“I’m sorry,” Ben said to her. He thought he was going to vomit from fear and pain. The knife felt sturdy and sharp enough to decapitate him.
“What are you sorry for?” Jackie said. “I killed her.”
Blood splashed out of the meat of Ben’s arm; sudden, bone-deep pain bloomed bright in his flesh. They hurried through the front door. Jackie shoved Ben across the yard. He staggered, kept his balance. He had to get away. But Jackie was as tall as he was, heavier with muscle, and several years younger. Ben was sure he could not straight-out beat him in a physical fight, especially with a wounded arm, and Jackie had the knife and a gun.
So rattle him. Get him off guard. He became aware of resolve settling into his skin. Odd—a day ago he would have been frozen in panic; now fear was a luxury. “My arm . . .”
“Shut up your whining.”
“My arm . . .” Ben faltered again, falling into the turned earth of the un-sodded lot next door to Delia’s house. A “FOR SALE” sign stood in front of him, sporting a stylized logo of a rose. The realtor’s name was Rosie. Cute.
“On your feet,” Jackie said and Ben closed his fingers into the loose dirt. Jackie grabbed his hair again and yanked, baring Ben’s throat.
Ben threw the dirt over his head, dusting Jackie’s face and eyes. He pushed hard back into Jackie, catching the knife between them. Jackie yelled, his hands going to his eyes, staggering at the push.
The cloud of grit caught Ben’s eyes, too, but Jackie got the worst of it. Ben yanked on the Rosie Realtor sign. It pulled free from the soil and he swung it hard into the blur of Jackie’s face. The flat of the sign connected with Jackie’s jaw and cheek with a satisfying thrum. He swung again and knocked Jackie to the ground.
Ben already had one bullet wound; down from loss of blood, he couldn’t risk losing to Jackie in a fight. So he dropped the sign and ran, clawing the dirt from his eyes.
Jackie spat in rage and frustration. He swung the knife hard where he thought Ben was, the razor-sharp edge hissing through the empty air. He pawed one-handed at the blinding grit, trying to clear his vision.
Ben stayed low, running for his car. He shoved his bloody hand into his pants, fingers findng his keys.
Jackie’s hand closed around the weight of his pistol. He fired, aiming at the sound of retreating footsteps, and Ben heard the crack of the shot pressing just wide of his shoulder.
Ben reached his car, got in, hunkered low as he started the engine.
In the rearview he could see Jackie running toward him, wiping his eyes, vision clearing. Jackie paused to sheathe the knife under his pants leg and then, blinking, fired the gun at the purr of the engine’s ignition. The bullet dinged the Explorer’s bumper.
Ben floored the car in a peal of rubber. He veered away from the curb and Jackie’s next shot almost got lucky, starring the rearview mirror on the driver’s side.
Ben pressed the accelerator hard against the floor. The Explorer— graceless, then finding its speed—roared down the street. A stop sign stood at the end of the street but Ben accelerated, took the turn hard, a police car honking at him as it slammed on its brakes. The development was all new, curving streets and cul-de-sacs and circles, and the wrong turn would leave him no place to go.
Wiping grime from his eye and steering with his elbow—his right arm hurt as though a lit match had been jammed under the skin—Ben saw, in the rearview, the police car closing in on him. Perhaps someone had heard the sounds of shots inside Delia’s house. He weighed stopping, telling the officer everything, and started to slow down. The police car came close behind him.
But then, revving up behind the cop, came a black Mercedes, sleek as night.
He couldn’t stop now; Jackie would kill both him and the officer. He gunned the engine and arced away from the curb as the Mercedes revved, accelerating with its much more powerful engine.
The Mercedes caught up with the police cruiser and Jackie poured gunfire. He still couldn’t see well and the spray mercifully hit tires instead of flesh. The police car screeched to a stop. The officer fumbled for a weapon, got out, and aimed at the Mercedes.
I’m not sure I can outrace him, Ben thought, and he slammed hard into a left turn. Jackie stayed close. Ben thought of all the car chases he’d ever seen in movies. Always on highways, or in urban cores, with lots of options to turn and nip and evade, the cars dancing with the cameras to delight the audience. But this terrain was gently rolling prairie shaped into newborn suburbia. He had no place to hide. There were new houses and half-built houses and empty lots. He was going to die on these newly minted streets.
The road curved, dead ending, and Ben took the turn hard enough that he felt the Explorer’s wheels lift and crash back to ground.