G Is for Gumshoe

bare hardwood floor. The door banged back on its hinges, exposing the hallway and the stairs. The owner of the house had taken refuge in the living room, crouched beside the sofa, his arms folded across his head. He reminded me of a little kid who believes he's invisible just because his eyes are squeezed shut. A bullet ripped a hole through the back wall. Plaster dust blew inward like a bomb going off, with a find cloud rising in its wake.
    There was silence. I heard someone running, pounding steps receding in the grass, and I knew instinctively that Dietz would give chase. Crouching, I duck-waddled my way into the dining room and peered cautiously out the side window, eyes barely above the sill. I saw Dietz round the corner of the house and disappear. Behind me, Irene was beginning to wail, from fear, from injury, from shock and bewilderment. Belatedly, I felt a rush of adrenaline that made my heart thunder in my throat. My mouth went dry. I clung to the windowsill and laid my cheek against the cold wall, which was papered in cabbage roses, maroon and pink on a field of gray. I closed my eyes. In my mind, the moment was being played out all over again. First the man… that warm light in his eyes, mouth curving up in a familiar smile. The sense that he meant to kiss me, husky voice saying something, then the muzzle flash. From the sound, I knew he'd had a suppressor on the gun, but I'd seen light spurt out. Didn't seem likely in daylight unless my mind had somehow supplied the image out of past experience. How many shots had he fired? Five? Six?
    Dietz came into the house, striding across the room. He was winded, tightly controlled, sweating, his manner grim. He pulled me to my feet, his face stony. I could feel his hands digging into my upper arms, but I couldn't voice a protest.
    "Are you okay?"
    He gave me a shake and I nodded, feeling mute. He set me aside like a rag doll and moved away, crossing to Irene who was weeping as piteously as a three-year-old. She sat on the floor with her legs spread, skirt askew, arms limp in her lap, her palms turned up. Dietz put an arm around her, pulling her close. He kept his voice low, reassuring her, bending down so she could hear. He asked her a question. I saw her shake her head. She was gasping, unable to say more than a few words before she was forced to stop for breath.
    The owner of the house was standing in the hallway, his fear having given way to outrage. "What's going on here? What is this, a drug bust? I open my door and I nearly get myself killed! Look at the damages. Who's going to pay for this?"
    Dietz said, "Shut up and call the cops."
    "Who are you? You can't talk to me that way! This is a private residence."
    I sank down on a dining room chair. Through the front window, I could see that neighbors had begun to congregate, murmuring anxiously among themselves- little groups of two and three, some standing in the yard.
    What had the man said to me? I ran it back again: I'd heard Dietz's car rumbling in the street and that's when I'd turned, smiling at the man who was smiling at me. I could hear his words now, understood at last what he'd said to me as he approached-"You're mine, babe"-his tone possessive, secretive, and then the incredible sexual heat in his face. I felt tears rise, blurring my vision. The window shimmered. My hands began to shake.
    Dietz patted Irene's arm and returned to me. He hunkered at my side, his face level with mine. "You did great. You were fine. There was no way you could have known that would happen, okay?"
    I had to squeeze my hands between my knees so the shaking wouldn't travel up my arms. I looked at Dietz's face, gray eyes, the blunt nose. "He tried to kill me."
    "No, he didn't. He tried to scare you. He could have killed you the first time, in Brawley on the road. He could have nailed you just now with the first shot he fired. If he kills you, the game is over. That isn't what he wants. He's not a pro. He's sick. We can use that to get him. Can you understand what I'm saying? Now we know his weakness."
    "Yeah, it's me," I said, forever flip. Actually, I didn't understand much of anything. I'd looked into the face of Death. I'd mistaken him for a friend. Other people had tried to kill me-out of vengeance, out of hate. It had never really seemed personal until the man on the walk. No one had ever connected to me as intimately as he had.
    I glanced over at Irene. Her respiratory distress, instead of subsiding, seemed to be