Free Fun and Games by Duane Swierczynski

in a different way. She had a presence about her. This was no complete stranger telling him a crazy story. It was someone he sort of, kind of knew, which made it difficult to completely dismiss what she was saying.
    Hardie realized how ridiculous that was. He’d seen this woman act in silly comedies; he didn’t really know her.
    But she was famous. Why would she lie?
    (Because, duh, famous people were crazy!)
    Lane Madden leaned in close and, through trembling lips, told him everything that had happened to her. The creepy race along Decker Canyon Road. The weird guy in the Chevy Malibu. The engineered accident on the 101. The forced speedball. The fistful of safety glass. The narrow escape to the edge of the 101.
    “Now do you believe me? Does that sound like a series of coincidences?”
    Hardie had to admit that, yeah, it sounded odd, even for L.A.
    “What happened next?” he asked.
    “I pulled myself over the fence and limped up toward Lake Hollywood. I used to come jogging up here, and I knew there were houses everywhere. I thought maybe I could yell for help or something.”
    “So why didn’t you?”
    “Because I thought about the kind of people who were after me. They weren’t some carjackers or something. They were organized. They had a plan all worked out. What if I knocked on the door of some family—and the assholes who were after me hurt them, too? I couldn’t put innocent people at risk. So I kept running. I thought I could outrun them.”
    “Limping all the way?”
    “I did my best. You kind of forget about pain when people are trying to kill you.”
    Hardie didn’t know L.A. geography all that well. Was it possible to limp from the 101 all the way up here? Seemed kind of implausible. Wasn’t there, like, a mountain in the way?
    “So did they follow you?”
    “God, yeah. Just when I thought I’d lost them, I’d see another one of them rounding the corner. It was spooky.”
    She touched his leg, poking at him with her fingertips.
    “That’s when I realized how they were tracking me—and this is what really freaked me out, because it shows you how freakin’ connected they all are.”
    “How did they track you?”
    “My ankle bracelet.”
    Hardie stared at her for a moment, waiting for the rest of the story. When he realized that was the extent of her explanation, he squinted, tilted his head and said:
    “Huh?”
    “The ankle bracelet. You know… the kind the court gives you when you’ve fucked up one too many times?”
    Blank look from Hardie. Lane smiled slightly and leaned back.
    “You really don’t know about this? Like, this is the first you’re hearing of it? I thought pretty much the entire world knew I was wearing that damned thing. All of those jokes on those late-night shows, the pictures on the websites… God, they fucking love it, thinking they’re so clever, asking me to flash a little leg.”
    “Were you under house arrest or something?”
    “No… more as in, if I take so much as a sip of beer, some guy in a monitoring station somewhere will know it, and they’ll call the L.A. County prosecutor.”
    Hardie nodded. “So you think they were able to track you with it.”
    Lane tapped an index finger on her own temple. “I don’t think they did. I know they did. Because I smashed the fucking thing off with a rock, threw it away, and ran even faster. Haven’t seen them since. I came here to pull myself together.”
    “So you just broke in.”
    “Well… yeah.”
    “What made you pick this house? Weren’t you worried about the people inside? You know, putting innocent lives at risk, and all of that?”
    Lane took a breath.
    “Look, I was coming around the bend down there—you know, turning up from Durand? And I saw the owner of this house step outside. He had luggage and his keys. He locked his door, put the keys in the mailbox, then drove away. I figured his house was empty. No one could get hurt. So I ran across the street and got the keys and let myself in