The Sourdough Wars

whizzing past my cheek, but it sank into the wall about two feet to my left, so I guess my imagination was working overtime. However, I took her meaning.
    “Say no more,” I said, and threw the paper into the fire, wondering why I’d been so stubborn about it in the first place. “Now stand up. Both of you.”
    We did.
    “Chris, kick that gun over here.” She meant Sally’s, and Chris kicked it. In one graceful movement, Anita picked it up. Keeping the other gun trained on us, she locked Sally’s in her desk drawer. “And now let’s take a little ride. Put on your coats, ladies.”
    We had shrugged them off when we sat down, and now we plucked them out of our respective chairs and put them on.
    “Now gather up the stuff you dumped out of your handbags and put it back in them.”
    Like a couple of robots, we complied. I hated the feeling of helplessness that had settled on me when she fired the gun, but I told myself that maybe one of the neighbors had heard it and would call the police. Then I realized that the neighbors couldn’t have heard anything. For one thing, they were too far away. For another, there was a dull roar above the fire’s mild one. It was raining. I hadn’t noticed the rain when it started, but then, the evening’s entertainment had been engrossing.
    When our purses were stuffed, Anita told us to go upstairs ahead of her, then walk down the wooden steps to our car. She was right behind us.
    By the time we got to the bottom we were drenched. “Now get out your key, Rebecca, and unlock your side of the car. Then come back and unlock the passenger side.”
    I did both things, and when I turned around, I lunged for her eyes with my key. She hit me on the side of the face with the gun. I was knocked backward, and Chris went for her. But Anita had time to compose herself and she gave Chris a more authoritative whap than I’d gotten. She went down.
    Anita was hardly fazed. The term
cool customer
didn’t even apply; she was a frozen yogurt. She grabbed me by the arm and put the gun to my temple. “Get up,” she said to Chris. “And get in the backseat.”
    Chris got in, tears running down her face. I think she was catching on that Anita was playing hardball. And so was I, but I didn’t know what to do about it. I didn’t want to die, which was clearly what Anita had in mind, and I thought of pleading for my life and Chris’s. I could tell her it was all okay—we wouldn’t go to the police; we’d never tell anyone that she’d killed Sally; and she could have her damned bakery and see if it made her happy. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Besides, I knew it wouldn’t work. A frozen yogurt who’d killed once would do it again—twice more.
    I watched Chris get in the backseat, and then Anita let me go and trained the gun on Chris as she climbed into the passenger seat. “Now get in, Rebecca.”
    What if I didn’t? What if I made a dash for it and ran for the nearest neighbor’s house? Would she really kill Chris? She’d certainly fry for it if she did. Could she be that dumb? I decided it wasn’t a matter of dumbness. She might panic, or she might just do it out of orneriness. I couldn’t take the chance. So I got in the Volvo.
    It was freezing in there and we were dripping all over everything. I turned on the motor and the heater. “Let’s go,” said Anita.
    “It has to warm up or it won’t run.” While it warmed up, I tried to think of what to do next, but my mind just wouldn’t work. The whap on the face had put me on overload or something. I tried to think of the proper computer term for the phenomenon, and then realized I wasn’t concentrating on the real problem. But concentrating had gotten me nowhere, so I tried not to think at all—just let the system relax for a bit.
    Finally, Anita ordered me to start the car and go down the hill. I did.
    Then she had me turn right and go up a hill, then go back down it and turn left and go up another hill. I couldn’t figure what in the name of Clarence Darrow she was doing. I could hardly see anything in the rain, and there was fog, too, but at least there wasn’t much traffic on those curly Marin roads.
    The way that part of the county is set up, everybody lives on a hill. You have to wind up and then down, and who knows what else, to find your house—and heaven help you if you’re drunk. I’d grown up in these hills—or their cousins in San Rafael—and I had no desire to live in them. Give me a nice