by Brian Haig
Well, this was a great deal to surmise, and Barry had been under considerable stress and pressure, and, as I mentioned, I sometimes read too much into things.
But maybe not.
I walked over to Martha and informed her that she and her buddies could safely assume the Bermuda partnership would last the next two years.
She nodded and I went back to my corner and mulled this over.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Anne Carrol was pedaling furiously and he hung back about two hundred yards behind her. The temperature was perfect, low forties, no humidity, no breeze. Fifteen miles and he had worked up barely more than a light sweat. A splendid evening for a long bike ride, in his view. She was averaging just under fifteen miles an hour, and he was confident he could pour it on and catch her at will.
Thirty minutes before, she had parked on a side street near Georgetown University, unstrapped her silver Cannondale eighteen-speed from the rack on the rear of her Jeep Wrangler, and spent ten minutes limbering up. All stretched out, she headed west on the old canal towpath that borders the brown Potomac River. The canal and towpath had been landmarks of D. C. for nearly two hundred years. At one time food and provisions were loaded onto shallow barges and hauled into the city by horses and mules. The towpath had since been converted into a trail for runners and bikers that stretched to the west for nearly twenty miles.
Traffic along the path had been thinner than normal, the result, no doubt, of the swelling paranoia about the L. A. Killer. The few young women he’d observed were biking or jogging with male companions or in packs. They were taking no chances. The killer was out there, they knew, and hungry.
As he’d been convinced she would, Anne Carrol ignored the warnings. She was too pushy and stubborn to let a killer alter her life in any way. She likely believed that sex maniacs wouldn’t be interested in her or her type. Hetero girls get all that bad crap-the unwanted pregnancies, VD, and sex sickos. Lesbians were above all that.
She biked every Sunday evening, from March through December, till it got too cold and icy. He had trailed her the Sunday before, measured her tempo, studied the terrain, and plotted his takedown. Like the week before, she went at a leisurely pace for fifteen miles, hit her turnaround, and sprinted back.
They had hit that turnaround a mile back, and the time had come.
He glanced over his shoulder, saw nobody, and kicked up his speed to twenty. Inside three minutes, he had closed the gap to a hundred yards. He studied her back and pedaled harder. When he was thirty yards away she heard him coming. A brief glance over her right shoulder, no alarm on her face, and no change to her posture or pace. She courteously steered her bike to the left, giving him more room to pass on the right.
He drew alongside, she glanced at him, and he smiled, lifted his left hand for a friendly wave, and sped past. He kept pedaling furiously until he drew three hundred yards ahead of her. He went around a sharp bend in the trail, then squeezed hard on the brakes. The rear tire skidded out to the left and he put his right foot down to break the fall.
Anne Carrol came around the bend seconds later and had to steer hard to avoid a collision. His bike straddled the path, its tires spinning. Five yards away he was laid out, limp and still.
Anne pumped her brakes to a gradual stop. She climbed off her bike and looked back at him. He squeezed his eyes shut and stayed still.
He heard her mumble, “Oh shit,” then she walked her bike toward him.
“Hey,” she yelled. “You okay?”
No answer.
“Hey, can you hear me?”
She was drawing closer and he remained rigidly still. He would wait till she was within feet of him before he would act. Too much distance and she would jump back on her bike and speed away.
He could hear her heavy breathing and footsteps. She couldn’t be far and he emitted a soft groan so she’d know he was alive. Injured and desperately in need of swift help, but alive.
Twenty or so seconds passed and he groaned again. He had given her more than enough time. She should’ve been bending over him, checking his pulse, something.
He opened his eyes and lifted his head, affecting a severely pained expression. She stood back about seven feet, had her right hand inside her butt pack and was staring down at him.
He mumbled, “I’m hurt.”
“What happened?”
“My… uh, my bike slid out. Please. Can you come help me?”
“Nope. Get up yourself.”
“I don’t know if-”
“Can you move your legs?”
“I, uh, I don’t know.”
She backed off another few feet, and said, “Do it. ’Cause I’m not helping you up.”
So much for the Nurse Nightingale instinct women were supposed to have. It struck him that he may have misjudged his target. He had anticipated the lesbo thing might hold unexpected twists, but such a chilling lack of compassion unnerved him.
He let loose a few anguished snorts and grunts as he pushed himself up with his arms, and drew his legs under him. She was ten feet away, but he was quick and strong. If he could get enough balance and traction, he’d be on her before she could blink.
