Brian Haig - PrivateSector

“Guess you were.”

He looked around and counted his luck that nobody had cycled past them yet. If that happened, this coldhearted bitch would get a pass for the night. He couldn’t afford witnesses who might recall the big muscular guy who was with her on the towpath. He’d have to reschedule her, and that would be very inconvenient. Would his luck hold, though? Not much longer, he gauged.

“The bike seems okay,” he said. “Not me, though. I feel real dizzy.”

“Too bad.” She nodded in the direction of Washington and added cavalierly, “Long walk back. Probably twelve miles or so.”

An idea struck him and he asked her, “You wouldn’t happen to have a cell phone in that pack, would you? I’ve got a friend, Dan, I could call and he’ll come pick me up.”

“Nope, no cell phone.”

Shit-there went his excuse to get near her. If he could just get within three or four feet, he’d get his big hands wrapped around her skinny throat. Christ, was he looking forward to snapping her neck.

“Could you at least walk with me for a few minutes? Just enough to make sure I’m okay.”

“You look okay to me.”

“Please.” He held out his arms and smiled. “Come on… give me a break. I’m gay and you’ve got a gun. What a combination. A few minutes?”

She coldly studied him. “What’s your name?”

“Mike… Mike Nelson.”

“Okay, Mike, here’s the deal. You stay on your side of the path, and I’ll stay on mine. You got that?” He nodded that he did, and she added, “Three minutes and I’m gone. The gun stays in my hand. I’m damned good with it, too. You’re awful clingy, and I don’t like that.”

“Hey, like I said, you’re not my type.” Why wasn’t she picking up on this gay angle he kept tossing out? Don’t all gay people have some kind of warm-and-fuzzy solidarity thing? He cursed himself for not studying them more closely.

He moved to the right side of the path, keeping the bike to his right, so it wasn’t between them. She moved to the left and very obtrusively positioned her bike to her right, between them. About eight feet separated them, and she held the gun near her waist where all she’d have to do was swivel her arm and drill him. He didn’t doubt that she knew how to handle it. Damned lesbo probably wore a jockstrap.

They started walking, and very friendly-like he asked, “So, what’s your name?”

“Anne.”

“Just Anne? No last name?”

“None you’re gonna hear.”

“I don’t get it. Why are you so suspicious?”

She looked straight ahead and said, “I was raped once. It was real unpleasant and isn’t gonna happen again.”

“Oh… I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? You didn’t get raped.” She then very matter-of-factly said, “Point is, Mike, we’re out here all alone on this bike path. I don’t know you from shit. You don’t look like you took a hard spill, no blood, no scratches, and you claim you’re gay, but how do I know you’re not lying?”

He said, “Well, I-”

“Also,” she interrupted, “there was a guy out here last week, cycling behind me, looked just like you. That was you, right, Mike?”

Damn, that explained it. He’d hung far enough back that he was sure she wouldn’t see him. Must’ve happened after she hit the turnaround point. She could only have gotten a brief glimpse as they sped past each other in opposite directions. Most folks just aren’t that sharp-eyed and observant. Shit, shit, shit. He thought furiously about how to handle this. Deny it? No, that wouldn’t work. He could see in her eyes that she recalled him quite clearly.

He replied, “Yeah, I was out here last week. So what?”

“Well, I’m out here every Sunday night, and I never saw you before. Kind of an odd coincidence, right? One week you’re following me, the next… well, here we are.”

“There’s a reason for that.”

“I’ll bet.”

“I just moved to D. C. three weeks ago.”

“Is that right?”

“From San Francisco. I was living with a guy, Paul, but we broke up.” He paused and worked a little pain into his voice. “Actually… Paul dumped me. For a movie critic. I, uh, well, I had to move, you know. Everywhere I went reminded me of him.”

She started to say something and he kept talking, sounding whiny. “And the guy he dumped me for was a queen, too. A goddamned queen. I never took Paul for the flaming queen type, you know?”

That should help, he thought. Just a big dopey guy troubled by a broken heart. Toss in a little fag jargon and sound like a real queer. Establish his credentials and get her to let down her guard.

Any minute and another bicyclist was going to come careening down the path and ruin this thing.

She shrugged. She glanced at her watch, apparently wishing the three minutes to end.

He said, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What do you do?” He scratched his head, as though struggling to recall, then guessed, “Cathy, isn’t it?”

“Anne.”

“Sorry.”

“Well, you know, Mike, that’s none of your damned business.”

If he could only get her to put that damned pistol back in her fanny pack. Christ, she was making this hard. He said, “God, you’re unfriendly.”

“Yeah, well, tough shit. Guess you bumped into the wrong Good Samaritan.”

“No. You’re being very generous, and I appreciate it.”

“Move back over, asshole,” she ordered, noting that he and his bike had strayed toward the middle of the path.

“Sorry.” He did as she ordered. “Geez, I’m woozy. I think I hit my head pretty hard. I can barely walk straight.”

“Try harder, Mike.” She glared over at him, and said, “My first shot, you’ll be peeing out your asshole. You’ll still be able to date, but the end of the evening’s gonna be a big disappointment… ’cause you’ll have no dick left.”

His mouth hung open. “Wait a-”

“I wondered if you’d come for me, you fucking ghoul.” Her pistol was now pointed directly at his groin.

“Anne, I don’t-”

“Think I don’t hear the news? Think I’m too stupid to put two and two together? You fucked up, Mike.” She ran a hand through her hair, and said, “Though it’s not really Mike, is it?”

A half mile ahead a bike was speeding quickly toward them. The bicycler was bent over the handlebars, cutting the drag and pedaling fiercely. Anne gestured toward the figure and said, “You got a real problem, now, asshole. Company’s coming.”

He stopped walking and faced her. She had been playing with him until somebody else came along, he realized.

He had badly underestimated her.

He smiled. “I am really looking forward to breaking your neck, dyke.”

“Too bad.”

“How did it feel to be raped, dyke?”

Her face reddened. “Up yours.”

“What I have planned for you, dyke, you’ll beg me to break your neck.”

“God, you’re disgusting.” Anger was creeping into her voice.

They stood in silence and glared at each other with mutual hatred as the bicyclist drew nearer and nearer. The pistol barrel remained pointed at his groin.

The newcomer hit his brakes and his bike glided to a stop a few feet from them. The man was young, twenty-one or twenty-two, possibly a student at Georgetown or GW University, blond-haired with a frizzy goatee, goggle glasses, and the thick, trunklike thighs of a persistent biker.

He stared inquisitively at the gun in Anne’s hand and asked, “What’s going on? You need help?”

Anne’s lips were just parting as Mike threw his arms up in the air and announced, “Boy, do I ever. I’m so glad you came along, man. This crazy bitch thinks I’m the L. A. Killer.”