Racing the Devil by Jaden Terrell

panicked sheen.
    I took a slow, deep breath and tried to sound calm and congenial. “Ma’am, I’m—”
    “I know who you are,” she said. “I saw you on the news. What are you doing here?”
    “I’m investigating Mrs. Hartwell’s murder.”
    “Liar! I could blow you away right now, and not a soul would blame me.” The weapon bobbled slightly. My bowels clenched.
    “Ma’am, that may be true. But until the prosecutor proves me guilty, I have the right to try and clear myself.”
    Her mouth twisted. “Not here, you don’t. Not in this neighborhood. If you’re not out of here in ten seconds, you won’t have to worry about going back to jail.”
    I tried to look nonchalant as I backed slowly down the porch steps. I suppose I could have gone for the Colt, but there was no point getting into a gunfight if I could help it. Besides, a shootout in real life is nothing like a shootout in the movies. The bad guys don’t always miss, and the good guys aren’t bulletproof. Just my luck, the crazy bitch would shoot me, and then where would
    I be?
    The barrel of the gun followed me. “If you step foot in my yard again,” the woman said through gritted teeth, “I’ll kill you.”
    I noted the name on the mailbox as I left—L. Falcone—and sauntered toward my car as if I didn’t give a moment’s thought to her and her 9mm. There was an itch between my shoulder blades where I half expected to feel the impact of a bullet. I’ve known guys who say being shot doesn’t hurt at first. It’s only later that it feels like someone’s set your flesh on fire. Others say it hurts like hell. I don’t know which is right, or what determines which way it happens.
    Adrenaline, maybe.
    The arrow in my chest had hurt a lot, though. I had no desire to add a bullet wound for comparison.
    The house I’d parked in front of was a gray stone cottage with a peaked and gabled roof. What my mother used to call a gingerbread house.
    Glancing back, I saw that Ms. Falcone had vanished back into her lair. What the hell, I thought. Live fast, die young. I turned up the walkway to the cottage and knocked on the front door.
    At first, I thought I’d struck out for the umpteenth time.
    Instead, the door cracked open and an odd, persimmon-shaped face with a wide, thin-lipped mouth, small bump of a nose, and eyes like oversized black currants peered out. An unruly mass of white hair, most of which had been twisted into a loose bun, gave her the look of a finely coifed cotton-top marmoset. The top of her head barely reached my chest.
    “Yes?” Her reedy voice hardly carried across the porch.
    “Good afternoon, Ma’am,” I said. “I’m . . .” I looked into those wizened eyes and faltered. “I’m investigating the murder of your neighbor, Amy Hartwell.”
    “Are you a policeman?”
    “No, Ma’am,” I said. Impersonating a policeman is against the law. “I’m a private investigator.” “Let me see your license.”
    I showed it to her, not flashing it as if I had something to hide, but not leaving it out for her to linger over.
    “McKean.” Her dark eyes glittered with something that might have been fear, but her voice never wavered. “Isn’t that the name of the man the police think killed her?”
    Brave. Spunky. I liked her immediately, with her little monkey face and her bright eyes. “Yes, Ma’am,” I said. I am a reasonably good liar, but not to little old women who look like somebody’s great-grandmother. “They think I did it. But I didn’t, and that’s why I’m here. To prove that. I don’t mean anybody any harm, Mrs. . . .”
    “Drafon. Birdie Drafon.”
    “I don’t mean you any harm, Mrs. Drafon. I just want to find out what happened to Mrs. Hartwell and why whoever did it wanted me to get the blame.”
    I didn’t have to try to look sincere. I meant every word. Mrs. Drafon looked at me with those black currant eyes as if she could see clear into my soul and said, “Of course, dear. Come right in.”

I