He stole one more glance at her before he made his move- and froze. Her right hand was no longer inside her fanny pack. It hung in front of her crotch, a snub-nosed. 38 Special in her grip, not pointed at him specifically, just held there, casually, barrel pointed down.
He straightened up, and brushed dirt off his shirt and legs.
She said, “Can’t be that bad, buddy. No blood.”
He looked up. “I, uh, I came down on my head. I think I was knocked out there for a minute or two.” He added, “Say, is that a gun?”
“Could be. How you feeling now?”
“Crappy.” He moved his arms and stretched his legs, rotating his joints, as though checking for damage. “First time I ever took a spill.”
“The price of bein’ a dumbass.” She added, “You were going too fast. Dirt trails, you don’t go over fifteen. You sped by me, I’ll bet, doing twenty.”
God, she was preachy and nasty. Little wonder they kept her away from juries. He said, “Yeah, guess you’re right.” He affected a frightened expression and again asked, “That, uh… is that a gun in your hand?”
“Yeah, it’s a gun. Ain’t made of plastic, either.”
“You’re not planning on shooting me, are you?”
“Depends.” She chuckled. “Behave, and we shouldn’t have any problems.”
“No kidding?”
“Lotta sicko assholes around. You never know.”
He shook his head. “Yeah, well, you know you don’t have to worry about me.”
He saw her eyes taking him in, but distinctly not a look of sexual fascination-a cold physical assessment. He was wearing skintight biker’s tights and a sleeveless shirt, and she would not be at all reassured by the sight of him. He was nearly six foot four, with broad, corded shoulders, thick arms, and legs that were carved with muscle. He looked like a middle linebacker.
She took another step back and asked, “And how do I know I don’t have to worry about you?”
“Because I’m… well, I’m gay. Sorry, you’re just not my type.”
“Gay, huh?”
“Hey, it’s not a crime.”
She nodded. “Nope, not a crime.” She pointed her jaw in the direction of his bike. “You go make sure it’s not broken.”
“Good idea.” He walked over and hefted it up. “You ever take a spill?”
“Once or twice.” She paused. “Not since I was four years old, though.”
Bitch. He lifted the bike in the air, bounced the tires on the ground, and pretended to study the frame. “Guess I was pretty stupid, huh?”
“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 muscul
ar 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.”
“What?”
“She’s nuts. I’m riding along and I move up to pass her and she kicked me over. Could’ve killed me. Hurt like hell.”
Anne said, “Shut up.” Then to the stranger, “He’s lying. He faked a spill. He is the L. A. Killer.”
The newcomer studied him. Mike shrugged his big shoulders and shook his head at
the sheer absurdity of the charge. “Bullshit. Complete bullshit. You know how women around here are right now. She’s completely paranoid.”
Anne was shaking her head, like she really didn’t need this crap. She said, “Nice try, you murdering asshole. You’re gonna fry.”
Mike said, “See what I mean, man? The lady’s gone over the edge. For Godsakes, please, see if you can talk some sense into her.”
The newcomer appeared completely clueless. “I… uh… Christ, I’ve got no idea what’s going on here.”
Mike said, “Shit, look at me, man. You’ve heard the description of the L. A. Killer, right? It’s all over TV and the radio. Short and stocky, with a ponytail, right? Do I look short and stocky? Where’s my ponytail?”
The young man turned toward Anne and said, “It’s true. The description’s all over the news. Like he said.”
She faced him. “I don’t give a shit. This is the guy.”
“Did he attack you?” the man asked, making no effort to disguise his skepticism.
“Not yet. But only ’cause I didn’t give him the chance.”
Mike’s hands got a hard grip on the crossbar of his bike. The young man said to Anne, “Well, if he didn’t attack you, how can you be so sure?”
Anne was becoming flustered. “I just know. I thought he’d come for me, and this is him.”
“You thought he’d come after you?”
The young man and Anne were now facing each other.
Anne had just opened her mouth to explain, when suddenly Mike’s bike flew through the air, an ill-shaped javelin hurtling straight at her. She turned and threw up her arms, but the twenty-four-pound rocket crashed into her torso and face.
Mike came right behind it. He leaped across the path and dove straight for the pistol. Her arm was trapped under the bike and he pried the gun out of her fist then bashed her forehead with it.
The newcomer was yelling, “Hey, man, take it easy! You don’t have to do that!”
He threw the pistol aside. Anne was stunned and moaning, and he climbed off her. He began walking toward the biker, saying, “Look, man, she gave me no choice. The chick could’ve shot me or something.”
“Yeah, but-”
“No buts.” Mike shook his head. “She’s crazy. Jesus, I was scared.”