Devil With a Gun

by M. C. Grant

  “But whoever killed him wanted me to know about it?” I say. “That’s why he left my card.”

  “Yeah, but if the message is meant to let you know that this guy won’t be laying his hands on anyone else, then why burn your face off the card?”

  I wince. “That is unsettling.”

  “It could be both an apology and a warning in one, but I’ve never seen the like.”

  The young detective returns from stringing a line of tape across both entrances to the alley and says, “Coroner just pulled up.”

  Frank tilts his chin toward me. “You need Ruth to take a look at those bruises?”

  I shake off the suggestion. “I’m fine. Nothing a bath and a good mattress can’t fix.”

  “Go home, then. I’ll be in touch when I know more. And if you think of anything else—”

  “I’ll call. Promise.”

  “You better.” He turns to Shaw. “Take her home and then come straight back. It’s time to get this circus started.”

  Sixteen

  The Painted Lady is quiet when young Detective Shaw drops me out front. Both Mrs. Pennell’s and Mr. French’s apartments are in darkness, as are the two apartments on the top floor. In the middle, however, lights are glowing. I take it as a hopeful sign that my reluctant guest has stayed put.

  I didn’t mention Roxanne to Frank because I don’t want him thinking that I’m involved even more than he already knows. One butchered corpse is enough for him to be concerned about without adding angry Polish sailors, unconscious Russian henchmen, and the reluctant abduction of a prostitute to the mix.

  I tell myself that I’m being thoughtful.

  When I enter the lobby, Mrs. Pennell’s door creaks open and she pokes her head through the gap. Her hair is wrapped in baby blue curlers and she’s draped in a flowery nightgown that reaches almost to the ankles of her compression stockings and sensible rubber-soled slippers.

  “Oh, hello, dear,” she says. “I hoped it was you. Kristy said you had gone out again. Long day?”

  I nod and smile, not wanting to get corralled into a long conversation.

  “I left a note on your door earlier, did you see it?”

  I blanch. “Sorry, I completely forgot. It’s been one of those crazy days. Did you need something?”

  “Not to worry, dear. It’s just a package that was dropped off for you. I took it inside because the man said it shouldn’t be left unattended.”

  Curious. I’m not expecting anything. “What kind of package?” I ask.

  “A box wrapped in brown paper.” She holds out her hands to indicate its approximate width. “Little bit heavy and doesn’t rattle. Not that I was shaking it, of course.”

  “When was this?”

  “This afternoon.”

  I have no idea what it can be, and a shiver of paranoia makes

  stiletto-heeled ants march down my spine. Had my handless Russian been missing any other parts? Or … I think of my card gripped in his fingers with my face burned off.

  “Did you recognize the delivery man?” I ask.

  “No, but he was older than usual. Normally they’re young men on bicycles with their hats on backward and smelling of marijuana, but this man was more like one of their dads.”

  Panic rises, but I try to keep it out of my voice. “Did he have an accent? Russian maybe?”

  “Not that I noticed.”

  “Do you still have the package?”

  “I took it upstairs when I thought you were home, but you weren’t there again. Kristy answered the door though and said she’d leave it on the counter for you. I hope that’s alright?”

  I attempt a smile. “That’s just fine, Mrs. Pennell. Thanks for taking care of it.”

  “Any time. You sleep tight now.”

  “You, too.”

  As soon as Mrs. Pennell closes her door, I rush up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  I push open the apartment door and take in the room. Kristy and Sam are cuddling on the couch with Prince Marmalade nestled on Kristy’s lap. His purrs are vibrating like a subwoofer set on happy.

  The door to my bedroom is open and I see Roxanne and Bailey sitting on my bed. They’ve both been crying.

  A brown paper–wrapped package sits on the kitchen counter. Undisturbed. Innocent in its plainness.

  “You OK, Dix?” Sam asks. “You look pale.”

  I point at the package. “Anything about that look suspicious?”

