Go back to the car!

Where was the car?

Moisture poured off her forehead.

She turned around, heels going clack, clack, clack, clack…

Noises followed her.

She stopped cold in her tracks.

Silence.

She continued on, then heard the foreign noises again.

Little pat-pat noises. Rubber-soled shoes-like rodents scurrying in the attic.

Again she stopped.

And so did the noises.

What to do! What to do!

Julian!

Son of a bitch!

This time he was going to get her.

Or so he thought!

She willed herself to breathe slowly, rubbed her hands together.

She took a few steps forward.

Clack, clack, clack, followed by pat, pat, pat.

She stopped walking.

So did he.

She pivoted around.

Nothing to see. Nothing to hear. A quiet night except for the rapid inhalations of her own breathing. Slowly she made out distant echoes.

A few more steps.

She stopped, jerked her head over her shoulder. Saw nothing but dewy air.

Kept walking.

More footsteps behind her.

She started running.

So did he.

Footsteps keeping pace with her, stalking her. Louder, harder, closer. Panic seized her body.

Don’t turn around. Don’t let the bastard see your fear.

And then the absurdity hit her.

Your fear?!

You’re letting the bastard make you feel fear?!

Slowly, her right hand reached for her revolver, icicle-hard fingers gripping the butt of the gun.

With shaking hands, she retracted it from her jacket.

This is for you, you bastard!

No more!

Trembling so hard, she almost dropped to her knees.

No more, no more, no more!

End it all, Dana!

Right now!

Here!

At this moment!

No more running!

No more hiding!

No more fear!

Skidding to a stop, she swung around on her heels, gun grasped in a professional two-handed hold.

Shouting, “Freeze, you filthy bastard!”

But he didn’t freeze!

Immediately, the air spewed forth hot white lights. Like bursts from firecrackers, except it wasn’t the Fourth of July. Deafening shots ringing in the air, exploding in her head!

Still, the bastard kept coming at her!

Falling at her!

His mouth open-frozen into a horrific silent scream.

Blood pouring from his gullet.

Crying out as he lunged helplessly toward her, hitting her chest, knocking her backward. A dull thud as he hit the ground facedown. Dana could hear the crunch of facial bones smashing against the hard pavement.

Dana screamed-a helpless siren that was heard by no one. Staggering to keep her balance, seeing tiny pinpoints of light.

Don’t faint, she pleaded with herself. Don’t faint!

Breathing hard and deeply, eyes intently focused on the corpse lying at her feet. Her fingers were still gripped around a trigger.

A simple death wasn’t enough for the years of abuse he had inflicted on her.

Aiming the barrel toward the crumpled body.

Pressing the trigger harder and harder.

Take that, you slimy bastard!

Take that, and that, and that!

But the gun refused to spit fire.

Jammed!

But how could that…

Then her brain spun into overdrive as her eyes noticed the reason why.

The safety catch was still on.

The gun hadn’t jammed.

The gun never went off!

Then how did she… how could…

Eyes drifting upward from the body to the erect figure in front of her.

Julian!

A smoking gun at his side. An evil smirk on his face.

In the still midnight mist, his soft-spoken words screamed derision inside her head.

“Just can’t survive without me, can you, Dana?”

He started walking toward her.

“Gun can’t help you if you don’t have the guts to use it. And you don’t have the guts, do you?”

His mocking smile widening as he came closer.

“Lucky for you, I was around. Otherwise, you’d have been turned into hamburger by Mr. Shit over there.”

Julian kicked the body, moved another step closer to her.

“Speak, my love,” he crooned. “A simple thank-you would be sufficient.”

Tears pouring from her eyes, streaming down her face, Dana whispered out a sob-choked thank-you.

Julian’s expression softened, but his smug smile remained.

“I’ll always be around for you, Dana,” he whispered. “Always. Because I love you. I can’t escape you, Dana. And you can’t escape me, either.”

She nodded.

Julian fell to his knees. “It’s never too late, my beautiful lover. Come back to me. Come back to where you belong.”

He stood, then raised his arms, ready to accept her embrace.

She raised her arms.

Unlocking the safety, she pumped six rounds of fiery lead into his body.

He died with the smirk still on his face.

At the eulogy, Dana spoke of his extraordinary valor. How he had saved her from a sick and deranged man with evil on his mind. Through molten gunshots and powder-choked air, in a moment’s flash of unthinking selflessness, he had risked his life to save hers. Managing to squeeze off enough rounds to end her attacker’s life before succumbing to his own mortal wounds. And because of his superhuman act, her life was spared while his own life had ended. His years… cut short… in his prime… just because of one man’s treacherous deeds.

The funeral was crowded. His mother cried bitterly. His sisters wept and wept. It seemed that all the neighbors had come out to pay their last respects. Everyone attending the ceremony knew his history. Yet they were all more than a little puzzled by Dana’s flowery words, her effusive commendations and praises.

And so it came to pass that Eugene Hart, a twenty-two-year-old felon with a long and notorious history of brutal violence and rape, was put to rest with a hero’s burial.

with Jesse Kellerman

“Mummy and Jack”-an acid fable centered on a peculiar mother and son-is the product of my first collaboration with my son, Jesse. A novelist as well as a playwright, Jesse has infused the story with his own unique brand of dark humor, a trait shared by his father and mother. This just goes to show that a twisted mind can be a genetic endowment.

When I was small, mummy would say, if ye’re a good boy, then I will tell ye a bedtime story. But now she cannot because she is too sick. The time has come now that I must take care of her and not the other way around. I must do things for Mummy. I must get Mummy her medicine and buy her spirits. I must bring Mummy her supper every night. Yet she is not yet so sick and old that she cannot tell me what to do. She has her opinions.

Lately, this has become more of a problem because I want (and she wants me to also, I think) to court a lass or two, and I must bring the lass home to have a proper introduction. Sometimes Mummy makes this very difficult. Her opinions. They are very strong opinions. I am, however, a proper-raised gentleman, and I have been educated in the way that makes me respect Mummy even if her opinions are extremely particular and particularly strong. I always do my best to make her happy.

Sometimes I do wish for a bedtime story, though.

A couple of weeks ago, I decided to go out for a stroll at night. I groomed my mustache. Mummy likes my mustache, and she tells me that I look very right and handsome. I like it when I please her. I straightened my freshly starched waistcoat, then I took my cane, my cloak, and some other things. I did not think it was late in the evening, but Mummy heard me opening the door.

Jack! she called to me.