Or did they?
She was seeing things.
A turn to her left, something darted out of sight.
Her imagination playing head games.
Stop it! she ordered herself.
She began to sweat, clay-cold fingers now slippery wet. She rubbed clammy fingers on her skirt. Looked all around.
Go back to the car!
Where was the car?
Moisture poured off her forehead.
She turned around, heels going clack, clack, clack, clack…
Noises followed her.
She stopped cold in her tracks.
Silence.
She continued on, then heard the foreign noises again.
Little pat-pat noises. Rubber-soled shoes-like rodents scurrying in the attic.
Again, she stopped.
And so did the noises.
What to do! What to do!
Julian!
Son of a bitch!
This time, he was going to get her!
Or so he thought!
She willed herself to breathe slowly, rubbed her hands together.
She took a few steps forward.
Clack, clack, clack followed by pat, pat, pat.
She stopped walking.
So did he.
She pivoted around.
Nothing to see. Nothing to hear. A quiet night except for the rapid inhalations of her own breathing. Slowly she made out distant echoes.
A few more steps.
She stopped, jerked her head over her shoulder. Saw nothing but dewy air. Kept walking. More footsteps behind her. She started running. So did he.
Footsteps keeping pace with her, stalking her. Louder, harder, closer. Panic seized her body.
Don't turn around. Don't let the bastard see your fear.
And then the absurdity hit her.
Your fear?!
You're letting the bastard make you feel fear?!
Slowly, her right hand reached for her revolver, icicle-hard fingers gripping the butt of the gun.
With shaking hands, she retracted it from her jacket.
This is for you, you bastard!
No more!
Trembling so hard, she almost dropped to her knees.
No more, no more, no more!
End it all, Dana!
Right now!
Here!
At this moment!
No more running!
No more hiding!
No more fear!
Skidding to a stop, she swung around on her heels, gun grasped in a professional two-handed hold.
Shouting, "Freeze, you filthy bastard!"
But he didn't freeze!
Immediately, the air spewed forth hot white lights. Like bursts from firecrackers except it wasn't the Fourth of July. Deafening shots ringing into the air, exploding in her head!
Still, the bastard kept coming at her!
Falling at her!
His mouth open-frozen into a horrific silent scream.
Blood pouring from his gullet.
Crying out as he lunged helplessly toward her, hitting her chest, knocking her backward. A dull thud as he hit the ground facedown. Dana could hear the crunch of facial bones smashing against the hard pavement.
Dana screamed-a helpless siren that was heard by no one. Staggering to keep her balance, her head seeing tiny pinpoints of light.
Don't faint, she pleaded with herself. Don't faint!
Breathing hard and deeply, eyes intently focused on the corpse lying at her feet. Her fingers were still gripped around a trigger.
A simple death wasn't enough for the years of abuse he had given her.
Aiming the barrel toward the crumpled body.
Pressing the trigger harder and harder.
Take that, you slimy bastard!
Take that, and that, and that!
But the gun refused to spit fire.
Jammed!
But how could that…
Then her brain spun into overdrive as her eyes noticed the reason why.
The safety catch was still on.
The gun hadn't jammed.
The gun never went off!
Then how did she… how could…
Eyes drifting upward from the body to the erect figure in front of her.
Julian!
A smoking gun at his side. An evil smirk on his face. In the still midnight mist, his soft-spoken words screamed derision inside her head.
"Just can't survive without me, can you, Dana?" He started walking toward her.
"Gun can't help you, if you don't have the guts to use it. And you don't have the guts, do you?"
His mocking smile widening as he came closer. "Lucky for you, I was around. Otherwise, you'd have been turned into hamburger by Mister Shit over there."
Julian kicked the body, moved another step closer to her. "Speak, my love," Julian crooned. "A simple thank-you would be sufficient."
Tears pouring from her eyes, streaming down her face. Dana whispered out a sob-choked thank-you.
Julian's expression softened, but his smug smile remained.
"I'll always be around for you, Dana," he whispered. "Always. Because I love you. I can't escape you, Dana. And you can't escape me either."
She nodded.
Julian fell to his knees. "It's never too late, my beautiful lover. Come back to me. Come back to where you belong."
He stood, then raised his arms, ready to accept her embrace.
She raised her arms.
Unlocking the safety, she pumped six rounds of fiery lead into his body.
He died with the smirk still on his face.
At the eulogy, Dana spoke of his extraordinary valor. How he had saved her from a sick and deranged man with evil on his mind. Through molten gunshots and powder-choked air, in a moment's flash of unthinking selflessness, he had risked his life to save hers. Managing to squeeze off enough rounds to end her attacker's life before succumbing to his own mortal wounds. And because of his superhuman act, her life was spared while his own life had ended. His years… cut short… in his prime… just because of one man's treacherous deeds.
His mother cried bitterly. His sisters wept and wept. The funeral was crowded. It seemed that all the neighbors had come out to pay their last respects. Everyone attending the ceremony knew his history. Yet they were all more than a little puzzled by Dana's flowery words, her effusive commendations and praises.
And so it came to pass that Eugene Hart, a twenty-two-year-old felon with a long and illustrious history of brutal violence and rape, was put to rest with a hero's burial.
The Things We Do For Love by JONATHAN KELLERMAN
Mashed spaghetti. Some things you could never prepare for.
It wasn't as if she and Doug were mega-yuppies but they both liked their pasta al dente and they both liked to sleep late.
Then along came Zoe, God bless her.
The sculptress.
Karen smiled as Zoe plunged her tiny hands into the sticky, cheesy mound. Three peas sat on top like tiny bits of topiary. The peas promptly rolled off the high chair and landed on the restaurant floor. Zoe looked down and cracked up. Then she pointed and began to fuss.
"Eh-eh! Eh-eh!"
"Okay, sweetie." Karen bent, retrieved the green balls, and put them in front of her own plate.
"Eh-eh!"
"No, they're dirty, honey."
"Eh-eh!"
From behind the bar, the fat dark waiter looked over at them. When they'd come in, he hadn't exactly greeted them with open arms. But the place had been empty, so who was he to be choosy? Even now, fifteen minutes later, the only other lunchers were three men in the booth at the far end. First they'd slurped soup loud enough for Karen to hear. Now they were hunched over platters of spaghetti, each one guarding his food as if afraid someone would steal it. Theirs was probably al dente. And from the briny aroma drifting over, with clam sauce.
"Eh!"
"No, Zoe, Mommy can't have you eating dirty peas, okay?"