The Sourdough Wars

well-lighted city street.
    As we wound back and forth, up one hill and down another, I began to get the glimmerings of an idea. If we ran into a car, I could put it into action. A couple of minutes later, one came at us.
    I hit my horn. The car swerved, hit the side of the hill, and nearly skidded into us. It was close enough to see who the driver was, and the minute I did, I hit the gas. I’d meant to stop, having summoned help in a crude way, but I hadn’t thought the plan out any further than that. I guess I’d counted on some furious driver coming at us, all irate and full of bluster, mad enough to take on a killer with a gun. But the person in the other car was a terrified teenage girl who looked as if she’d passed her driver’s test yesterday. I didn’t want to take a chance on what Anita might do. As it was, her reaction was bad enough. She pistol-whipped Chris again. Chris slammed into the back of the seat with a whimper and a thunk and I cursed myself, overcome with guilt and fear.
    “Cool it, Rebecca,” was all Anita said.
    My teeth were chattering and I was perspiring at the same time. I wondered if I had malaria and realized my mind was off in left field again. “This is hardball, Rebecca,” I reminded myself. “Get back to the mound.”
    I hated baseball and couldn’t think why my brain was playing this trick on me. But it was, and I heard myself thinking, “We need a hit, need a long ball, a homer, gotta slide over the plate. Come on, no batter, no batter.” I knew I was muddling things, but it kept my spirits up. I almost giggled, imagining Rob’s reaction when I told him what my tiny mind was doing just before I—before I what? I didn’t know, but I didn’t allow myself to get the idea I was never going to be telling Rob anything again.
    Rob. I said, “Rob knows we came to see you.”
    “So what? You never got there. You took a wrong turn and had a nasty accident on the way.”
    All of a sudden I got her drift. I realized why she’d been driving us over every hill in the neighborhood. We were going over a cliff, and she was going to walk back home, which would be just a few hundred feet if she planned the thing right.
    I grasped at any old straw: “How are you going to explain the bullet holes?”
    “What bullet holes?”
    “The ones in your study.”
    “Like I said, what bullet holes? Did you ever hear of Fix-All? Stop the car.”
    “Here?”
    “Stop, dammit.”
    I braked on a steep ravine that dropped a long way without so much as a eucalyptus tree to stop a falling car, a car that had skidded in the rain and gone off the road.
    Anita got out, still keeping the gun on Chris. “Get in the front seat.” Chris did, and Anita stood in the rain, holding the gun to Chris’s head.
    “Okay, Rebecca. Drive over it.”
    I didn’t move.
    “Drive over it or I’ll shoot her.”
    I shifted gears, not quite as skillfully as I usually do, and the Volvo stalled. That gave me a minute to pray, which I hadn’t done since the time I got arrested for drunk driving while rescuing a state senator from a bordello raid.
    “Geronimo!” I said to myself. Aloud, I hollered, “Duck, Chris!”
    And I slammed the car into reverse. Firecrackers went off as I hit the hill on the opposite side of the road, and I noted with relief that Chris had taken my advice. She’d ducked before Anita recovered enough to fire. We were both alive, and Anita had now fired five of her six shots. Also, we were straddling both lanes horizontally and a car was coming at us. Anita was between it and us, her face a jig-is-up mask.
    The other car’s brakes screamed, and it started to skid. Anita flew over our hood and landed running. There was a nasty crunch as the other car hit the side of the hill. I didn’t waste time surveying the damage. The occupants would have to fend for themselves. Me, I had a murderer to catch. Adrenaline hit the system like a shot of diesel fuel and I poured it into straightening my wheels. Then I let it drop to my gas foot. Anita glanced over her shoulder, staggered, and lost her balance.
    I was going so fast it took me a few seconds to stop, but by the time I did, got out of the car, and looked over the ravine, I could still see her rolling in the glare of my headlamps.

Chapter Twenty-One
    The driver of the other car was the irate blusterer I’d hoped for a few minutes before. His steed was a Mercedes, and he didn’t like getting it scuffed up. He got out loaded for rhino, but the