Spring cleaning had been delayed this year, but Amanda was satisfied with her efforts. Since returning from California, she had been working rigorously with her physical therapist to restore full mobility to both arms. It was amazing how many muscles were affected by the hole through her chest. Muscles not actually damaged were stressed from bearing increased responsibility. Simple acts became complex as she maneuvered her wounded body into functional positions, or found new uses for tools. Who knew that the kitchen mop could do such a good job cleaning the bathtub?
Instead of tackling the spring cleaning chores in one marathon weekend, she and her mother had scheduled the chores based on complexity and strength over several weeks. Today, with the boys at school and her mother visiting greenhouses with gardening friends, Amanda had decided to wash and iron all of the kitchen curtains including the ones on the french doors. Mother and the boys had helped by getting the curtain rods down before leaving the house and Amanda had been able to handle the rest. The dryer had finished and she was absorbed in ironing the curtains and reinserting the rods. Finished curtains were draped over the furniture ready for rehanging.
From her position at the ironing board, she could see the bright bouquet on the kitchen island that Lee had given her a few days ago to celebrate their three month anniversary. The "get well" mementos and Mother's Day cards covering the refrigerator door were reminders of the dozens of friends and relatives who had expressed their love in recent months. The spring-time scent of freshly turned dirt wafted through the open windows along with the chirps and calls of birds and squirrels. Amanda hummed contentedly as she worked.
She sprayed a generous amount of spray starch on the lace panels that cover the french doors. The scent of the aerosol spray tickled her nostrils as the hiss of steam sounded in her ears. There was a rhythm and mindlessness about ironing that Amanda found soothing – almost hypnotic. She was so entranced by her work, that she didn't notice the shadow pass the window or the stealthy movement of the knob on the kitchen door. She moved the curtain to spread another segment on the ironing board and reached for the can of starch. The whisper of the spray masked the sound of rubber soles on her clean kitchen floor.
She exchanged the starch for the iron just before the sleeve on the left arm snaking around her waist came into her peripheral view. She responded with a strength born of fear, moving before the right arm creeping over her shoulder could grip her mouth. She cradled her left hand to her chest to cover her still tender wound and braced her damaged left shoulder. Then she pivoted to the left with all of her body's force, jabbing the pointed end of the hot iron in her right hand up into the soft spot under her attacker's chin. His head popped back on his spine, throwing him off-balance and giving her time for a second hit. She hefted the iron above her shoulder and drove the long edge into the side of his head against his temple. She finished by slamming the flat surface of the iron against his cheek and driving him backwards against the corner of the wall beside the back door. The plug of the iron pulled free from the socket and whipped around, smacking his right eyelid with an audible whap. His head met the wall with a satisfying thunk, and he oozed down the wall, bouncing from the tabletop into a chair, and from there onto the floor, and ending in a heap with his head under the table in the breakfast nook.
She carefully returned the iron to its base on the ironing board and darted into the laundry room for a roll of electrical tape and scissors. She had to use both hands to bind his feet, but she protected her left shoulder as much as she could. She worked her way up his body, checking his ankles and pockets for weapons. She bound his hands before grasping both feet and tugging until his face came into the light. There was a chevron of bright red lines extending down his throat from the wound oozing blood under his chin. There was a long red mark near his hairline on the left side of his face, and a broader area of reddened skin on his left jaw, cheek, and nose. Despite the minor facial damage, Amanda recognized him instantly. "Hans Retzig," she gasped as the phone rang. "Oh, my gosh." The adrenaline surge began to ebb and her legs started shaking. She gripped the entire phone in her right hand and slid carefully down the front of her dishwasher until she could place the phone base on the floor. On the third ring, she took a deep breath to steady her voice, lifted the handset, and answered, "Hello?"
"Amanda," Lee began abruptly, "it's Hans Retzig. He escaped."
"Yes, I know. How did you know?" Amanda's startled reply surprised her husband. She was still breathing rapidly from her efforts. Her left arm had contracted against her torso in response to her overly strenuous movements. She needed to get up and find some pain reliever, but first she needed to catch her breath. She rested her head on her knees as she talked.
"We just got the report on the Agency wire. I thought Francine called me immediately, but uh... I guess she called you first. Listen, we'll get a team on the house right away." Lee was crisply efficient as he made plans to minimize the threat to his family.
"No, I didn't hear from Francine. It's Retzig. He's here." She was pleased to notice that her voice was already steadier, stronger.
"What do you mean 'he's here'? Are you okay?" Lee's alarm was palpable and Amanda could hear his desk chair slam against the wall as he stood up abruptly.
"I'm mostly fine. Just a little winded and my shoulder is throbbing from the exertion, but that's at least partly due to working with the curtains. I can't blame it all on a little tussle with a known criminal. And I had a little trouble with the electrical tape; that's really strong adhesive, you know, so it took more energy to wrap his hands and feet than I had expected. Look, do you think someone could come get this guy? He's bleeding a little and the boys will be home soon and I can't imagine how I'd explain an unconscious criminal in the breakfast nook. And mother will be coming back with bags of dirt and fertilizer and new plants for the garden and I'll need to help her unload and I don't think having Hans Retzig on the kitchen floor will be helpful at all."
"Oh, God, Amanda. I'll be right there."
THE END