Mean Woman Blues

of their offices. She shouted, “Karen! Get out of here.” And wriggled toward her gun.
    She heard movement, maybe Karen running, and then a sudden exclamation: “Rosemarie!”
    A throaty voice, female, spoke behind her: “Well, hi, Earl, honey.”
    Not even slightly fazed, Jacomine continued to inch toward the gun. Skip held onto his leg, but he was stronger. She couldn’t hold on much longer. Someone walked around her. And then liquid splashed into the room, onto Jacomine mostly. The ominous odor of fumes filled the room.
    Skip shouted, “Everybody, get out of here! Call 911! Hurry!”
    She heard scurrying, then a faint sound, as of a match struck, maybe a lighter flicked. She held onto the leg. The throaty voice said, “Know what that is, Earl? You drop that gun, or I’m gonna burn you alive.”
    Jacomine’s foot went dead in Skip’s hands. He twisted his neck toward the voice. “Rosemarie, you know you don’t mean that.”
    The voice said, “Get up, Earl.”
    He sat up, giving Skip time to grab him and haul him to his feet. She threw him across the room, against a desk, and bent to pick up her gun.
    The woman she saw as she pivoted back was no more who she expected than Karen had been. She’d seen plenty of pictures of Rosemarie Owens, a cool blonde— the sort who married money, repeatedly. This woman was a wreck: hair disheveled, bruised, soaked in sweat, holding a lighter.
    Skip thought,
Shit, the fumes. The whole room could go up.
    She said evenly, “Put that out, Rosemarie.”
    Smiling, as if her life were complete, Rosemarie doused the lighter.
    Then Skip heard a scraping sound, definitely a match this time, and Karen said, “No. Let’s burn him.”
    The room exploded in flame.
    The women screamed. Skip heard them run into the hall. Jacomine erupted before her eyes into a fireball. Karen had thrown the matchbook at him.
    Skip swiveled her head, scanning for a fire extinguisher, blanket, anything. But the fire went out almost immediately. Jacomine leapt up and ran toward the full-length window that led to the balcony. Skip fired, but she’d been distracted a moment too long; her aim was off. If she hit him, it didn’t stop him. He ran straight through the glass.
    Skip caught her breath and ran after him. By the time she caught up, he had pitched over the balcony and landed in a stand of shrubbery. She stared for a moment, wondering where the hell her backup was and whether she should jump on top of him.
    She couldn’t bring herself to do it; damned if she was going to risk breaking a leg when she was this close to catching him. Instead, she turned and ran down the stairs, fighting her way through the crowd, yelling, “Police! Let me through! Police!”
    He was gone when she got there.
    Gun still drawn, she ran behind the building into the parking lot. A car was barreling down on her. Jacomine? She leapt to the side, raced back to get her own car.
    He had to be badly burned, and he might be shot; he could be dying. But you didn’t feel burns immediately; she’d read plenty about it. He could do a lot of damage before he passed out. And he was probably doing seventy already. She ought to call Shellmire, give him an update, but her hands were shaking too badly. All she could do was drive.
    He turned onto Cedar Springs, headed downtown, then onto Harry Hines Boulevard. To the right loomed the new arena, the American Airlines Center. She tried to think, to give 911 a location. She didn’t know Dallas, but Jacomine did. In his shoes, she’d try to find the nearest freeway entrance, an idea she truly hated.
    She picked up her phone, then realized she’d have to look at it to call 911. There wasn’t time. She tried to speed up, but it wasn’t safe; there was too much traffic.
    She saw what she dreaded ahead of her, an entrance to the Stemmons Freeway. But it was a very narrow entrance, with barriers on either side. If she could just get close enough to force him…
    He skimmed through the barriers before she could reach him. She was gaining, though. She wondered how in God’s name he could be doing all this. She had to force him to the right, get him off the freeway, before he passed out.
    He’d gone only about a quarter of a mile when his car began to weave. He was losing it but he wasn’t slowing down.
    She pulled up on his left and rode him.
    His car veered dangerously close to hers, then back the other way. She kept crowding him. A sign ahead said Victory Avenue and Hi Line Dr.