If Tomorrow Comes

‘Oh, Jesus!’ Romano cried. His grip suddenly relaxed. Through a red mist, Tracy watched in horror as he fell off her and slumped to the floor, clutching his side. ‘You shot me … you bitch. You shot me …’

Tracy was transfixed, unable to move. She felt she was going to be sick, and her eyes were blinded by stabbing pain. She pulled herself to her feet, turned, and stumbled to a door at the far end of the room. She pushed it open. It was a bathroom. She staggered over to the sink, filled the basin with cold water, and bathed her eyes until the pain began to subside and her vision cleared. She looked into the cabinet mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot and wild looking. My God, I’ve just killed a man. She ran back into the living room.

Joe Romano lay on the floor, his blood seeping onto the white rug. Tracy stood over him, white-faced. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said inanely. ‘I didn’t mean to –’

‘Ambulance …’ His breathing was ragged.

Tracy hurried to the telephone on the desk and dialled the operator. When she tried to speak, her voice was choked. ‘Operator, send an ambulance right away. The address is Four-twenty-one Jackson Square. A man has been shot.’

She replaced the receiver and looked down at Joe Romano. Oh, God, she prayed, please don’t let him die. You know I didn’t mean to kill him. She knelt beside the body on the floor to see if he was still alive. His eyes were closed, but he was breathing. ‘An ambulance is on its way,’ Tracy promised.

She fled.

She tried not to run, afraid of attracting attention. She pulled her jacket close around her to conceal her ripped blouse. Four blocks from the house Tracy tried to hail a taxi. Half a dozen sped past her, filled with happy, laughing passengers. In the distance Tracy heard the sound of an approaching siren, and seconds later an ambulance raced past her, headed in the direction of Joe Romano’s house. I’ve got to get away from here, Tracy thought. Ahead of her, a taxi pulled to the curb and discharged its passengers. Tracy ran towards it, afraid of losing it. ‘Are you free?’

‘That depends. Where you goin’?’

‘The airport.’ She held her breath.

‘Get in.’

On the way to the airport, Tracy thought about the ambulance. What if they were too late and Joe Romano was dead? She would be a murderess. She had left the gun back at the house, and her fingerprints were on it. She could tell the police that Romano had tried to rape her and that the gun had gone off accidentally, but they would never believe her. She had purchased the gun that was lying on the floor beside Joe Romano. How much time had passed? Half an hour? An hour? She had to get out of New Orleans as quickly as possible.

‘Enjoy the carnival?’ the driver asked.

Tracy swallowed. ‘I – yes.’ She pulled out her hand mirror and did what she could to make herself presentable. She had been stupid to try to make Joe Romano confess. Everything had gone wrong. How can I tell Charles what happened? She knew how shocked he would be, but after she explained, he would understand. Charles would know what to do.

When the taxi arrived at New Orleans International Airport, Tracy wondered, Was it only this morning that I was here? Did all this happen in just one day? Her mother’s suicide … the horror of being swept up in the carnival … the man snarling, ‘You shot me … you bitch …’

When Tracy walked into the terminal, it seemed to her that everyone was staring at her accusingly. That’s what a guilty conscience does, she thought. She wished there were some way she could learn about Joe Romano’s condition, but she had no idea what hospital he would be taken to or whom she could call. He’s going to be all right. Charles and I will come back for Mother’s funeral, and Joe Romano will be fine. She tried to push from her mind the vision of the man lying on the white rug, his blood staining it red. She had to hurry home to Charles.

Tracy approached the Delta Airlines counter. ‘I’d like a one-way ticket on the next flight to Philadelphia, please. Tourist.’

The passenger representative consulted his computer. ‘That will be Flight three-o-four. You’re in luck. I have one seat left.’

‘What time does the plane leave?’

‘In twenty minutes. You just have time to board.’

As Tracy reached into her handbag, she sensed rather than saw two uniformed police officers step up on either side of her. One of them said, ‘Tracy Whitney?’

Her heart stopped beating for an instant. It would be stupid to deny my identity. ‘Yes …’

‘You’re under arrest.’

And Tracy felt the cold steel of handcuffs snapped on her wrists.

Everything was happening in slow motion to someone else. Tracy watched herself being led through the airport, manacled to one of the policemen, while passersby turned to stare. She was shoved into the back of a black-and-white squad car with steel mesh separating the front seat from the rear. The police car sped away from the curb with red lights flashing and sirens screaming. She huddled in the back seat, trying to become invisible. She was a murderess. Joseph Romano had died. But it had been an accident. She would explain how it happened. They had to believe her. They had to.

The police station Tracy was taken to was in the Algiers district, on the west bank of New Orleans, a grim and foreboding building with a look of hopelessness about it. The booking room was crowded with seedy-looking characters – prostitutes, pimps, muggers and their victims. Tracy was marched to the desk of the sergeant-on-watch.

One of her captors said, ‘The Whitney woman, Sarge. We caught her at the airport tryin’ to escape.’

‘I wasn’t –’

‘Take the cuffs off.’

The handcuffs were removed. Tracy found her voice. ‘It was an accident. I didn’t mean to kill him. He tried to rape me and –’ She could not control the hysteria in her voice.

The desk sergeant said curtly, ‘Are you Tracy Whitney?’

‘Yes. I –’

‘Lock her up.’

‘No! Wait a minute,’ she pleaded. ‘I have to call someone. I – I’m entitled to make a phone call.’

The desk sergeant grunted, ‘You know the routine, huh? How many times you been in the slammer, honey?’

‘None. This is –’

‘You get one call. Three minutes. What number do you want?’

She was so nervous that she could not remember Charles’s telephone number. She could not even recall the area code for Philadelphia. Was it two-five-one? No. That was not it. She was trembling.

‘Come on. I haven’t got all night.’

Two-one-five. That was it! ‘Two-one-five-five-five-five-nine-three-zero-one.’

The desk sergeant dialled the number and handed the phone to Tracy. She could hear the phone ringing. And ringing. There was no answer. Charles had to be home.

The desk sergeant said, ‘Time’s up.’ He started to take the phone from her.

‘Please wait!’ she cried. But she suddenly remembered that Charles shut off his phone at night so that he would not be disturbed. She listened to the hollow ringing and realized there was no way she could reach him.

The desk sergeant asked, ‘You through?’

Tracy looked up at him and said dully, ‘I’m through.’

A policeman in shirt-sleeves took Tracy into a room where she was booked and fingerprinted, then led down a corridor and locked in a holding cell, by herself.

‘You’ll have a hearing in the morning,’ the policeman told her. He walked away, leaving her alone.

None of this is happening, Tracy thought. This is all a terrible dream. Oh, please, God, don’t let any of this be real.

But the stinking cot in the cell was real, and the seatless toilet in the corner was real, and the bars were real.

The hours of the night dragged by endlessly. If only I could have reached Charles. She needed him now more than she had ever needed anyone in her life. I should have confided in him in the first place. If I had, none of this would have happened.