Left-handed or not, I can’t miss with a shotgun, he told himself. I know how to get close to a target. But he knew that wasn’t good enough for LEI. Shooters who could put a bullet through an eyeball from hundreds of yards out were the ones they wanted. He stared at the ceiling, trying to think about what he’d do with the island he was about to purchase, and found his mind returning again and again to the stump where his right hand should be, and all that entailed in lost status and pride. By sheer force of will, he tapped out notes on his phone about the island, and searched for architects in Raleigh, Fayetteville, and Wilmington who might design a new house and facilities there. He worked until the doctor came in to explain his options to him with a myoelectric prosthetic hand as an example. He explained that improvements in motors and brain mapping were allowing some individual finger movement.
“So, it’s possible I could get my trigger finger back?”
“Maybe, someday,” the doctor said, “but the articulation of action required for such a fine motor task is currently beyond the technology. Advances are being made every day. One of the other problems is, they’re battery powered, of course. I wouldn’t want to rely on one in a gunfight, Mr. Shaw. I’d rely on my off hand first, frankly, but I don’t know much about your line of work.”
Shaw leaned back in bed, less discouraged than he had been.
“Insurance won’t cover the more advanced prosthetics,” the doctor continued, “and the ones we’re discussing are quite expensive and experimental.”
“Money isn’t an issue,” Shaw said with a smile.
“I suppose that’s good for you, unless the next congress repeals the Gentry Act, which, frankly, I hope they do.”
Shaw laughed at that. Over two decades had passed since the Gentry Act had been passed. Even the Supreme Court had upheld it, so far as he knew. It was as much the law of the land as abortion had been for over half a century.
“Pro-lifer?” he asked.
“I’m against murder, at any rate,” the doctor said. “I’ll sign your papers so you can be discharged. Someone will be along to set your next appointments, one with me, and another with Dr. Wright, the orthotist, to see about a temporary new hand while measuring you to manufacture a custom one. You won’t get it until your wound has healed, of course. You’ll want to start rehab and physical therapy, too. Wound care is going to be your mission for some time to come.”
Shaw only nodded, thinking, but as the doctor was going out the door, he sat up and called after him. “If my hand had been recovered, could you have reattached it?”
The doctor paused, considering. “Yes,” he said, “Hooker made a clean cut with that chopper of his. It’s quite probable I could have, though how much use you’d have been able to get out of it after a successful operation is uncertain, with current medicines and surgical methods. We’re advancing all the time, though.”
Shaw settled back. I’ve never carried a grudge against a target before—but then, I’ve never failed before. It seems unprofessional, but I think I’ll have to have Hooker killed, no matter what, even if I have to do it myself and the corporation punishes me. I don’t really care about Charn so much, but Hooker must die.
Chapter 10
Homecoming and the Amateur
They discharged Shaw from the hospital eventually. Johns had retrieved the Jaguar for him and picked him up in it, along with the guard on duty, Ken. They left the hospital by a side door, all wearing bullet proof vests, just in case, but no bullets were fired at them then or on the trip to the pharmacy and then home.
“I thought I’d find the car vandalized or broken into, but it seems untouched,” Johns said after the mostly silent trip as they were pulling into the parking garage at Shaw’s apartment building. The depth of Shaw’s disinterest struck him. He looked at Johns and the car he was riding in and shrugged. They went up two levels to Shaw’s reserved spot and pulled into it. Ken, alert, had been scanning the surroundings for threats. Several of Shaw’s neighbors were in the garage.
“It’s okay,” Shaw said dully, “I know these people. They’re not gunning for me.”
Ken nodded, but stepped out and stood ready, regardless. Johns handed Shaw a holster with a pistol in it.
“It’s a Sig, buddy, same model you as the ones you lost. A gift.”
Shaw stared at it, knowing it was almost useless in his left hand.
“Go ahead, take it.”
He grunted and took it, clumsily working it onto his belt. It felt wrong.
“You’re welcome,” Johns said.
“Thanks, I guess. I can’t shoot with my left. You know that.”
“You’ll improve. Let’s get you into your bulletproof cell, shall we?”
They walked into the building, Ken leading, suspicious, with Shaw in the middle and Johns taking up the rear. They made it to his door safely enough. Ken looked it over for signs of previous entry or booby traps but found neither. They entered, Ken first. He cleared the rooms before letting Shaw in.
“We’re taking no chances, buddy.”
“I have wireless surveillance, and I’ve checked it from my phone every day. No one’s been here.”
“There are ways to beat that, you know.”
He knew Johns was right but couldn’t make himself care. He wanted to sit on his couch, turn on a WWII documentary, drink whiskey, and forget. Then later, he would either pursue the acquisition of the island and his revenge on Hooker, or put a bullet in his own brain.
They all went in, and Johns had a look around. “You’re too damned neat, Shaw. This place is like a museum.” He examined the replica dagger on the coffee table. “What the hell is this?”
