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The rapist is mashing the gas pedal and the truck rockets off, fishtailing out onto the road. He heads east. I give the best heave I’ve got and flop into the bed, roll over. Draw my iron. I go to get my balance and the rapist is watching me in the rearview mirror, hands clamped on the steering wheel like he’s dangling from a cliff with only that wheel to keep him safe.
Sees the gun. Yanks the wheel. I hit against a sidewall, fight to not get thrown out. Gun moves. Yanks again. I drop to my knees, one hand holding the bed, the other swings up to the back of the truck bench.
He drives the vehicle right up and over a curb and right under the low hanging branch of a mighty oak. The force of the branch scraping along the truck’s roof squeals with angry metal losing its paint job. Branches to my face, the vivid scent of fresh leaves being torn. I duck; thrust the gun forward and just squeeze off a round.
The truck yanks again, hard. I roll, hit the sidewall. Gun comes out of my hand. I scramble for it, but those floating eyes in the rearview mirror see me. Slam on the breaks. I thrust forward, make eye contact.
I’ll regret it later but I punch through the sliding glass window, reach for him. He guns the engine. I grab a fistful of hair before I fall back. The hair gives before his skull does.
I rock back; hit my head on my own gun. Cut. Bleeding some. Shake the clinging hair from my fingers, grab the weapon. See those eyes. See ahead of us, how those eyes are so fixated on me they don’t see where the road up ahead makes a ninety-degree turn. He jumps the curb where the road doesn’t go, hits sand.
Those townhomes were two blocks from the beach. Hard to believe we’re only two blocks away from where this started.
The truck yaws, goes up on two wheels. I know what’s coming; don’t want any part of it. The sand has gnawed at the speed, and I dive like an Olympic swimmer right off the ass end of this thing. Hit hard. No breath. Roll with it, roll with it. Settle out.
Sand in my eyes, my nose, my mouth. Cough, look up. Truck flops sideways and stops sliding on the beach. The high tide reaches out and licks me wet. My gun ten feet in front of me. I try to get to my feet and it hurts. I go anyways. Feel the constrictor around my chest, not letting me breathe. I do it slowly, shoot a glance at my right fist as I make it over to the truck. Red. Punching the back windshield opened me up. Maybe broke my middle finger. I come around the truck.
Empty.
Footprints in the sand. Small but steady trickle of hot red around them. Across the street, I see his shirt disappear under an overpass.
Right into traffic.
Four busy lanes already zigzagged and jack knifed. Honking. Hear someone’s grill smash someone’s bumper. Across from me, the rapist. Back turned, running towards a gym. I check to make sure I’m not going to get blitzed by a soccer mom hurrying to the next karate lesson. I go through the traffic mess as fleet-footed as a laboring man like me can.
The rapist goes into the gym. I’m about fifty feet behind.
The blast of air conditioning hits; startles my skin into shock.
The front desk is staring. Some blonde gal, big tits and tight shirt, some dude, his pretty muscles spilling out of his polo. Perfect hair all around.
“Where did he go?”
The blonde stares absently like I just asked her what two plus two equals. The dude’s brain puzzles out what I am talking about, says, “The other guy?”
“No, you fucking meathead, Amelia Earhart,” I say, looking both directions. “Yes! The other sweaty, beat-up dude who busted through these doors ten seconds ago!”
The blonde points to my left. I go. Over my shoulder I say, “Call the cops. Say the guy from the murder/arson is here!”
I go past a wall of windows. Weights, cardio. A pool to my left. An aerobics studio where, by all appearances, a female instructor has just finished a class. She has a sheen of sweat, fiddling with the sound system.
A startled shout from up ahead. I go. Two other aerobics women look shocked. Mumbles, “What an asshole—” and then I show up.
“Where’s the asshole?”
The mumbler motions to the door beside her. Labeled WOMENS LOCKER ROOM. I hear one more muffled shout inside. I nod. “Makes sense, I guess.”
Look at the women; see how their eyes light up with that oh shit face when my iron appears from my suit coat. I’m sure this is the most real thing which has ever happened in their tennis club lives. “Go to the front. Cops are coming. Direct them back here.”
Push open the door, gun drawn.
Eight stalls with their doors shut and a massive running shower room.
This is a Revenge of the Nerds wet dream. The locker room door opens to a small anteroom, and that opens to the rows of shitters and four sinks. That opens to the showers. I imagine beyond them are lockers.
But all eight stall doors shut? And I smell something. Not sweat, not chlorine. Not the musty humidity of running hot water. Grime. Gutter hooch and grime.
Duck down, look for feet. One set of obvious woman’s feet and the far end, left side. Labored heart beat thudding in my temples. Try to control my ragged breathing. Burned the inside of my throat. Sandpaper inhales, acid exhales. Sweat has had time to react to the sixty-eight-degree temperature inside here. Clothes wet, torn. Can feel the way my socks are soaked and bunched between my toes. Eyes sting with runoff from my forehead. This isn’t how I want to clear a room.
