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.”