Free Epiphany Jones by Michael Grothaus

there.’
    ‘You’re lying,’ she says, taking a step back. ‘You said the fifty-five goes south.’
    ‘No, I didn’t,’ I say with a guilty-as-fuck smile on my face. ‘You misheard me. I said the seventy-two goes south. We want the seventy-two .’ Another step back. She’s not buying it. I say, ‘Epiphany, look, calm down, OK?’
    Don’t panic, I think.
    ‘You’re lying,’ she says again.
    Dr Phil , I think. Show her we’re on the same level. I put a hand on her shoulder in an effort to keep her calm. My mistake.
    She recoils at my touch, then backs away and looks like she’s about to bolt. So I lunge at her. But I forget how quick she can be and sheslips from my grip and stumbles over the curb. Her feet tangle with mine and we both fall next to a bush on a small patch of lawn. Before she can move I grab her shoulders and crawl on top of her, pinning her.
    ‘Don’t touch me!’ she screams.
    And from across the street an old voice shouts, ‘Who’s there?’
    On top of Epiphany, my hand slips from her waist to her thigh. I cover her mouth to stifle her screams as her fingers dig into the grass and her fists hit me with handfuls of soil.
    But as she beats my face with dirt, I suddenly cry out. I roll off her as a white-hot pain spreads across the back of my skull. The old man from the other side of the street looms over me holding his cane like he’s Babe Ruth waiting to hit one over left field.
    ‘Get away from her,’ he crows.
    ‘Wait a second,’ I shout. This time there’s a crack as the old man connects his cane with my forehead. Blood trickles into my eyes.
    ‘You OK, ma’am?’ the old man says. Epiphany, she looks all red in my eyes; like a whipped animal, backed into a corner. I’m not sure she’s even heard him.
    ‘What’s going on out there?’ a gruff voice yells. I wipe the blood from my eyes. The voice comes from a kitchen window shining a patch of light onto the lawn.
    ‘Rapist!’ the old man shouts. ‘I caught a rapist out here! Call the police!’
    Epiphany’s on her feet now. The old man is trying to reassure her everything will be okay. But she’s looking wild-eyed; scared of me – like she’s misjudged me. Then she hears the old man say ‘police’ again and looks even more scared. And despite the old man’s reassurances that she is OK, she backs away and backs away again until the night’s shadows envelop her pale skin.
    ‘Wait!’ I yell as I try to scramble after her. But the old man raises his cane and orders me to stay down. I kick him in the knee and he releases a sharp cry as his body crumples to the sidewalk.
    ‘I didn’t mean to – I’m sorry about that,’ I stammer.
    My head throbs. The old man looks at the blood on his cane. ‘I got your DNA now, you pervert,’ he says. ‘Nowhere to run!’
    Someone clearly watches too much CSI .
    I look around in the darkness. She can’t have gone far. I squint as I see a hint of something move. Someone has gone down the alley between two houses. But then behind me there’s a click and something hard bumps my spine.
    A gruff voice says, ‘Don’t move, you son of a bitch.’
    So I don’t.
    ‘Now turn around,’ the voice says. And when I do I don’t see anything until I look down. A tiny, pudgy man holds some kind of pistol with a long barrel. His gruff voice doesn’t match his frame. He’s bald and so short he has to reach up just to put the barrel of the gun under my chin. He digs the pistol hard into the soft flesh under my jaw. I’m Bugs Bunny to his Elmer Fudd.
    ‘You OK, fella?’ Elmer asks the old man.
    The old man props himself up on his elbow. ‘Think I broke my hip.’
    ‘Where’s the girl?’ Elmer asks.
    ‘She ran away,’ I say, calmly. ‘It’s not what you think.’
    ‘Course not,’ he says, pressing the gun under my jaw with renewed force. ‘Never is. My little girl was violated by one a you years ago. I’m guessing he woulda said the same thing. Who knows, maybe he was you?’