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The engine heaved a final hacking cough before dying. Again, Dana tried to breathe life into the machine. Though the motor turned over and over, wheezing like an asthmatic, it refused to kick in.
Suddenly, Dana was aware of her heartbeat.
She had been on the road for over three hours, coming back from San Bernardino. She knew she was somewhere in downtown Los Angeles, but wasn't exactly sure where. She had taken the Los Angeles Street exit from the Santa Monica Freeway. During the day, Los Angeles Street held small shops and open-air stalls of discount apparel. But late at night, as the hands on Dana's watch approached the witching hour, the streets were ugly and desolate.
She didn't panic, though. Her.32 was in her glove compartment. She inserted the key into the box's lock, turned it to the left, and then the door dropped like a drawbridge. She picked up the hard-packed metal. Moonlight struck her eyes as she examined her reflection in the nickel-plated steel. Without thinking, she realized she was fixing her hair.
Well, that makes sense, Dana. Primp and preen so you'll look attractive to all those rapists.
She let the gun drop to her lap and tried the engine for a final time. The motor spat out rapid clicks that sounded like rounds of muted machine-gun fire.
She yanked the keys out of the ignition and threw them in her purse. Exhaling out loud, she rooted through the glove compartment until she found the box of bullets. Little compact things. For a minute, she fingered them like worry beads, the slender pellets picking up sweat from her hands. Then she loaded the gun. Checking the safety catch, she stowed the revolver inside her jacket.
Dana got out of the car.
She shut the door, securing the car with the beep of a remote. Forget about fixing the damn engine. Just walk back to the freeway, find a roadside phone, call a taxi, and get the hell home. She'd worry about the Volvo in the morning.
If it was still there in the morning. The neighborhood was rich with car thieves and other bad actors.
Don't even think about it.
The sky was foggy, moonlight glowing iridescent through the mist. It was good that there was a moon out tonight, because the streetlights offered little illumination. Just tiny spots of yellow blobs looking like stains of dog piss.
First things first, Dana thought. Find out where you parked so you can direct the AAA back in the morning.
She had stalled in the middle of a long, deserted block. Nothing much in the way of immediate landmarks. The street held old two-story buildings fronted with iron bars and grates. As Dana's eyes swept over the street, she noticed a few vacant lots between the stores, breaking up the rows like a giant smile missing a couple of teeth.
Most of the buildings were in disrepair. Some of them had bricks missing from the facades, others had their surface stucco pocked by bullets. All the structures were heavily graffitied. The shops were chockablock retail outlets. Dust-covered windows displayed kitchen supplies and tool chests sitting next to boom boxes, CD players, and television sets. Dresses and jackets were strung on clotheslines across the ceiling, the apparel looking like headless apparitions. Nothing distinct about any of the shops. No names stenciled onto the doors or windows, and the signs above were illegible in the dark.
Just get home and worry about it later. Warding off the willies, Dana hurried toward the nearest street corner, footsteps echoing behind her. Though wrapped in a wool jacket, Dana realized her legs, encased in thin nylon, were freezing. Her feet, shoved into hard leather pumps, felt like ice blocks. Looking over her shoulders, eyes darting about, she jogged stiffly to the corner, heels clacking against the sidewalk. No street signs.
Where was she? And where the hell was the freeway? She couldn't see in the dark, couldn't make out any elevated roads of concrete. Dana knew she hadn't driven very far from the freeway. Damn thing had to be around here someplace.
A distant shriek made her jump. Who or what had made that noise? A victim's cry for help? Someone whooping for joy? Maybe it was just a night owl.
Heart racing, she realized she was breathing too fast. Don't panic! Dana instructed herself. Use your brain! No, she couldn't see the freeway. But she could hear it. A soft, distant whooshing of cars passing by at high speeds. Follow the noise. She turned left at the corner. Walking toward the sound, making sharp taps on the pavement. Her hands were numb, frigid fingers stuffed into her pockets.
Another turn. She couldn't be far from the on-ramp now.
Her footsteps reverberating, trailing her like Hansel and Gretel's breadcrumbs.
Clack, clack, clack, clack…
The blast of a motorcycle shot through the air. Dana stopped, jumped, brought her hand to her chest. She took a deep breath and pressed on. A turn right, then a turn left. Passing one store after another, her stride quick and efficient.
Clack, clack, clack, clack…
Another block. More stores. A disquieting sense of sameness… stillness.
A ghost town.
Then the strained rumbling of a semi going uphill.
Freeway noises.
Yet the sounds were as distant as before. Was she walking in circles? To the noises? Away from the noise? She was disoriented, lost, and scared.
A chill ran down her spine. She spun around, her eyes catching a glimpse of a shadow.
Or did they?
She was seeing things.
A turn to her left, something darted out of sight.
Her imagination playing head games.
Stop it! she ordered herself.
She began to sweat, clay-cold fingers now slippery wet. She rubbed clammy fingers on her skirt. Looked all around.
Go back to the car!
Where was the car?
Moisture poured off her forehead.
She turned around, heels going clack, clack, clack, clack…
Noises followed her.
She stopped cold in her tracks.
Silence.
She continued on, then heard the foreign noises again.
Little pat-pat noises. Rubber-soled shoes-like rodents scurrying in the attic.
Again, she stopped.
And so did the noises.
What to do! What to do!
Julian!
Son of a bitch!
This time, he was going to get her!
Or so he thought!
She willed herself to breathe slowly, rubbed her hands together.
She took a few steps forward.
Clack, clack, clack followed by pat, pat, pat.
She stopped walking.
So did he.
She pivoted around.
Nothing to see. Nothing to hear. A quiet night except for the rapid inhalations of her own breathing. Slowly she made out distant echoes.
A few more steps.
She stopped, jerked her head over her shoulder. Saw nothing but dewy air. Kept walking. More footsteps behind her. She started ru
Footsteps keeping pace with her, stalking her. Louder, harder, closer. Panic seized her body.
Don't turn around. Don't let the bastard see your fear.
And then the absurdity hit her.
Your fear?!
You're letting the bastard make you feel fear?!
Slowly, her right hand reached for her revolver, icicle-hard fingers gripping the butt of the gun.
With shaking hands, she retracted it from her jacket.
This is for you, you bastard!
No more!
Trembling so hard, she almost dropped to her knees.
No more, no more, no more!
End it all, Dana!
Right now!
Here!
At this moment!
No more ru
No more hiding!
No more fear!
Skidding to a stop, she swung around on her heels, gun grasped in a professional two-handed hold.
Shouting, "Freeze, you filthy bastard!"
But he didn't freeze!
Immediately, the air spewed forth hot white lights. Like bursts from firecrackers except it wasn't the Fourth of July. Deafening shots ringing into the air, exploding in her head!