The blond man shouted and charged for the house. Two other men jumped from the driver's side and the back seat.
I only had a split second to decide, and the decision was to toss the book onto the bed. There was no way I was getting out the front door with it. If I made it out at all.
As I raced out of the room and around the head of the stairs, I heard a key shoved into the front door lock.
I swung into the little girl's room. Barbie's house was on a table that half-blocked the window. I shoved it to the side and flipped the window's latch. Up it went. I kicked out the screen, and it skittered down the slant of the carport roof.
I heard the front door bang open and the first pair of feet charge up the stairs. I squeezed myself out the window and, as cautiously as I dared, settled my weight onto the corrugated fiberglass roof. I guessed as well as I could where the supports were, and half-shuffled, half-slid to the edge. I turned myself to climb down onto the plastic garbage can below, and as I did, I caught sight of my pursuer leaning out the window after me. His face was hidden in silhouette, but I could see the severe crewcut of his blond hair, and the cords in his fit neck and athletic shoulders. This wasn't a beer-bellied halfwit who parroted racial epithets to cover for his own personal inadequacies; this was a fighter.
My feet hit the concrete drive already in motion, and I took off across the lawn, headed for my car. The man upstairs bellowed to his companions, who apparently hadn't gotten to the second floor yet. Just as I got off the Castler property, the first one barrelled back out the front door.
I'm a good runner, but I knew that I didn't have enough of a lead to get to my car, fish out my keys, unlock it, unlock the glove compartment, and pull out my gun before at least two of the three caught up. So I switched from sprint mode to distance mode, headed right past my car with an added surge of anxiety, and made for the corner of the block. If I could pull far enough ahead, maybe I'd lose them by jumping fences and hiding in backyards.
I could hear two sets of heavy footsteps after me, men unaccustomed to sudden exertion and already starting to fall behind. At this rate, I would be completely lost to them within two blocks.
I turned the corner easily and kept up the pace, feeling the sweat start to lubricate my limbs and cool my adrenaline rush in the evening air. Night had all but fallen, and the street lights were on at the intersections, but my clothing was dark, and if I could stretch my lead to a full block's length, losing the tiring men behind me would be a piece of cake.
Then I heard, drowning out their twin footsteps, a motor. The car that had pulled up at the house.
I lost half a second focusing back over my shoulder. The two men had just rounded the last corner, and the sedan almost hopped the curb as it braked beside them, the blond man at the wheel. The panting duo hopped in the two passenger-side doors, and the engine roared forward like it was in a drag race.
Two men of average fitness, I could outpace. Maybe even the athletic blond. But there was no way in hell I could outrun six cylinders from Detroit.
The city blocks were thin across the top and deeper going north-south. I sprinted across the top of another block as the car shifted gears. They were practically riding up my ponytail by the next corner, and I swerved right down the sidewalk, hoping that they'd turn too slow and need an extra second to correct. Like an extra second was going to help much in the grand scheme of things.
A few houses down the block, a pickup truck was parked by a convertible in the driveway, with young men filling both vehicles, talking boisterously over the top of loud music. Mexican music.
Latinos.
With white supremacists behind me, it seemed like a match made in heaven.
I had enough breath to yell, "Hey! Help!" without slackening my pace. That got their attention, and all eyes were on me as I reached the truck.
"Those guys," I gasped as the car pulled abruptly to the curb behind me. "They're after me. They're Nazis. White power."
"Say what?"
I heard three doors on the sedan open behind me. None of the young men in front of me were looking at me now. I turned, my back to the truck.
The three members of my fan club stepped slowly onto the curb, like men trying to nonchalantly walk a minefield.
"Hey," said the Latino leaning against the driver's door of the truck.
"Hey," said the blond man. Everyone stopped moving. I could see the muscles working in the blond's neck.
"Can we, ah, help you wi' something?" said the Latino, whose superior vehicle apparently made him head dog.
One of the blond's companions, a shorter fellow with jowls crowding around a spotty goatee, raised his hands to waist height in a half-hearted conciliatory gesture.
"We don't want any trouble," he said. "She needs to go with us."
The third of my pursuers, long and bulky like a brown bear, stood slightly back and tried to flex his hands inconspicuously.
A long silence. I could feel several minds weighing the options around me. I was clearly Caucasian, but at least the gel slicking back my hair took the sheen off the blonde; I didn't quite look like Marilyn Monroe wandering into the barrio.
Finally, the Latino spoke. "She say you all Nazis. Like you all hate people ain't white."
"Not us," said the blond.
"Good," said the Latino. "'Cause here in America, we all get along, right?"
"Sure."
The Latino pointed to Goatee. "You feel that way, right?"
"You bet," he said in a voice that didn't invite friendship. The Latino caught it.
"'Cause you know, I love white girls. Take 'em out drinking, maybe back to her place, start feeling her up --"
Goatee roared and charged at him before the bear standing behind him could catch him. Immediately, two guys hopped out of the back of the truck, and two more vaulted out of the convertible. Blond and Bear dove forward to defend their friend even before the first blows had landed.
And all bloody hell broke loose.
Me, I was just the damsel in distress. No one paid attention as I edged around the cab of the truck. Could I make it back to my car, on the far side of two blocks away? I could feel a stitch lying in wait under my ribcage, ready to start if I tried running again. And I didn't trust this brawl to last long enough for me to walk leisurely back to my vehicle.
I glanced into the cab of the truck. On the front seat, on top of a denim jacket, was a cell phone. I reached in and grabbed it, but before I could even think of who to call, the faint but growing sound of a siren made itself heard over the scuffling and dull sound of bone hitting meat. Apparently someone in the neighborhood had already called the police.
"Hey, there's my ride," I said to no one in particular.
