Death Notes

the stairs.
    ‘Ronnie, wait! Let me explain.’
    I knew exactly how he’d explain - with a knife. I ran.
    I was halfway down the block before I realized Elwin’s car was in the other direction. I charged out into the middle of the street, then headed west toward Third, toward the traffic.
    I chugged along and tried to think. Where was everybody? Minutes ago it had seemed the whole place was hopping. Didn’t anybody live in these locked up little houses?
    ‘Help!’ I gasped. It came out a strangled croak.
    I veered toward the sidewalk, scrambled over the trash at the curb and pounded on a door.
    ‘Ronnie. Come back. I want to talk.’
    I looked over my shoulder. He was bearing down on me. I knew there were people in these houses, but there was no sign of life behind the door I’d just knocked on. I took off again.
    Third Street. Third Street. If only I could make it to Third. I glanced back again. He was gaining on me.
    I dodged a row of overflowing garbage cans, grabbed a lid to use as a shield in case he caught up with me, then flung the cans into his path.
    Traffic on Third flowed along so steadily when I reached the intersection that I pulled up short. Twin lights sped by in a quick sequence. There wasn’t much margin for error if I crossed. I considered which might be worse - to be hit by a car or slashed by a madman who’d killed two people already.
    I raised my arms and threw myself off the curb, waving from the gutter at the oncoming cars. The first car braked, then veered into the next lane and sped away, its horn blaring a fading protest in the dark.
    The car behind it did the same thing. A third car flashed its brights at me, then slowed. Its passenger window came down as I scampered towards it. A stout bald head appeared in the window as the driver leaned over.
    ‘Get out of the fucking street, you bitch!’ he shouted, then accelerated in a gust of warm exhaust and shrinking red tail lights.
    I raised my arms and waved at the next car.
    ‘Stop!’ I yelled. ‘Please, help! Somebody stop!’
    But nobody did.
    Behind me, Dickie was rushing toward me, getting closer by the second. He’d circled the garbage and was shouting things at me in Spanish I couldn’t even understand.
    As he thundered toward me, I turned, raised my garbage can lid as a shield, and faced him squarely. He was a furious ball of venom and hate and he didn’t look like he was going to stop. Shield or no shield, I was no match for him. I dropped the lid and ran.
    I ran with the traffic, hugging the parked cars to my right, and choking on the upwash of exhaust, praying he wouldn’t catch up. I shot a look over my shoulder and gasped. He was gaining on me.
    The cars just kept bearing down on us. I saw a brief gap in the traffic, then zigzagged through the parked cars and swung back to the road again. Dickie followed. Good. I knew what I had to do.
    I sped up, running with the traffic now, shooting quick glances over my shoulder to gauge the stream of cars. If my timing was off, I’d be dead. But if Dickie caught me I’d be dead, too.
    Dickie was tiring, I could tell. He wasn’t waving the knife at me anymore. He was pumping his arms for steam. I eased my pace. He was close now, almost so close I could have reached out and touched him. The time was now.
    I saw my opening, focused on the center divider, then sprinted into the traffic and prayed Dickie would follow.
    Two cars swerved around me, horns blaring and tires screeching. Headlights and red lights were everywhere. I got as far as the double yellow line. That’s when I heard it: the dull, sickening thunk!
    Then silence. Everything suddenly slowed down. I looked back. None of the cars were moving now. A truck in the next lane over had shuddered to a stop. It backed up and its headlights broke through the darkness like a spotlight revealing a stark, crumpled heap on the pavement.
    I couldn’t be sure. The misshapen mound on the street didn’t even look human. I looked around me. Maybe Dickie was hiding, waiting for me to cross the street back to him so he could sink his knife into my back. I didn’t know. But I started toward the thing in the street.
    As soon as I did, the truck door sprang open. I reached the crumpled form before the driver did. The Nixon mask stared up at me, ghoulish under the harsh halogen glow of the truck’s headlamps. Dickie’s knife glistened from the concrete about three feet from his outstretched hand.
    I leaned down and pulled off the