It didn’t break the skin. He’d stopped his swing at the precise moment to avoid chopping off my head. I could almost feel the man staring at me through his mask, and then he lifted the blade out of the way and kicked me in the stomach. I collapsed onto my side, unable to believe that I was still the proud owner of a head.
The man returned his attention to Helen, now ready to slam the scimitar down like a spear. I dove at her again, and the tip of the blade scraped against my throat but still didn’t draw blood.
“Get out of the way,” he said. This time he wasn’t using the little-boy voice.
I grabbed the dull edge of the blade with both hands, keeping it pressed against my neck. For whatever reason, he was going out of his way not to kill me, and I was going to use that to my advantage.
Helen crawled forward out of immediate danger, and then twisted herself around so she could see what was happening. She gasped as she saw my predicament, which I’m sure looked like I was struggling to keep from getting stabbed rather than trying to hold the weapon in place.
“Get out of here!” I shouted. “Run!”
The man gave the blade a sharp tug, but I held on as tightly as I could. Unfortunately, there was just no way to maintain my grip, and with his second tug the blade slipped free.
His head rocketed back as Helen punched him in the face. It was an unbelievable punch, one that made me vow to stay on her good side for the rest of my natural life. The man stumbled backward a couple of steps but didn’t drop the scimitar.
“ Now run!” I shouted. “He doesn’t want to hurt me! He’s after you!”
I couldn’t be absolutely certain that was true, but it seemed like a safe bet. Helen took off running toward the car, while I charged at the man and slammed my elbow into his gut. He let out a groan and doubled over. I brought my fist down between his shoulder blades, knocking him to his knees.
Then I jumped back as he took a swing with the blade. It wasn’t a very fast swing, but I had to revise my theory about him being unwilling to hurt me. Maybe he wouldn’t sever my head, but perhaps a limb or two was at risk.
He pointed the blade of the scimitar at me, and then swung it again. I was well out of range, so it was meant to be intimidating rather than lethal. I was intimidated.
I glanced back at Helen, who opened the driver’s side door and reached inside. The lid of the trunk popped open. That’s exactly why I’d taken the keys in the first place…the trunk held the only thing in the vehicle that could pass for a weapon, besides Captain Hocker’s submarine torpedoes.
The man got to his feet. I might have been able to knock him back down before he sliced me in half, but I wasn’t certain enough about that to take the chance.
“Andrew!” shouted Helen. I held up my hand, and she tossed me the tire iron.
As it sailed through the air, it became obvious that this heavy object was much less likely to gracefully land in my hand than it was to bash in my skull, so at the last instant I stepped back out of the way and let it fall to the ground with a loud clatter.
The man stood there, his chest heaving as he breathed deeply. About five feet separated us. The tire iron was right in front of me.
“Is she really worth dying for?” the man asked.
“She has her moments.”
Right after I said it I realized that my smart-ass answer to his question was certainly going to reduce the likelihood of future passionate romps in our car, but that’s just the way my stupid mind works.
He pointed the scimitar at me. “I hope it won’t bother you to end up like your friends at the séance.”
“It probably will, but thanks for your concern.”
We stared at each other for a long moment. I was tensed and ready to grab the tire iron, but he looked ready to strike and I wasn’t sure I could beat him.
“Who are you, anyway?” I finally asked.
“You can call me the Headhunter.”
“Not a bad name.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you sure it hasn’t already been taken?”
The Headhunter shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. It doesn’t matter. Nobody who hears it gets to live long enough to look that up. So are we going do this or what?”
“I was waiting for you.”
“No, pick up your weapon. I’ll give you a shot at beating me. I love a good challenge. You’ve got to the count of three to grab it. One…”
I bent down for the tire iron.
The Headhunter turned and ran toward the car. Helen screamed. I cursed and snatched up the tire iron by the handle.
I saw Helen reach into the trunk. The Headhunter was almost upon her when she flung the car jack at him, smashing him in the face. He began to stagger toward me, free hand over his mask, drops of blood falling to the pavement.
I hurried forward, ready to deliver the final crushing blow, but the Headhunter tripped and fell. He lay on the pavement next to his scimitar and didn’t move.
My first instinct was to mosey on over there and whack him seventeen or eighteen times with the tire iron, perhaps asking a rhetorical question like “How does that feel, huh? Huh?” while I did so. But I wasn’t entirely convinced that he wouldn’t spring back to life before the first whack, so instead I gave his body a wide berth as I walked over to Helen.
She threw her arms around me. “Do you know this guy?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I was hoping you did.”
Seconds later, a sleek black car with tinted windows pulled around the planetarium and stopped behind my own less-than-sleek automobile. A short, heavyset man in a grey business suit got out of the passenger side and did a speedy waddle toward us. His movements sort of reminded me of those old toys called Weebles, which the commercials proclaimed would wobble but not fall down. When I was a kid I’d bet my next-door neighbor that I could get my Weeble to wobble and then fall down forever, but his mother had come in and canceled the bet before I had a chance to use the hammer.
“Is he dead?” he asked. “Did you kill him?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted.
“Oh God…oh God…oh God…” the man whimpered as he Weeble-walked over to where the Headhunter lay, wringing his hands nervously. Keeping a safe distance from the body, he knelt down and peered carefully at him.
A gentleman who looked exactly like the FBI agents in the movies-black suit, sunglasses at night, stone features, perfect hair-got out of the driver’s side.
“Why is the cavalry always late?” I asked. “You know, there’s this concept known as the nick of time that you might want to look into.”
“Please control yourself, sir,” said the gentleman. “I’m Thomas Seer, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He flashed his badge at me.
“He’s still breathing, I think,” said the heavyset man. “Thank God!”
“You’re right, it would be a shame for a stand-up citizen like him to die,” I said. “Think of all the children he has yet to teach the wonders of literacy.”
“You don’t realize what you’re involved in,” Thomas informed me, politely but firmly, “so I recommend that you keep the unprofessional comments to yourself.”
I rolled my eyes and put my arm around Helen. Thomas reached inside his suit and removed a pair of handcuffs.
“Watch yourself, he’s good with that sword,” I said. “And he’s probably faking. I wouldn’t go near him.”
Thomas motioned for the heavyset man to back away, which he did, and then began to slowly advance upon the Headhunter.
“I’m really serious,” I said. “At least give him a good blast of pepper spray first!”
“I have something even more effective.” Thomas took out a revolver and aimed it at the Headhunter.
“Sir, I have a.44 Magnum pointed at your head,” he announced. “This is the exact same weapon that Clint Eastwood as Dirty Harry uses, and while it can’t blow your head clean off as discussed in the first movie, it can unquestionably be fatal. If you are not really unconscious, I very highly recommend you admit to it and spare yourself some unpleasantness.”