Then something hit me.

Smash.

I’d turned a corner, and faced empty street.

I’d looked left. I’d looked right.

I should’ve looked behind me.

The plumber had ducked into a driveway.

Then ducked out.

It was like one of those Looney Tunes cartoons. Elmer Fudd furiously chasing the wabbit until positions suddenly reverse the way they magically do in cartoons-and poor gun-toting Elmer’s pumping away with Bugs hot on his tail.

Only it wasn’t a rabbit chasing me, and if anyone was toting a gun, it was him.

Smash.

He jolted my back bumper again, once, twice, then hard enough to actually propel me into the dash.

My chin hit the top of the steering wheel; my head snapped back.

I felt the wine coming up, the vermicelli alfredo.

I couldn’t stop.

If I stepped on the brake, he was going to end up in my front seat.

I could see that blackened shell on Highway 45. It was me.

I floored the gas, resisting checking the speedometer, thinking that the actual number might scare me, not wanting to take my eyes off an increasingly blurry road. Once or twice, we sped past other cars, but they seemed like stage props, seemingly frozen in place. I caught one face registering astonishment and outright fear.

It was mutual.

The plumber smacked me again. I felt a pain shoot up my spine as my car whiplashed right, clipping a curb.

Then again-harder this time, one hand stuttering off the wheel, as the car shimmied left.

This is what it feels like when you’re about to be trampled.

This is what it feels like to have something brutish and unstoppable stepping on your heels.

There’s nowhere to go.

You can’t stop; you can’t turn right or left.

You can only try to outrace it.

Until you can’t.

I flew around a corner where the road suddenly widened out and structures disappeared.

I knew where we were.

The service road that passes two billboards: Spex in the City, the eyeglass store on Main, and Binions Casino, with three 40DDD showgirls in glittering sequins luring me to possible salvation.

The open highway.

If I could make it onto the highway, I had a chance.

I gunned the engine; I said a prayer.

I didn’t see the police-car lights come on until they were suddenly flashing in my rearview mirror.

“WHAT THE FUCK YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING, LUCAS?”

The first words out of Sheriff Swenson’s mouth.

I told him what I was doing, suffused with the gratitude of the suddenly rescued.

“What pickup?” he said.

He was standing outside the driver’s-side door shining a blinding flashlight into my eyes, making me feel less grateful and more as if I were in the middle of an interrogation. All that was missing was the rubber truncheon.

“The blue pickup that was right behind me,” I said. “The one with the man who broke into my house and beat me up.”

“Pickup?” Sheriff Swenson said. “What are you talking about? I didn’t see any pickup.”

Which was about when I felt it. That insidious chill that travels up your legs when you’re standing in a stifling-hot room in dripping-wet socks. You just know you’re going to be really sick.

“How’s that possible? It was five feet behind me.”

“Get out of the car.”

The headlights from Swenson’s cruiser illuminated a reject from Demolition Derby. The front fender was smashed in; there were jagged streaks of odd color crisscrossing the passenger door. The back bumper had two formidable dents.

“I caught him trying to break into my house again. Then he tried to run me off the road,” I said.

“Uh-huh,” Swenson said. “You said the pickup was blue?”

Blood will tell, but so will Apple Red from Earl Scheib, clearly the color tattooed into my passenger door.

“Been playing bumper cars, Lucas?”

“Okay, yeah, I might’ve clipped someone.”

“Looks like several someones. Care to walk a straight line for me.” It wasn’t a question. “Go ahead, Lucas, any direction you’d like.”

“I told you, he was actually trying to rob my house again. He tried to run me off the road. He could’ve killed me.”

“Take a walk for me, okay, Lucas?”

“No problem.”

I was hoping that was actually true-that it wouldn’t be a problem.

That I’d walk a straight line, and keep walking, back into my car and out of trouble. I could do that-navigate the shortest distance between two points-couldn’t I?

Maybe not.

It’s hard to execute an everyday physical action when your personal freedom depends on it. I’d never paid attention to the actual physics of placing one foot ahead of the other. Tricky business.

I teetered, wobbled, overcompensated, and listed right.

Still, I managed to make it ten whole feet without actually falling on my face. Then I turned around with rapidly dwindling assuredness and started back.

I went over.

Something had tripped me.

Or someone.

I didn’t realize it was Swenson’s black boot until my head smacked the ground and he placed the boot directly on the back of my neck.

TWENTY-TWO

Luiza needed to come in and clean my motel room.

So she’d proclaimed in broken English through the crack of my motel door.

This was sometime yesterday.

She’d appeared to be by her lonesome. I say appeared to be, since my peripheral vision was dangerously restricted by the eyehole in the door. I could see Luiza, all right. I could see her vacuum and blue pail and linen cart.

I couldn’t see what was waiting on either side of her.

“Pleeeeeze… Meeester Vallee…” Luiza said. “Iz been two weeks.”

Had it been that long?

Two weeks?

Maybe.

There were scattered beef jerky wrappers around the room. Empty cracker boxes. Yellowed newspapers. Several houseflies dive-bombing half-empty cans of Fresca. My clothes, what remained of them, were thrown around a threadbare carpet. My shades were drawn tight.

“Pleeeze… Meester Vallee…” Luiza again.

To open, or not to open?

She seemed genuine. On the other hand, how did I know what genuine sounded like coming out of Luiza’s mouth? There was the whole accent thing to deal with. Genuineness could get lost in translation.

Still. If I didn’t let her in to clean soon, she was liable to get the manager to intercede on her behalf.

Me and my friends, Smith and Wesson, weren’t desirous of company just now.

I patted the bulge in my right pants pocket, took a deep breath, let the latch off.

I stepped back into the center of the room.

“Okay, Luiza. Come in.”

The door opened as if in slow motion. A second or two later, Luiza’s head peeked through the crack.

It’s possible she was as apprehensive as I was. She’d probably been wondering what awaited her on the other side of the door. Or was it something else? Maybe she knew exactly what awaited her-had been prepped and primed.

He’ll be standing back from the door to protect himself. He’ll be armed and dangerous. But don’t worry-so are we.

I whispered hello to Mr. Smith, assured Mr. Wesson that we were, in fact, locked and loaded.

Luiza’s little body followed her head though the door.

She averted my eyes, turned around, and began pulling the linen cart into the room. Sunlight shot past her shoulder, illuminated the twisted bedsheets and jumbled clothing, the litter fest that had become home.

I danced a few steps to my right, in an effort to improve my sight line. The dazzling sun felt like splinters of glass.

The first rule of guerrilla warfare is what?

Try to catch them with their eyes to the sun.

I rushed past her, slammed the door, and relocked the latch.