[BACK]

     "Hands up," she hissed.
     I held my hands up so she could see the palms.
     "C'mon, Sherrie," I said. "What's this going to get you. What about, um, Emily?" I fumbled for the name a second.
     "What do you know about my daughter," practically spitting the words out. "Nobody knows my kid better than me and don't you forget it."
     She softened suddenly, the gravity of the situation weighing on her so much you could see her gears working.
     "I don’t want to hurt you," she said. "But I ain't going to jail."
     "Those cops aren't coming here for you," I said. "They're looking for me."
     "Oh, right. That's a good one."
     "It's true Goddammit. Why don't you let me ask them."
     "No fucking way," she said. "I'm running out of options here."
     I glanced at the weapon, looking for a way to disarm her, but the hammer was cocked back. One twitch of her forefinger and I wouldn't have a chance.
     It was a Charter Arms Bulldog which is a small gun, but has a large caliber ammunition. You don’t' have to shoot straight to make a big mess. I recognized it from my stint Bounty Hunting for Bobo up in Oakland.
     I wasn't sure Sherrie knew how to use it but I wasn't going to take any stupid chances, not with a crazy woman's finger on the trigger.
     She was holding the gun so tight, the veins in her hands were visible, her skin taught around her fingers. This didn't give me much confidence the gun wouldn't go off, even accidentally. Lennon was almost up the steps.
     She seemed to freeze in place as we watched them approach.
     "Sherrie," I said with about as much toughness as I could muster with a .44 jammed into my side. "That cop out there is an asshole. Frankly, I'd like nothing better than for you to shoot him. But that's not gonna happen."
     She shushed me harshly, then started crying again and for the 100^th time in the last hour, I wanted to feel sorry for her. But it was getting tougher.
     Then she lowered the gun, but when I reached for it, she shoved it into my kidney hard enough to make me cry out. Suddenly, I wasn't feeling anything for Sherrie anymore. I wanted to deck her.
     The sound of my doorbell made us both jump. Sherrie pulled me away from the door, shoving the gun under my chin. For the first time since this started, I wondered if she'd ever done this before.
     "Say a word and I will shoot," she whispered. "Nothing personal. I just don't have any choices left."
     "There's got to be an alternative," I said. The doorbell rang again.
     "I'm making my own," she said. "Let's go."
     "Where?"
     She shoved the gun into my side again. I was really getting pissed off.
     "Out the fucking back," she hissed.
     "Are you nuts? Those cops are never going to let us out of here."
     "Move," she said and I did.
     We went out my back door and down the stairs to the alley, behind us the cops were banging on my door. In a minute, Lennon was going to send his partner around the back.
     I wasn't sure I wanted us to be there when that happened.
     She led me to her car, a faded black Mustang parked in one of the spaces behind Andrea's building, directly behind Andrea's red Honda Civic.
     The car had seen better days. Its paint was peeling and rusted in places, the upholstery torn and dulled. It was an 80's Mustang, part of the legendary car's forgettable years when the geniuses in Detroit came down with a case of the uglies. Devoid of anything resembling style like its predecessor, this version was square and squat. With the top down, it looked like a Kleenex box.
     I was glad when Sherrie handed me the keys. I didn't want to be the passenger in a car with questionable safety restraints, no air bags and a desperate, crazy woman at the controls.
     The engine was in far better condition than the rest of the car and it whirred to life with authority.
     "Drive," she said, back in her faraway place.
     I drove down the alley with no sign of Lennon or his partner. When we were on Olympic, Sherrie instructed me to head for the freeway. I drove quietly, though I wondered how long I was going to have to play this out.
     The situation escalated greatly when we turned onto Lincoln and down the ramp to 10 Freeway East. A police cruiser was following us, a few cars back. Brooks was right when he said Lennon knew how to be a good cop.
     But he was also volatile and if that was Lennon, it upped the ante for all of us. I knew then we were heading into trouble and I wasn't in control anymore.
     So much for being in the driver's seat....