the men understood, though none of them were happy about being stuck with needles or having to pee in a cup. Once they were done giving the samples, Misha settled back down on the couch. A moment later, her thoughts flashed back to the woman in blue. Who was she? Would she ever see her again? Before Misha could think about it much longer, another plainclothes detective entered the room. He was middle-aged with a receding hairline that was graying at the temples. He was a bit stocky and of average height, like Mitchell. “Hi,” said Mitchell. “Hi, everybody. I’m Detective Johnson.” The others murmured a hello. “We’re going to get you all set up in a hotel pretty soon, but first I’d like to acquaint you with the basics of WitPro.” He pulled out a seat. Misha listened as Johnson spoke. They were each given some papers, new names, ID cards, clothes, and toiletries, and were instructed to leave their rooms as little as necessary. “Never open your doors without looking through the peephole first,” warned Johnson, “in which the officer will be holding up their ID card. The maids have been instructed not to approach your doors, which should always bear do not disturb cards. If at any time there’s a knock on your door and the person doesn’t show you an ID card, dial the number given to you immediately.” Johnson surveyed the faces of those before him. “Any questions?” After the necessary questions were asked and answered, the three of them were whisked off to the hotel. They were all put in separate rooms at the end of the hall on the same floor. I’m now Nina Bradley from Indiana, thought Misha as she sifted through the bland garments that were given to her. I’m a hairdresser, my mom and dad own a farm, and my brother’s a carpenter. As much as she wanted to call her friends, she knew it was in her best interest not to do so, no matter how much she felt she could trust them. Instead, she tried to occupy herself in front of the TV, but thoughts of the woman in blue stole her concentration and definitely her interest. Later, she lay in bed listening to the sounds of the city below. After a while, she fell asleep with an image of the mysterious woman in her mind.