Dead Past

headlights, pointing the gun at her. He was young, covered with soot, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen as though from crying. His hair hung in frosty wet ropes in his face. He was clad only in a flannel shirt and jeans. It was twenty degrees outside. He should have been shivering, but he wasn’t.
    In his left hand he still held the gun in the same sideways punk-ass position. His right arm, the origin of the blood, hung at his side. He tried to raise it, squinting his eyes as if trying to keep back the pain. He shook the gun at her and dipped his knees slightly, as though readying to jump up and down. The gesture made him look like a child beginning a tantrum. She started to duck, in case the gun went off. That was when she saw his right hand was missing.
    He started walking toward the passenger side of her car. Think fast. The car wouldn’t move on the ice, and he would probably shoot her if she tried. Even if she did manage to get the car moving, she knew better than to let him take her to another location. She couldn’t allow him in the car with her.
    Words were her only weapon. Diane swallowed hard and cleared her throat. OK, what words? Think fast, damn it. She couldn’t reason with him. A grievously wounded kid in pain holding a gun can’t be reasoned with.
    What then? What words would he respond to? He was almost to the passenger door when an idea hit her. She had to act quickly.
    He might listen to what he wanted to hear. She turned off the ignition, swung open her door, and stepped out of the car, almost slipping in the slush. She caught the door to keep from falling. They faced each other across the car’s snow-covered roof. He jabbed the gun in her direction, skimming it through the layer of snow on top of the car, releasing flakes into the air. She spoke before he could say anything.
    “You need help. Get in the backseat and hunker down so the police won’t see you.”
    “What?” He squinted his eyes and looked confused. “I’ll shoot you,” he said, slurring his words.
    Great, she thought, he’s probably drunk or on drugs, too. “Can you drive like that? You need me to drive. You need help.” She was very careful not to use any negative words in describing what he could or couldn’t do. Something she learned from her former boss, the diplomat.
    He stood staring at her for several moments. “I have a gun,” he said, as if she hadn’t noticed the silver-plated weapon he was waving at her.
    Diane’s teeth chattered—either from cold or fear, she didn’t know. She was wondering if this was such a good plan after all. He was making no move to get in the car.
    “Yes, I see you do. That’s all right. I’ll take you to get help.”
    “I’m not going to any hospital.” He thrust out his chin, trying to look defiant, she supposed, but succeeding only in looking petulant.
    “I know a private clinic where a doctor will fix you up and ask no questions.”
    “I’ll ride in the front.” He waved his gun at the car.
    “If you do, the police will see you. There’s not enough room to slide down out of sight. There’s a blanket in the back. Cover yourself. You have your gun,” she added, as if maybe he had forgotten.
    He simply stared at her, not moving. The snow was falling again; large flakes caught in her eyelashes. Just get in the car. She looked up and down the street, worried that any approaching car might force him into rash action.
    He made a move toward the back door, stopped and stared at it, then at his gun. He fumbled, trying to open it with his gun hand. For a moment she thought he was going to shoot the door. The smell of smoke from the house fire was getting stronger and it irritated her nose. A burst of cold wind swirled her hair and it stung her face like tiny whips.
    He shoved the pistol into the waistband of his trousers, opened the door, slid into the backseat quickly, and shut the door.
    Diane didn’t hesitate a moment. As soon as she heard his door slam shut, she pressed the DOOR LOCK button on her remote, slammed the driver’s door shut, and ran, thankful that just two days before she had three eight-year-olds as passengers in her backseat. The child safety locks were still on, and in his condition, by the time he managed to climb into the front seat, she would be halfway through the woods to the other street where there would be a swarm of policemen.
    Twice she almost slipped crossing the road. The slush was turning to ice. It numbed her feet as it sloshed into