Ken Douglas - Dead Ringer

“Now you’ve got the hang of this!” Gay said.

“Yeah!” Maggie had gone around the corner without so much as a chirp from the tires.

“There’s a parking spot right across the street,” Gay said.

“Yeah.” Maggie slipped into the space, parking next to the beach sand, opposite the Whale.

Horace slowed the van for a couple of women crossing the road. He shook his head. They shouldn’t be out so late. Anything could happen.

“It’s them!” The Jap said.

“What?” Horace looked through the wet windshield and the clacking wipers. It was the two women. The Twin and the black one they’d left tied up at Ma’s. They were in the middle of the street, crossing right in front of him as if he didn’t exist, as if he was nothing. “How?”

“Get them!” Now the Jap was excited.

Horace jammed his foot to the floor. The back tires squealed on the wet pavement. The Jap screamed, an animal wail filling the van, like he was a karate guy charging an army.

The women looked up and Horace hit them with his brights. Almost on top of them now. They jumped away, one going forward, the other jumping back as he plowed down on them. Horace screamed himself as he sped past, then he was braking, looking for a spot to turn around.

“Are you okay?” Maggie called across the street. Gay had jumped back, was in front of Jonas’ battered VW.

“Yeah.”

The van’s tires screeched as its driver stomped on the brakes. No doubt in her mind as to who it was. It was the same black van Horace and Virgil had that night they’d chased her on this same beach. He was going to be coming back and fast.

“Get down, play dead!” Maggie screamed.

“What?”

“Just do it!” Maggie ran across the street as Gay dropped to the pavement. “Get closer to the car. Stick your legs under it.”

“What for?”

“So he doesn’t run over you when he comes back.”

“Swell.”

“I’m gonna take off across the beach, lead them away from the apartment. When they come after me, you go up there and get the kids away. Hide.”

“Where?”

“Climb a fence, hide in someone’s backyard.”

“This is a stupid plan.”

“No time to argue.” Maggie dropped to her knees by Gay. She bent over her, as if examining her, pulled out the gun as the van spun around at the corner where the bay joined the ocean, tires sliding and squealing through a hundred and eighty degree turn.

“Shit, he can drive,” Gay said.

“Okay, here he comes.” Maggie got up. “I’m outta here. Good luck.” She took off at a dead run toward the pier.

“There she goes.” The Japanese was hopping in his seat now, pointing toward the Twin who was running over the sand.

“Deja-fucking-vu!” Horace cranked the wheel left and the van jumped the curb as if it wasn’t there. She got away from him before on this beach. She wasn’t going to do it again.

“What are you doing?”

“Gonna run her down.” The brights nailed her sure as a laser sight. Horace pulled the van down into low, insides tingling as it kicked in, but the wheels dug into the wet sand, shooting it out from the wheel wells.

“What?” The Japanese screamed.

“Stuck!” Horace pulled the trans into reverse and the tires spun in the other direction.

“She’s getting away.” The Japanese was yelling into Horace’s ear like he was deaf or something.

“Cool your jets!” Horace put it back into first, tried to ease out of the rut the tires had dug into, but couldn’t.

“I can’t see her.” The Japanese fuck was out of Horace’s face now. He opened the door, jumped out.

Horace jammed it into reverse, floored it. The engine screamed, the tires kicked wet sand six feet into the air, but he’d only dug himself in deeper.

“Fuck!” Horace pulled it into park, pulled his door open, pulled out his gun and charged off into the rain. Anger raged through him. His head throbbed. Rain pelted him, a cold shower killing his sight. Straining, he barely saw the Japanese bastard blundering ahead. Horace could only assume he had the Twin in sight. He had no choice. He charged after him.

Rain soaked through Maggie’s clothes as she ran. The Olympic pool was between her and the street. A murky monolith cutting off the real world. She was running in a dark, alien place, where murder was the order of the day and death is king.

She’d put on a burst of speed when the screaming truck jumped the curb, sprinting away from it. But all of a sudden she realized it had stopped. Had they given up? She stopped too, turned into the rain. She was drenched now, cold. Her lungs demanded air and she sucked it in, bent over, hands on her knees, like a baseball player in the infield waiting for a line drive, the only difference, she held a gun in her left hand instead of a mitt in the right.

Then she saw him, short and squat, hulking out of the night. Scarface, a dark apparition, blurred by the sheeting rain. Ponytail’s revolver wasn’t like her Sigma automatic. It seemed too small, almost a toy. She snugged it up under curled fingers while the palm of her hand rested on a bent knee. She brought it up, fired at Scarface.

She missed.

Either it wasn’t as accurate as her Sigma or there was a trick to the revolver she didn’t know.

But the gunshot didn’t even slow him down. He kept coming and now she saw someone behind him. Nighthyde, had to be. They seemed to be moving in slow motion as thoughts raced through her head. Fire again or wait and get a better shot? If the gun held six, she only had two left.

Every fiber in her being said run. She took off toward the pier, running for all she was worth. It was close. Was it going to be her salvation or her tomb? She didn’t want to die. She had so much to live for, her unborn child, Jasmine. From deep inside she pulled out that extra bit of energy, that piece of heart she needed to increase her speed. She pumped her arms the way Olympic runners do to get their legs to match the killing rhythm.

The pier loomed larger out of the pounding rain with every breath, with every step. Almost there. Something grabbed her around the waist, killed her wind. She dropped to the wet sand, breathless, felt the gun ripped from her hand.

Somehow one of them had gotten in front of her.

It was all over now.

But it wasn’t.

She heard a gunshot, gasped when she saw Scarface stop, as if a giant hammer had smashed into his chest. Arms flailed, windmilling around his dying body, fighting for balance, fighting to stay on his feet. But in a heartbeat the battle was lost and Scarface flopped face forward onto the sand.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Darley Smalls dropped to his knees. Rain washed through his beard. For an instant she was worried about the baby, but she was fast getting her breath back. It was going to be okay.

“She’s gonna be fine.” Now Theo Baptiste was on his knees. She saw the gun in his hand. He’d shot Scarface. There was nothing wrong with the gun. It had been her. She’d been scared, too scared to shoot straight.

“There’s another one.” Maggie grabbed the gun from Theo’s hand. Turned as Horace Nighthyde came charging forward. He hadn’t seen them, low as they were. Maggie took aim, steadied herself, and shot him between the eyes.

Maggie flipped the burgers on the grill, added some barbecue sauce. Jasmine had told time and again that she had always liked her meat well done, but Maggie persisted in eating it medium-rare. She laughed every time Jasmine said it. She took hers off the grill.

“You might as well eat it raw,” Gordon said.

“Not you too.” Maggie laughed.

“Me too.” Gordon was stretched out in a lounge chair, eyes shielded from the sun with a new pair of reflective sunglasses. Jasmine and Sonya said they made him look like an old highway patrolman and they constantly teased him about not having a motorcycle. The kids loved him, probably because at heart he was a kid himself. It was as if he’d been a part of their lives forever instead of just six months.