Ken Douglas - Dead Ringer

Inside the store Maggie picked up the Frosted Flakes, a half gallon of milk and a bottle of Sutter Home Cabernet. “To celebrate with when this is all over.”

“Big spender,” Gay said as they were at the check out.

“Yeah, I guess I’m not used to all the money yet.” Maggie bagged her purchases. “In fact, I hope I never get used to it.”

“You’ll do fine,” Gay said.

“You think?”

“Look out.” Gay pushed Maggie aside as a young Asian man burst through the doorway. He was wearing fringed jeans, not Levi’s, and a black leather motorcycle jacket with the sleeves cut off. Tattoos peppered his arms. It would have been a head on collision, but, thanks to Gay’s fast reaction, he only brushed against Maggie. “He didn’t even apologize.”

“Yakuza copycat,” Maggie said. “Japanese type Mafia.”

Back at the apartment Gay said. “We’ll have to stop and get gas, Gordon’s Ford is almost out.”

“Take mine.” Jonas fished a set of keys out of his pocket, handed them to Maggie.

“Wow, a modern version of the monkey poop green, 1966 VW I drove for years,” Gay said as she got in the passenger side of Jonas’ car.

“Bright red, new and improved.” Maggie took off the hand brake, started it.

“Much bigger than my old Beetle. It’s like a pregnant Bug.” Gay pulled on the shoulder harness.

“At least it’s not an automatic,” Maggie said.

“Yesterday you seemed so lost, but not now. You’ve changed.” Gay fiddled with the GPS as they took the on ramp to the 605 Freeway.

“I don’t feel any different.”

“You are.”

Fifteen minutes later they turned off the freeway. Another couple of minutes and Gay said, “Daneland, that’s it, that’s the street.”

Maggie turned, drove slowly, found the address, parked in front. “Lights are off. No car in the driveway. Doesn’t look like anyone’s home.”

“Car could be in the garage,” Gay said. The neighborhood was middle class tract homes built after the Korean War. Sidewalks in front, driveways led to garages in the back. People either parked their cars in the drive or through the gate and in the garage. There was only one other car parked on the street on the whole block. The red Volkswagen stood out like a tomato in a bag of onions.

“Could be, but I don’t think so.” Maggie drove to the corner, turned and parked next to a park at the end of the block.

“Now what?”

“He broke into my house. I’m gonna break into his.” Maggie got out of the car.

“What?” Gay got out too, joined Maggie on the sidewalk.

“I’m tired of this guy stalking me. This time I’ll be the one waiting with the gun.”

“Like when you hid in that bathroom?”

“That was different, I was scared, surprised.”

“And you’re not afraid now?”

“I’m terrified.”

“That’s reassuring,” Gay said.

On foot in front of the house, Maggie saw a neatly manicured lawn with a picture perfect flower bed, roses ran along the front of the house. She wondered if Nighthyde kept the lawn looking that way or if he had a gardener.

She passed the lawn, hooked a left up the driveway. She took quiet breaths, as if the neighbors could hear. The gate had a string through a hole above the latch. Maggie pulled it, the latch clicked and the gate opened with a screech that shivered up her spine. Surely someone had heard. But no lights came on.

Gay followed her through and Maggie steeled herself as she screeched the gate closed. Inside, she found they were protected from the neighbors’ eyes by a five foot brick fence that surrounded the backyard. The yard, like the front, looked professionally managed.

“I still think this is a stupid idea.” Gay was so close behind Maggie that she felt her breath on the back of her neck.

“Let’s check the back door.” Maggie stepped up the back porch, tried the knob. “Locked.”

“Maybe we should go.”

Maggie backed away from the house, studied it. “The bathroom window’s open a crack.” She went to it. “Give me a boost.”

“Right.” Gay laced her fingers together. Maggie stepped into them.

Maggie slipped her thumbs under the window, slid it up. “Piece of cake.”

“This is stupid.”

“Oh stop.”

“Stopping.”

“Can you boost me a little higher?”

“Boosting.” Gay pulled Maggie up enough, so she could squirm through the window, like a gopher squeezing into a hole, she thought.

Then she was in and falling. She hit the floor on her backside as an animal roar filled the bathroom.

Bear was her first thought.

Then it was on her.

“Gay!” she screamed

The thing wrapped itself around her and squeezed. Maggie smelled its breath, foul, as if raw meat were decaying in its mouth. It wheezed as it squeezed, choking her, suffocating her. It had her arms pinned to her sides. She was helpless.

She kicked against it and it answered by gripping harder. Maggie was caught in its killing embrace and there was nothing she could do about it. Blood rushed to her head as she thrashed like a netted fish trying to get away, trying to breathe.

From somewhere in the distance she heard the sound of breaking glass. She heard her name shouted, then light replaced the dark as Gay screamed, “Let her go!” And Maggie saw into the dead eyes of the old woman who had her in her grasp, saw Gay’s hands grab the old crone’s hair. “I said let her go! Let go or I’ll rip your head off!”

But the old hag flexed her great arms and crushed Maggie into her bulging breasts. The monster woman wailed as Gay jerked her backward by the hair. Maggie kneed the woman in the groin, kneed her again, felt the woman’s grip slacken. Somehow Gay had gotten an arm around the old hag’s throat and now the two woman were riding a bronc from hell as the hag bucked and thrashed about the bathroom, banging herself, Maggie and Gay into the cabinets below the sink, the bathtub and the toilet.

Then all of a sudden she let go her grip. Maggie rolled away and Gay jumped back as flabby arms flapped against the floor like a great seal’s flippers. She was on her back now, head banging the tiles.

“What’s going on?” Maggie said, out of breath.

Vomit spewed from the hag’s mouth.

“Grand mal seizure!” Gay went to her knees. “Help me turn her onto her side, so she doesn’t drown in her vomit.”

Maggie grabbed onto her shoulder, Gay her buttocks, and they heaved, but the old woman flung an arm around and caught Gay full in the face, sending her flying across the bathroom.

In an instant Gay was back. “Come on, she could die.”

“Okay, push,” Maggie said and she did. “It’s working, she’s going over.”

But as quickly as they’d rolled her onto her side, the hag flipped herself back again, flinging Maggie and Gay aside.

“Get her!” A man’s voice rang through the bathroom.

Maggie turned, barely able to register that the man was shouting in Japanese, before something slammed into her chest and knocked her wind away. She gagged, sucked air, tried to get up when the man slapped her face with an open palm, knocking her back to the floor.

There was another Asian on Gay. Maggie struggled to stay conscious, saw a tattooed arm slam Gay to the floor, spin her onto her stomach, even as the man on her spun her onto her own stomach. Head turned to the side, she saw grotesque tattooed hands frisk Gay, find the gun as she felt her own attacker pull the Sigma out from behind her.

Who were these men, why were they shouting in Japanese?

Hands pulled her to her feet, were dragging her out of the bathroom. She tried a feeble kick, got hit on the side of the head for a reward. She gave up, let the man drag her down a hallway, through the living room and into the kitchen. He pulled a chair from a breakfast table and flopped her into it as the other man dropped Gay into its mate.