Free Let the Devil Out by Bill Loehfelm

Maureen risked losing sight of her for a quick second as she slipped out the side exit instead of taking the more exposed path through the barroom to the front door. She pulled up the hood of her sweatshirt, hiding her face and hair, and stood beside the door, pretending to be checking her own phone. The girl drifted by, texting away.
    Not ten seconds later, the stalker passed by right behind her, hands in his pockets, silent as smoke. Maureen fell in step behind him, as far from him as he was from the target.
    Maureen knew well how vulnerable most people were from behind. Few had the 360-degree radar that was the province of being a small woman with a late-night job. She knew most people couldn’t feel the devil himself coming right up on them until he was close enough to plant a hot kiss on the back of their neck. How many times had she already heard in her short career as a cop: “I never saw him, he came from nowhere and took my purse, took my phone, took my wallet, hit me in the head, pulled a knife on me, put a gun in my back. I’m usually so careful.”
    The girl continued walking, unsteady and slow on her wedge heels, distracted by her phone. The man kept his distance.
    A cold wind blew down Magazine, biting through Maureen’s clothes, sending a chill rippling over her skin. She thought of that night with the silver-haired man a year ago. She thought of distractions. Of a red traffic light you watched so hard it took you far too long to notice how fast the headlights in your rearview bore down on you. And before you knew it, because you’d let your guard down for maybe nineteen seconds, the guys who’d rear-ended you, killers you’d dodged for weeks, had you locked in the trunk of their car, your nose full of mold and your mouth leaking blood.
    Stay here, she told herself. Stay here in New Orleans. Stay with that oblivious girl.
    She reached into her hoodie pocket for her cigarettes; she craved smoke to cover the taste of the trunk of that car, but she stopped herself. She didn’t want to illuminate her face for anyone else on the street, and she didn’t want to risk the man she was following turning at the flick of the lighter or the smell of the smoke.
    She concentrated her vision on the hunched shoulders of the man walking in front of her. Look to the future, she told herself, boring into the space between his shoulder blades with her eyes, to what’s ahead of you. Don’t give him any reason to turn around. She was counting on the man’s own vulnerability, on that unattended and forgotten space a breath-width behind his back.
    The blindness she lamented in the girl was Maureen’s best advantage over the man a dozen paces ahead of her. Watching him, she thought again of hot smoke in her mouth, of that next cigarette. She’d save it for after her work was done, savor the anticipation of it.
    When they had walked three blocks along Magazine, the girl made a wide, slow turn down Philip Street, taking her pursuer and his pursuer toward the river and into the Irish Channel, where the streets got quieter and darker. Fewer porch lights. More broken streetlights. Virtually no car or foot traffic. Maureen thought the girl might on instinct turn and look behind her up Magazine as she turned the corner. She didn’t.
    The girl did stop half a block down Philip, her back to Magazine Street.
    Maureen watched as the man hesitated, slowing almost to a stop.
    The girl never sensed him. Never turned. She stuffed her phone in her purse, continued digging around in it as she continued walking. Maybe she’s smarter than this guy and I both assume, Maureen thought. Maybe she’s reaching for a gun. The purse was big enough to hold a smallish weapon, a .38 or a .22. Maybe she had heard the stalker stories. Maybe she had been waiting to make the turn onto the darker, quieter street because she thought that gave her an advantage, or because it reduced the chance of