“Who are you?” Maybelle Jenkins cried, her heart quickening, her breathing erratic. “What are you doing in my house?”
The man grabbed her arm and dragged her to the bedroom at the rear of the second floor.
“Stop it,” she yelled.
The man threw her on the bed, pointed a finger, and shouted, “Where’s Janet Jenkins?”
“She’s not here.”
“I can see that, you old bitch. When will she be here?”
Maybelle shrugged and lied, “My daughter is out of town on business.”
“You’re full of shit, old woman.”
She tried to stand, but the man slapped her and knocked her back on the bed. She stared at the man and, for an instant, thought she saw her former husband, Marvin. The guy had the same beady black eyes. Her stomach burned and her heartbeat quickened even more.
“You wait here,” the man ordered. “You leave this room and I’ll break your scrawny neck.” He walked out and closed the door after him.
Maybelle heard the clomp-clomp-clomp of his footfalls as he went back downstairs. She took in a series of deep breaths to calm her heart, then went to the window on the side of the back bedroom that overlooked the driveway.
Essam went to the kitchen and removed a butcher knife from a rack. He returned to the living room, sliced the couch and chair cushions, and tipped over the television. In the dining room, he repeatedly marked the table with the knife and then shouted a huge “Yeah!” when he pulled the breakfront off the credenza and watched it crash to the floor.
Back in the kitchen, he went to work on the food, flatware, and dishes in the drawers and cabinets. He was about to topple the refrigerator when he heard a car motor and the crunch of tires.
Maybelle saw Janet’s Impala pull into the driveway. She tried to open the window, but it was painted shut. She banged on the glass so hard she thought it would break. But Janet apparently didn’t hear her. “What the heck are you doing?” she muttered. Get out of the car, she silently pleaded.
Janet kept the motor running while she and Patsy Cline finished the last part of Crazy: And I’m crazy for lovin’ you. She switched off the radio, turned off the ignition, and sighed because she didn’t know in what state she’d find her mother. She stretched out and grabbed her purse, opened her door, and planted her feet on the driveway. Then she remembered the package the man had given her. She reached back to get it when she heard her cell phone ring again. She moved her hand to pull the phone from her purse when there came a loud crash and a shower of glass landed on the car roof, on her legs, and at her feet. She yelped and felt her heart leap. She peeked up at the house. At that moment, her mother stuck her head out of the broken second-floor window, screamed, “There’s a man in the house,” and then tossed something that landed with a thud on the car roof and slid down the windshield onto the hood.
“My God,” Janet cried when she spotted her .38 revolver resting there. She dropped her purse in the driveway, rushed from the car, and snatched the pistol.
“Essam, ese hijo de puta,” Rosales growled as Andrews shouted directions at him.
The flashers in the unmarked’s grill were on and Andrews had placed the bubblegum light on the car roof. The siren was going full blast. But rush hour traffic was a mess and even the drivers who wanted to make way for the police vehicle had no place to go.
“El Segundo PD will get there before we do anyway, “Andrews said, not sounding particularly confident.
Rosales continued to grumble and curse in Spanish. Then he said, “Try Janet’s phone again.”
As he redialed the number, Andrews said, “You know the guy who called 9-1-1 about Essam might have been a prank caller.”
Rosales shot a quick scowl at Andrews. “Right. How’d he know Janet’s address?”
A gap opened in traffic and Rosales slipped into it and hit the gas.
As Janet moved to the back door, she shouted at her mother to crawl under the bed. But then she saw a man in the window frame, his arm around her mother’s neck.
Janet gasped when she saw the door hanging open and through the doorway the condition of the kitchen. Her heels crunched on debris as she crossed into the dining room. More of the same there and in the living room beyond. She rushed toward the staircase—the pistol down at her side, and turned to look up to the second floor. She stopped; her breath caught in her chest. Rasif Essam stood at the top of the staircase. He had one arm around her mother’s throat and a knife raised in his other hand. Janet moved her gun hand behind her back.
“You couldn’t keep your nose out of my business, could you, bitch?”
“Let my mother go, Mr. Essam. Then you and I can sit down and discuss this.”
“It’s your fault my children are dead.”
This guy’s delusional, Janet thought. “Come on, Mr. Essam. We can talk about it after you release my mother.” As she waited for a response, she made eye contact with Maybelle and noticed anger and determination in her expression. Please don’t do anything stupid, Mom, she thought.
Essam lifted Maybelle with one arm and moved down two steps.
Janet heard sirens as she backed up toward the front door. Essam must have heard them, too, because he said something in a foreign language that sounded like a curse. His eyes went wide.
“Please let my mother go,” Janet pleaded. “You can go out the back. You still have time to get away.”
Essam coughed a laugh and roared.
At that moment, Maybelle lowered her head and bit Essam’s forearm. He screamed, jerked his arm away, and then shoved Maybelle at Janet. Her mother’s frail body flew toward the bottom of the stairs. Janet stepped forward to try to catch her but had barely covered half the distance from the door to the bottom step when Maybelle’s head struck the finial on the top of the balustrade with a thunk. Before she could take another step, Essam ran down the stairs, knife extended, roaring with rage, hatred in the set of his mouth and in his eyes.
Janet brought the pistol from behind her back, aimed, pulled the trigger, and tensed in anticipation of the weapon’s noise and kick. But nothing happened as the hammer fell on an empty chamber. The man now blotted out her view of the staircase as he attacked. She pulled the trigger again and this time the weapon boomed, the percussion of the fired bullet ricocheting off the room’s hard surfaces. Essam landed against her and drove her back into the front door. Her head struck the door and the wind went out of her lungs. Her gun hand was pinned between their chests as they fell to the floor. Stunned, she tried to push Essam off her as he continued to vent his anger in massive, maniacal shouts and curses. Then he lifted up and raised the knife.
Still stunned, but aware enough to realize her predicament, she pressed the pistol against Essam’s chest and pulled the trigger.
A loud oof escaped the man as the noise of the weapon again careened around the room. Spittle dribbled from his mouth as he made animal-like sounds. He drove the knife downward. Janet screamed in agony as the blade penetrated her left shoulder. Then Essam fell away onto his back, his breathing labored, blood staining his white shirt.
Janet rolled to her side and gawked at the handle of the knife as though its presence made no sense. She got to her knees and placed the pistol on the floor at the bottom of the staircase. She attempted to stand but failed, and had to crawl to her mother.