mentioned, I sometimes read too much into things.
But maybe not.
I walked over to Martha and informed her that she and her buddies could safely assume the Bermuda partnership would last the next two years.
She nodded and I went back to my corner and mulled this over.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Anne Carrol was pedaling furiously and he hung back about two hundred yards behind her. The temperature was perfect, low forties, no humidity, no breeze. Fifteen miles and he had worked up barely more than a light sweat. A splendid evening for a long bike ride, in his view. She was averaging just under fifteen miles an hour, and he was confident he could pour it on and catch her at will.
Thirty minutes before, she had parked on a side street near Georgetown University, unstrapped her silver Cannondale eighteen-speed from the rack on the rear of her Jeep Wrangler, and spent ten minutes limbering up. All stretched out, she headed west on the old canal towpath that borders the brown Potomac River. The canal and towpath had been landmarks of D. C. for nearly two hundred years. At one time food and provisions were loaded onto shallow barges and hauled into the city by horses and mules. The towpath had since been converted into a trail for runners and bikers that stretched to the west for nearly twenty miles.
Traffic along the path had been thinner than normal, the result, no doubt, of the swelling paranoia about the L. A. Killer. The few young women he’d observed were biking or jogging with male companions or in packs. They were taking no chances. The killer was out there, they knew, and hungry.
As he’d been convinced she would, Anne Carrol ignored the warnings. She was too pushy and stubborn to let a killer alter her life in any way. She likely believed that sex maniacs wouldn’t be interested in her or her type. Hetero girls get all that bad crap-the unwanted pregnancies, VD, and sex sickos. Lesbians were above all that.
She biked every Sunday evening, from March through December, till it got too cold and icy. He had trailed her the Sunday before, measured her tempo, studied the terrain, and plotted his takedown. Like the week before, she went at a leisurely pace for fifteen miles, hit her turnaround, and sprinted back.
They had hit that turnaround a mile back, and the time had come.
He glanced over his shoulder, saw nobody, and kicked up his speed to twenty. Inside three minutes, he had closed the gap to a hundred yards. He studied her back and pedaled harder. When he was thirty yards away she heard him coming. A brief glance over her right shoulder, no alarm on her face, and no change to her posture or pace. She courteously steered her bike to the left, giving him more room to pass on the right.
He drew alongside, she glanced at him, and he smiled, lifted his left hand for a friendly wave, and sped past. He kept pedaling furiously until he drew three hundred yards ahead of her. He went around a sharp bend in the trail, then squeezed hard on the brakes. The rear tire skidded out to the left and he put his right foot down to break the fall.
Anne Carrol came around the bend seconds later and had to steer hard to avoid a collision. His bike straddled the path, its tires spinning. Five yards away he was laid out, limp and still.
Anne pumped her brakes to a gradual stop. She climbed off her bike and looked back at him. He squeezed his eyes shut and stayed still.
He heard her mumble, “Oh shit,” then she walked her bike toward him.
“Hey,” she yelled. “You okay?”
No answer.
“Hey, can you hear me?”
She was drawing closer and he remained rigidly still. He would wait till she was within feet of him before he would act. Too much distance and she would jump back on her bike and speed away.
He could hear her heavy breathing and footsteps. She couldn’t be far and he emitted a soft groan so she’d know he was alive. Injured and desperately in need of swift help, but alive.
Twenty or so seconds passed and he groaned again. He had given her more than enough time. She should’ve been bending over him, checking his pulse, something.
He opened his eyes and lifted his head, affecting a severely pained expression. She stood back about seven feet, had her right hand inside her butt pack and was staring down at him.
He mumbled, “I’m hurt.”
“What happened?”
“My… uh, my bike slid out. Please. Can you come help me?”
“Nope. Get up yourself.”
“I don’t know if-”
“Can you move your legs?”
“I, uh, I don’t know.”
She backed off another few feet, and said, “Do it. ’Cause I’m not helping you up.”
So much for the Nurse Nightingale instinct women were supposed to have. It struck him that he may have misjudged his target. He had anticipated the lesbo thing might hold unexpected twists, but such a chilling lack of compassion unnerved him.
He let loose a few anguished snorts and grunts as he pushed himself up with his arms, and drew his legs under him. She was ten feet away, but he was quick and strong. If he could get enough balance and traction, he’d be on her before she could blink.
He stole one more glance at her before he made his move- and froze. Her right hand was no longer inside her fanny pack. It hung in front of her crotch, a snub-nosed. 38 Special in her grip, not pointed at him specifically, just held there, casually, barrel pointed down.
He straightened up, and brushed dirt off his shirt and legs.
She said, “Can’t be that bad, buddy. No blood.”
He looked up. “I, uh, I came down on my head. I think I was knocked out there for a minute or two.” He added, “Say, is that a gun?”
“Could be. How you feeling now?”
“Crappy.” He moved his arms and stretched his legs, rotating his joints, as though checking for damage. “First time I ever took a spill.”
“The price of bein’ a dumbass.” She added, “You were going too fast. Dirt trails, you don’t go over fifteen. You sped by me, I’ll bet, doing twenty.”
God, she was preachy and nasty. Little wonder they kept her away from juries. He said, “Yeah, guess you’re right.” He affected a frightened expression and again asked, “That, uh… is that a gun in your hand?”
“Yeah, it’s a gun. Ain’t made of plastic, either.”
“You’re not planning on shooting me, are you?”
“Depends.” She chuckled. “Behave, and we shouldn’t have any problems.”
“No kidding?”
“Lotta sicko assholes around. You never know.”
He shook his head. “Yeah, well, you know you don’t have to worry about me.”
He saw her eyes taking him in, but distinctly not a look of sexual fascination-a cold physical assessment. He was wearing skintight biker’s tights and a sleeveless shirt, and she would not be at all reassured by the sight of him. He was nearly six foot four, with broad, corded shoulders, thick arms, and legs that were carved with muscle. He looked like a middle linebacker.
She took another step back and asked, “And how do I know I don’t have to worry about you?”
“Because I’m… well, I’m gay. Sorry, you’re just not my type.”
“Gay, huh?”
“Hey, it’s not a crime.”
She nodded. “Nope, not a crime.” She pointed her jaw in the direction of his bike. “You go make sure it’s not broken.”
“Good idea.” He walked over and hefted it up. “You ever take a spill?”
