Halfway House by Weston Ochse Page A

of it as a handout. In a small way, maybe it was. But so what? She was doing well. With her mother gone, and her father newly found, she should be allowed to buy him a gift, especially one he’d use all the time, every day.
     A sound stopped her. She reached out and placed her hand on the hood of a Cadillac. Still warm, the metal grounded her, made her feel safe. Sirens from far away. A fog horn from the harbor. Wind through the leaves. From somewhere nearby she heard the muffled sounds of a TV. She looked around and saw living room light filtering through the grate of a latched screen door. Inside a man slouched on a sofa, staring toward a TV out of her sight.
    She’d gone a block before she heard it again. Click . Snap . She couldn’t figure out what it could be. Her heart climbed into her throat. She felt her breathing increase. She tried reasoning with her fear, but it wasn’t working. Halfway down the block, she spied her car.
    Click . Snap . There it was again. She whirled. No one was behind her. She heard more sirens from the docks. Cars revving their engines. Her own heartbeat.
    Click . Snap .
    She took off at a sprint. She had only about fifty yards to her car. As she ran she tried to root in her purse for her keys, but she couldn’t find them with all the stuff in her purse. She looked down. Just as she found the keys, her foot found an uneven chunk of concrete. She lost her balance and fell. Her hands, occupied, were unable to cushion her landing. Her face slammed into the sidewalk, pain exploding in her chin and cheek.
    She moaned through a mouth suddenly filled with blood and pushed herself to a sitting position. She’d felt like this once when she was eight and had fallen off her bike at full speed. She brought a hand to her face, but the area was still pulsing with adrenaline and swelling, so she couldn’t determine the extent of the injuries. She needed to get to a mirror. She needed to clean the wounds and see if they needed stitches.
    She pushed herself to her feet. What a miserable way to end the evening. She realized she was a little woozy. Her knee hurt. Looking down, she saw where she’d ruined her stockings. Blood ran from a ragged tear atop the knee.
    Miserable was an understatement.
    She took a shaky step, stumbled, and caught her balance on a tree. She was right across the street from her car. She took a moment to look back and saw a wizened Croatian she recognized as a man from the neighborhood walking down the sidewalk, slapping the side of a large flashlight. She watched as he thumbed the toggle. Click . Snap . And nothing happened. He cursed and tried again. Click . Snap . He smacked the side of the flashlight, then brought it up to his face and shook it hard. Still nothing.
    Suddenly Laurie felt pretty silly.
    She was glad no one she knew was here to see her.
    She stepped from the curb. To keep her balance, she kept her hand on the hood of a parked Camaro and used it to hold her weight until her knee stopped throbbing. When the pain began to subside, she stepped forward. Fishing in her purse for her keys, she let go of the hood and limped out into the street.
    Three steps later an El Camino thundered through her, catching her just above the knees. Her legs shattered. Her pelvis snapped as her body twisted counterclockwise. Her head whipped back on her neck, slamming her eyes shut. She never even had a chance to scream. By the time she began to ricochet down the street, she was already dead.
     
     
    *  *  *
     
     
    Bobby woke to a Mexican kid poking him in the chest.
    He’d ended up drinking a half a dozen more beers, then had tried to work his way back to Jap’s Cove. He’d only made it as far as Point Fermin Park before curling up on a bench where he dreamed of his father doing hula hoops with the girls of Blue Hawaii. When the kid poked him again, Bobby snapped his eyes open and growled.
    “He’s just a fucking wino, dude. This ain’t the guy,” the teenager said, one