My headlights swing over, and I finally see the man behind the wheel through his windshield. And the gun he’s holding up by his shoulder.

I scream and duck down below the level of the dashboard, slamming the accelerator to the floor and surging forward like a bat flying out of hell. The engine whines as the RPMs climb, so I slam the shifter into third gear, giving the car another few horses to run with as I race down the street in the other direction. I pray I’m going straight and not aimed for someone’s mailbox.

A loud crack comes to my ears and then there’s a bang against my door. It takes less than a second for me to put it all together. Felix starts barking at the same time I begin screaming. “Oh my god, he shot at me! He actually shot a gun at me, that asshole!”

I have to sit up so I can see to drive, but I hunch down as much as possible, praying my headrest will stop a bullet from entering my brain. I look like Quasimodo driving the getaway car in a bank robbery gone really wrong.

“If you shoot my dog, I will destroy you!” I roar, downshifting as I take a corner way too fast. Obviously this whole scenario has unbalanced me a bit. “Felix, get down out of that window, right now! Come here! Come, you mangy mutt!”

My tires squeal as I take the next turn that will get me out of this neighborhood and as far from my house as I can be. Felix’s claws scramble for purchase. When I hear his little body hit the floor of the back seat, I know he’s lost the battle. I’m happy he’s out of the line of fire though, so I keep going, throwing the car into fourth when I hit a straightaway.

When I bought my Chevy Sonic hatchback a few months ago, I thought I was being practical and responsible, but now, as it hugs the next corner and shoots off like a rocket in second gear, I give my thanks to the gods of General Motors that they had the good sense to put so many strong horses under this hood.

The distance between me and the maniac grows rapidly. After three more turns and me driving like I’m trying out for the Formula One circuit, I feel like I have enough time to pull out my phone and press the green button. It’s not the cops, but in my crazy panicked mind, it’s the next best thing.

A gruff voice answers. “This better be good,” it says.

“Are you the guy with the horrible beard?” I ask, my voice breathless and way too high. Felix whines. I’m probably hurting his sensitive ears, poor little guy.

“Come again?”

Good. He sounds confused. I’m happy to know I’m not the only idiot in the room.

“You’re the Bourbon Street guy, right? Well, I’m the bimbo with the dog from the bar, who’s not a bimbo by the way. I need your help. Again.”

“What’s going on?” He’s all seriousness now.

“Some guy followed me in his car and shot at me. With a gun.”

“Where are you?”

“I don’t know. I was going home, but then I noticed him following me, so I didn’t go home. I kind of got lost in this other neighborhood.”

“Good girl. Hang up. I’ll call you back.”

And just like that he’s gone. So much for my rescue party.

In between shifting from one gear to another and then one more, I glance at the phone a couple times. I don’t know what the hell just happened with The Beard, but I’m pretty sure I’m screwed now. Stupid penny-pinching me, I didn’t spring for the GPS when I bought my car, and so now I can’t find my way out of this suburban maze. And the guy who I thought could help me just disconnected my call.

Dammit! Why is this happening to me?!

My phone rings, the sound cutting through the haze of my panic. I answer, almost dropping the phone in my haste to put it to my ear.

“Hello!” I scream.

“Take a left at the next main street.” He’s way calmer than I am.

“Take a left . . .?” I hold the phone out and look at it for a second before putting it back to my ear. “What are you talking about?!”

“Take a left!” the voice roars.

I grab the wheel with both hands, the cell phone squashed against the leather wrapping, and yank to the left. A quick downshift has us powering down the street, now headed north if my dashboard’s digital compass is accurate.

“How do you know I had to take a left?” I can barely see straight, I’m huffing and puffing so much. My frantic respirations are making me dizzy. I look in my rearview mirror but see nothing but blackness. There’s a loud ringing in my ears. I think it’s my blood pressure about to explode my veins.

“I’m tracking your cell signal,” says the faint voice from my phone. “Take a right on Wilson Avenue.” The roar in my ears calms just a little.

The glowing white letters on a green background appear on a street sign above me. I barely have time to slow before I have to take the turn. My tires leave a little rubber behind.

“Keep going about a half mile until you get to Lincoln,” says my savior. “Take a left there.”

“Where are you guiding me?” I’m not one hundred percent sure that following these directions are the best option for me, but it’s the only option I can see clearly right now. My mind is in a blind panic.

“To my place. You’ll be safe here.”

When he says it in that slightly tired but soothing voice of his, I almost believe him, despite the beard.

CHAPTER FIVE

Twenty minutes later I’m driving up to a building in a somewhat questionable part of town, at the Port of New Orleans on the Mississippi River. Why am I not at a police station? Well, because I don’t know where one is. And I’m obviously crazy. I keep thinking that if I continue to drive around aimlessly, I’m going to aim myself right into that murderer’s arms. I need to find a safe haven. Why I think this bearded guy is my answer, I can’t say for sure. It just feels right. Righter than going home, righter than calling the cops, and definitely righter than going to my sister’s house.

“This can’t be right,” I say out loud.

I was talking to myself, but The Beard responds. “It’s right. I can see you outside the window. Drive inside.”

As he says that, a giant door attached to the warehouse in front of me starts to slide open. I don’t think it’s a person moving it manually, because it’s sliding too smoothly and there’s an electric whine coming from somewhere and making its way into my car through the crack in my window.

It’s humid out tonight, and I’d normally be using my air conditioner, but I needed to be able to hear the instructions I was being given over my cell’s speakerphone, so I left it off. Now I wish I’d just turned up the volume instead, because I’m sure there are sweat stains in my armpits and probably everywhere else too.

As I wait for the door to open wide enough to admit Felix and me, I wipe the sweat from my temples. I’ve probably lost about three pounds of water weight with all the freaking out I’ve done over the last half hour. I’m still not even sure I know what’s going on, although I have my suspicions. I’m guessing I got caught up in a drug deal gone bad or something like that. I just pray this guy with the beard isn’t the dealer. I don’t think he is.

I’m really not sure why I’ve let myself believe he’s one of the good guys. I should probably be more cautious and not just drive into his Batcave and let the door shut behind me. But he did try to save me when the bullets started flying. He could totally have left me there to be filled with holes. That has to mean something, right?

“I don’t think I’m going to drive in,” I say, looking to my left and right, trying to decide if I should just take off and find my way home. Or I could go to a hotel. That would be safe. Safer than this place, probably. This looks like a good spot to murder someone. No people around, relatively quiet. My murderer could start up a loud motor to cover the sound of my screams. Or maybe I wouldn’t have time to scream. Maybe it’d all be over in an instant.