“A gift from a satisfied client,” Shaw muttered, opening the liquor cabinet. He pulled out a bottle, not even checking which one he’d grabbed, opened it, poured a tumbler full, and drank.
“You gentlemen care to join me?” he asked.
“On duty,” Ken said, shaking his head.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Johns said, joining him. Shaw poured him a glass and held it out. Johns took it, noting the bottle of Red Label it had come from.
“Good stuff, that. Got any ice?”
Shaw nodded at the freezer, and Johns helped himself.
“You guys are welcome to stay or go. Doesn’t matter. I’m going to sit on my couch and watch a documentary from my favorite Youtuber, okay?”
“Go ahead,” Johns said, pulling out his phone. “I’m ordering takeout. Any preferences?”
“I have whiskey.”
“Chinese it is. I’ll get you some General Tso’s and an egg roll. I’m having the beef and broccoli. I’ll see if one or the other of my favorite delivery guys is available.”
“Suit yourself.” He sat on the couch, pulled the holstered pistol from his belt, and set it on the table, then found the remote control.
Ken was standing by the window and said, “There’s a guy sitting in a car on the street down there, acting suspiciously, as though he’s casing the place. Could be nothing, but it could be our wannabe shooter.”
Johns glanced over and replied, “I’ll have my delivery guy get his plate numbers and we can run them.”
Shaw was hardly listening. He found his favorite channel and picked a documentary, sat back, and drank his whiskey.
Later, full of whiskey and a few bites of his meal, Shaw fell asleep on the couch, something he hadn’t done in years. When he awoke, he noticed he still had his shoes on. It was nighttime, and Johns had gone home. Ken had been replaced by a young man named Jack, who’d been introduced to Shaw via video call before he got too drunk to remember. Jack was sitting by the window with his eyes on the suspicious occupant of the car parked on the street outside.
There was a knock at the door. “Gordon, are you home? It’s Darren. Mrs. Jensen said you’ve returned. Can we talk?”
Jack walked to the door and used the peephole. He looked the priest over but didn’t reply. After another knock and a series of questions, Father Darren gave up and went to
his own apartment. Jack watched him go, nodded, and returned to the window. The car and its suspicious occupant were still there.
Jack texted Johns,
The reply came shortly,
Jack settled down by the window, keeping watch. On the couch, Shaw breathed harshly, muttering about clawing his skin off and all the blood.
Shift change came after dawn. About sixish, Jack watched from the window as Richard crept up behind Guthrie’s car, where the fat bastard appeared to be asleep, and pierced all his tires. Jack smiled and chuckled. Shaw woke suddenly, looked at his hands, felt his face, shuddered, then stood and walked slowly to his restroom. Jack wished him a good morning, but Shaw didn’t look at Jack or acknowledge him at all.
Shortly, there was a knock on the door. Jack went to it and checked through the peephole before opening it. Richard was grinning on the other side. The toilet flushed as Jack was unlocking the door and Shaw came out before all the locks were unbolted. The door opened, and Jack shook Richard’s hand.
“Good job,” he told his coworker. “He won’t be following us anywhere today. I just hope he makes his move soon, so we can do him in and end the assignment successfully.”
“Next time, I’ll bring a laxative to put in his drink,” Richard said.
Shaw stumbled to the couch and found his whiskey bottle on the coffee table. He drank while the two bodyguards compared notes for a few minutes. By the time they were done, and Jack had left, Shaw was back at his toilet, vomiting. Richard sat on the couch and tried not to listen to what was going on in the restroom while he ate the breakfast he’d brought. Beside his was another sack with breakfast for Shaw, which Johns had instructed him to bring at company expense.
Down on the street, Guthrie awoke in his car, realizing he’d missed the expected shift change of the guards. He sighed, brushed the sleep out of his eyes, and turned the key. His engine grumbled to life.
I oughta hit the John and find some breakfast. Don’t know what I’m doing, anyway.
He put the car in gear and pressed on the gas, only to stop a moment later with the awful realization that all four tires were flat. Cussing, he flung himself out of the driver’s seat on stiff, aching legs to investigate.
“I don’t get it,” he said aloud. “How’d they all go flat at once?” The answer was obvious; each one had been punctured. Consternation flooded his still sleepy brain, accompanied by incomprehension. Only after he looked at them all again did he notice the card stuck under his driver’s side windshield wiper. He pulled it out and looked at it. It was a business card for Howard Johns Protection. On the blank side was written, “Bring it on, you fat bastard. We’re waiting.”
Guthrie broke out in a cold sweat. He looked around himself, shivering.
“Damn,” he muttered. “Damn.”
