by Helen Knode
I swerved and bumped two tires over the median. Father grabbed the dashboard. “Watch out, for Christ’s sake!”
I swerved back into the lane. Father tried to grab the steering wheel. I shoved his arm away.
“What in the jumped-up hell is going on, Ann?”
I checked the mirrors and slammed on the brakes. Father caught himself on the dashboard. “Goddamn it to hell!”
The van almost rear-ended us. It cut into the left lane and speeded up. I checked over my shoulder. The driver was Dale Denney.
He pulled up beside me and rolled down his window. His nose was still taped; his face was puffy and bruised. I floored the gas. It flung Father against his seat. The van cut into my lane and accelerated ahead of me.
Father shouted, “Who’s that now, Christ?!”
The land was dark on both sides of the street. We were in Baldwin Hills. There were no houses; just the oil fields fenced with chain-link.
I saw an opening in traffic and cranked a U-turn. The car jolted over the median; there were loud thumps. I headed back north.
Father yelled, “Stop the damn car!”
I checked my mirrors. The van kept going south. Denney hadn’t noticed I was gone yet.
Father lunged for the steering wheel. I elbowed him off. I stood on the brakes, skidded across the gravel shoulder, and plowed into the chain-link in the dark. I hit the steering wheel. Father’s head hit the windshield and snapped back.
I went cold. I could see everything very clearly. I reached under the seat, found the Colt, cocked the hammer, and aimed it at him. He was a foot away. I pulled the trigger. The gun kicked, the muzzle flashed. Father slammed sideways. I pulled the trigger again. Father’s arms went up. I pulled the trigger again. Father’s shirt caught fire. He yelled and thrashed for his door handle. The door flew open and he fell onto the shoulder. I aimed down. I pulled the trigger again. I emptied the chamber. The noise numbed my ears.
But something was wrong.
I lowered the Colt.
Father was rolling on the gravel. He was trying to put out the flames on his shirt. He yelled, “Jesus H. Christ!” and cursed me by name. But he wasn’t bleeding. He wasn’t shot. He wasn’t dead.
I jerked open the cylinder of the Colt, dumped out the spent shells, and picked one up.
Blanks. Doug had given me blanks—
I was rammed from behind. My neck whiplashed; I dropped the shell. I jammed the car into first, twirled the wheel, and punched the gas. I fishtailed back onto the pavement going north.
Denney pulled up on my right. He was pointing a gun through his window. I ducked and covered up. My passenger window exploded. The bullet grazed my hip. The impact burned—my thigh burned and went numb. I stood on the gas and booted it for the closest freeway. Denney stayed on my right bumper. I saw the freeway entrance and waited. At the last second, I yanked the wheel right. Denney swerved to avoid me. He scraped a cement pylon broadside. I cranked a hard right and floored it up the ramp. The engine strained.
I checked my mirrors and cut over to the fast lane. I took the box of shells and dumped it on the seat.
Brass .41 shell casings. The base looked normal. The other end was crimped shut. Blanks. That’s why he kept loading the Colt for me.
There was a piece of paper in with the shells. He’d left a note. I opened it and read by the light of the dashboard:
“I didn’t want you to do something that couldn’t be undone. I love you.”
I heard a horn and checked my mirror. Denney came barreling up the freeway behind me. One of his headlights was gone.
I hit the gas. I whispered, “Doug.”