The Torino’s windshield wipers slapped away wet late-night fog as Colleen turned right on Vermont, her ears still buzzing with the ravages of the band with no name. It was well past two thirty in the a.m.
Her head swam with the drinks people had bought her, and the kiss Steve had planted on her in the alley behind The Pitt that went on for delicious seconds.
“Fancy comin’ back to my place, love?” he whispered, holding her in a warm clinch. His eyes crinkled.
As tempting as it was, she needed some alone time. To process.
“Not tonight,” she said.
“Fair enough. But I’m holding you to a rematch.”
“Play your cards right and we’ll see,” she said, winking.
Now she drove by the front door of her apartment building.
And then she noticed, with a start, the white van, parked across the street.
No.
No.
Her patience disappeared. She stopped the car, middle of the street, the motor running while she fished around under the dash, grabbed the gym sock that contained the Bersa. Freshly loaded.
The light pistol had killed at least one man and now felt much heavier in her hand as she flung open the driver’s door and climbed out in her miniskirt, gun down by her side.
Her platform shoes clomped on the asphalt as she crossed Vermont in a diagonal, heading for the white van. The windshield was smeared with moisture but behind the wheel she could make out a figure in a dark jacket, wearing some sort of hat.
She got closer.
He was wearing a knit cap. The same man as before.
He sat up, mouth open when he saw her coming straight for the front of the van.
The engine fired up, coughing moisture. The windshield wipers cuffed away two sister arcs, revealing a man in his late twenties, early thirties.
He moved to put the van into gear.
She stopped in front of it, brought the gun up, pointed it directly at the windshield, straight into his frozen face.
“If you move,” she said, loud enough that he could hear her over the engine, through the glass, “I fire.”
He put the gearshift back into neutral.
“Put your hands up where I can see them,” she growled.
His hands went up.
“Turn the engine off with one hand,” she said. “Then get out of the van.”
“You’re insane!” he shouted.
“Yep,” she said, moving the gun to the center of the windshield, away from his head, squeezing off one shot. The pop was followed by a small, neat hole punched through the glass. The rearview mirror shattered. He flinched as glass tinkled around the inside of the cab.
It only got easier, she realized.
“Hands up,” she said. “Up! Up! Up!”
He did. They trembled.
“Get out of the van,” she said. “Now.”
The van door creaked open. He stepped out. She held the gun on him, moving between the parked van, onto the sidewalk.
“I’m unarmed,” he said, shaking visibly. “Unarmed!”
He was heavy and wore orange baggy silk pants that ballooned at the ankles. He had sandals on his big feet.
“What?” she said, surprised, realizing where he’d come from. “Lose the hat.”
He pulled the knit hat off with a shaking hand. His head was shaved.
“You’re from Moon Ranch,” she said. The commune in Point Arenas. Where Pamela was staying. She’d joined the sect and Colleen had been issued a restraining order when she tried to intervene.
“Please don’t shoot.”
“What are you doing here, watching me?”
“Aadhya,” he stammered.
Aadhya was Pamela’s name at Moon Ranch.
“Her name is Pamela,” Colleen said. “Pamela.”
“Sure,” he said. “Sorry.”
“What about Pamela?” Colleen said.
“She’s gone. Ran away.”
A bolt hit Colleen, running up her spine. Her daughter, once brainwashed, had finally run. Yes.
“And you’re looking for her,” Colleen said. “And you thought she’d come here.”
“Yes.” He gulped. “I was only following instructions.”
“That’s why you’ve been watching me. To see if she came home.”
He nodded quickly.
“When did Pamela run away?”
A jolt of excitement flowed through Colleen’s guts.
Pamela. Pamela was free.
Colleen lowered the gun.
“Okay,” she said. “Leave. Go.”
He jerked in surprise. “Okay.”
“But tell your masters if I see any of you again, I won’t be so kind.”
“Yes,” he said. “Thank you. Thank you.”
He hopped back in the van, heaved the door shut, fired up the engine. She stood up on the curb as he threw the vehicle into gear, cut the steering wheel tight, peeled out into the street in a taut 180, squealed off down Vermont, skidding. Then gone.
Colleen stood there, ears still buzzing, gun by her side.
Free. Pamela was free.