Free Copenhagen Cozenage by Kristen Joy Wilks

even blink as I approached. It turned its massive head to meet my gaze. I could almost feel a cold steel click, as the animal’s eyes locked with mine. Hard, silent eyes assessed me. Eyes like the flat silver coins the ancients placed over the eyes of a corpse.
    The man with the brutal face had eyes like that.
    I grabbed the cut glass knob and plunged through the Door of Doom. My heart smashed blood through my veins with a rapidity that my short run through the secondhand store did not require. My chest ached with its terrible pounding. My hands fumbled for a weapon. I knocked dusty crocheted tapestries of seascapes and butterflies off the wall and scattered an extensive collection of hand-carved wooden frogs across the floor.
    I ran until I came up against the panes of the front windows. The man with the brutal face was coming. I zipped back around to the right and crouched behind the voluminous skirt of a sequin bedecked wedding dress with puffed sleeves.
    One of the wooden frogs crunched as the huge man stepped into the room. He stood in the center of the shop. The man turned in a slow, precise circle, eyes taking the room apart.
    I slid one hand into my purse looking for the slim black canister that Bret had insisted I carry. My lids slammed shut and I stifled a groan. They had confiscated my mace at the airport.
    The man stopped when he saw the mannequin. The very mannequin that happened to be wearing my hiding place. He reached out and yanked the pale, plastic lady aside. She clattered to the floor, leaving me hunkered down behind a pair of white satin pumps. I stared up into the face of the behemoth and then grabbed a shoe in each hand.
    He seized my arm and yanked me to my feet.
    I stood staring straight into his massive chest. This wasn’t going to end well.
    “The purse.” His voice was like gravel, grinding and low.
    “What?” I squeaked.
    “Give me your purse.”
    My purse contained not only my meager funds, but my grandmother’s watch, and the manila envelope with her list of instructions. It had my receipt for the hotel room and the brunch and my passport and my plane ticket home. He couldn’t have my purse.
    “Look, I’ll give you my cash, but you simply cannot have my purse.”
    He snatched one of the straps off my shoulder and pulled me closer. “The purse, Morgan.”
    What? How did he know my name? I raised my chin and met his stare. They had taught us what to do in exactly this situation at The Y when I was in eighth grade. Although school had been a long, long time ago. I bit my lip and whispered, “No.”
    Before the big man could smash me into a Morgan pancake, I stomped down hard on his instep, and smashed both satin heels against his ears.
    He groaned and lurched back a few steps. Something over his shoulder caught my eye.
    I blinked and looked again.
    Emil the gardener stood in the doorway. He dropped to one knee and snapped a picture of me being harassed and robbed.
    I took an unconscious step toward Emil, intent on beginning my own personal inquisition.
    But the man with the brutal face surged forward. He snatched a fistful of my sundress and yanked me closer. “The purse, girl!”
    I bit my lip, but remained silent.
    He backhanded me hard across the cheek.
    Something crunched beneath the heavy blow and I stumbled backwards onto my butt.
    “Hey! This was never part of the plan.” Emil stood in the doorway, trembling with fury. He seemed taller all of a sudden, younger, hands wider and shoulders more broad.
    I scrambled backwards into a display of beaded earrings with feathers and clay flowers. My movements were sluggish and sparkly, little lights danced in my peripheral vision. My face was damp with tears that I had no memory of crying. Plan, what plan? Why did everyone have a plan except me? Especially when I needed one so badly. The big man ignored the gardener and stepped closer, a grim smile bending his face.
    Emil stood there for another heartbeat and then snatched up an umbrella