There was no one much about, just a couple of passing cars and an old lady waiting for a bus. He looked up at the fourth-floor window he’d figured out was Shaw’s apartment. There was a figure up there looking down at him. Shaking, he reached into the back seat for his bolt-action Savage .30-30 Winchester rifle. The man in the window cracked it open and covered him with a handgun. He froze in the act of touching the rifle, then slowly pulled his hands out of the back seat and lifted them high in the air. The pistol withdrew from the open window a little. Sweating, needing to urinate badly, Guthrie turned and walked away from his car. He didn’t stop shaking until he was in a McDonald’s three blocks away.
Later that day, Father Darren knocked again, and Shaw answered the door, hung over and hungry.
“Gordon, can we talk?”
“You’re talking, aren’t you, neighbor?”
“We’ve been friends—or so I thought—for about a year. Did I ever actually know you? Was any of it real?”
“Hell if I know, Mike. What difference does it make?”
“It meant something to me, you know. I enjoyed our quiet talks and games of backgammon, and sometimes running into each other coming and going. Were we friends?”
“What’s a friend, huh? Just someone you use while you can.”
“I never used you, Gordon.”
“You should have, Mike. I was using you.”
Father Darren sighed. “I’ll miss him, the Gordon Shaw I thought I knew, and I’ll miss the quiet talks and games. Is there some chance any of that can return?”
Shaw just laughed and showed him his stump. “He’s dead, if he ever existed, Mike. He’s dead, and he can’t repent, which is what you’re really here for, to exercise your office and get a weird thrill from it.”
Father Darren shook his head. “You’ll always be in my prayers.”
Shaw shrugged and closed the door.
Chapter 11
Perhaps Justice and Other New Things
It was Cross on the phone. “Mrs. Sanders, the hacker is on the job. He says it’ll take a little time, but he expects to gain access to Shaw’s accounts. What do you want him to do with the money—after he pays himself and me, of course?”
“I have a list of charities,” she said. “If he’s willing, I want him to dump the money into the local right to life organizations here in town, into the homeless shelters and soup kitchens, and the general Catholic Charities fund.”
“Let me scribble some notes here, Mrs. Sanders.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cross.”
“My pleasure. I’ll apprise you of his progress when he updates me.”
“Thank you again.”
She set the phone down and sat back in George’s chair. No one had come to take over his office at the firm yet. She supposed it was hers for the time being, but knowing she wasn’t qualified for it in any way made her self-conscious about it. There was a board meeting in a few minutes. She looked down at her notes. The insurance company was paying the minimum on George’s policy, which left the firm with very little capital, and no star architect. The young architect, Tom, had rescued a couple of accounts from clients who might have left otherwise, but the firm was in trouble and might not make it. Most of their clients had found other firms to complete their designs on schedule.
A little later, sitting at the table in the boardroom, she told them, “I have my payout from George’s personal policy for me and the children. I’ll like to float the firm a loan until we get back on track.”
Eric immediately protested, “George never wanted that. The policy he left you is for you and the boys, not for us. We’ll manage.”
“He left me in very good shape financially, Eric. It’s my money, and I’ve gone over the numbers. I can afford to do it, and I don’t want everything he built to be destroyed and all of you to have to end up looking for new work. Please, let me do this.”
There were more arguments and protestations, but eventually, he agreed, and so did Tom. That settled, she left the rest of the running of things to them. She had the boys to take care of and raise on her own, and another idea had been in the back of her mind for some time. Maybe she would start her own protection business, shielding people who had hits out on them. It was something to think about. She had the magical edge, the kaval spell placed on her by Nurse Janet at
her birth. Maybe she would, as a way of fighting back. There were campaigns to make murder entirely illegal again. She could get involved in that, too. As she drove to the school to pick up the boys, the idea played out in her imagination and began to take form.
“How’s the book going?” Emma asked Roger over the phone that evening. It was getting late, and she had to work early, but she didn’t want to hang up. They’d discussed their wedding plans and how they’d share the news of their engagement with her family and his. Running out of other topics and tired, her mind wandered into a region she’d been avoiding because she wasn’t sure if he was ready to discuss it yet.
Sitting up in bed, Roger let himself fall back on his pillow. “I don’t know,” he confided in her, “if I will ever write again. Kilkenny was my muse. I don’t know how to do it without him.”
Why did I bring it up? Tired brain betrays. Quickly, she said, “He didn’t put the words down for you, though, did he?”
“He was my collaborator as well. Part of every story was his.”
“Still, you’re a writer. It’ll be different, but you can do it, and you can honor his memory and sacrifice by continuing on.” Maybe I should just shut up.
“I don’t have the heart for it.”
“Maybe that will return.”
“Maybe.”
“Let’s talk about it again later. I shouldn’t have brought it up so soon. I’m sorry.” There was a long silence, and she wondered if the call had dropped. “Roger?”
“I don’t mind you bringing it up. It’s been on my mind a lot. I really don’t know what I’ll do with my life if I’m not a writer, but I’ve never written without him fueling my imagination, you know. I’m not stuck, exactly. I haven’t even tried to write since he was murdered…since he died to save me.”
“I love you,” she said, not knowing what else to say.
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