  “There was no address on it,” says Kristy. “Just your name … ” Her eyes widen and she stands up. “But it’s not ticking or anything, if that’s what you mean.”

  Sam stands up beside her and slightly forward, protective. “Er, is there something we should know?”

  I cross the room to examine the package. I sniff the paper, but it smells simply of paper. There’s no lingering petroleum smell of crude explosive—nor of fresh human blood or decomposing flesh.

  I place my ear close to it and listen. Everything is quiet. I reach down to my boot, pull out my knife, and flick open the blade.

  Kristy pulls Sam down behind the couch. “Tell us if we need to run,” she says.

  Prince, thinking it’s a game, rubs his furry body across Sam’s and Kristy’s faces, purr increasing in volume.

  Being careful to look for hidden wires, I slice open one end of the brown packaging and carefully peel back the folds. There is a blue plastic box inside.

  I open the other end and unwrap the paper to fully expose the box. Only it’s not a box. It has a foldaway handle. It’s a protective case, and I recognize it.

  Two snaps hold it closed.

  I unsnap the latches and carefully open the lid.

  Inside, nestled in custom-cut foam, is a gleaming Smith & Wesson Governor handgun, two boxes of ammo, a trigger lock, and a bore snake for keeping the barrel clean. Resting on top is one of Frank’s business cards. I flip the card over and read: Happy Birthday. I know even you must have one—Frank.

  “What is it?” asks Kristy. “Is it safe? Can we get up now?”

  I laugh to release the tension and lift the gun from its cushioned rest.

  “Sorry,” I say over my shoulder. “Paranoia. It’s a present from Frank that he didn’t tell me he was sending.”

  “But you thought it was, what? A bomb,” asks Sam. “What kind of story are you into now?”

  I turn around and show them the gun. “Obviously one that has Frank a little worried about my safety.”

  Sam holds up her hands in shock. “You’re not keeping it are you?”

  “Of course I am. It’s a lovely gesture. I was shooting one at the range earlier today and—”

  Sam shakes her head. “I don’t like guns, and I don’t like the idea of you having one. More people in this country are killed from their own guns turned against them than other people’s.” She heads for the door. “I don’t want it here.”

  “I’ll get a gun safe,” I say. “And I’m being properly trained.”

  “Come on, Kristy,” Sam calls. “We’re not staying.”

  “Sam,” I call after her. “I promise I’ll get a proper safe. Tomorrow.”

  Sam stops at the door and holds out her hand until Kristy arrives to take it. Her eyes lock onto mine and there is an anger there that I’ve never seen before.

  “Until you do,” she bristles, “and that weapon is locked inside it, we won’t be back.”

  “But, Sam—”

  She holds up her free hand again to stop me. “I can’t be any clearer, Dix. Good night.”

  They pull the door closed behind them as I replace the gun in its case.

  “Problem?” asks Bailey as she appears in the bedroom doorway.

  I close the gun case and snap the latches before turning to her.

  “They’re tired,” I say. “It�
��s been a long day for everyone.”

  Unexpectedly, Bailey rushes forward and wraps me in a lung-deflating hug.

  “I can’t thank you enough for getting my sister out of that place,” she says. “I was so … ” She struggles to find the word; to admit it to herself. “So scared, I guess. How did you do it?”

  “I had help.”

  Bailey releases me and looks into my eyes. “They’ll come for her though, won’t they?”

  “Eventually,” I agree. “But they’ll need to negotiate. They don’t want the publicity that I can bring down on them, and now they can’t hide her away. All we need is the price of her freedom.”

  “And what will that be?” Bailey asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Money?”

  I shake my head. “The Red Swan has little need of money from the likes of us.”

  Bailey pales. “Then what?”

  I shrug. “I think your father is the key. If he’s alive, he must know some valuable secrets that have kept him that way.”

  “And if he’s dead?”

  “Then we’ll think of something else.”

  Bailey blinks away a spattering of tears. “I’m sorry I got you in-volved in all this.”

  “You didn’t.” I smile. “I jumped in with both clumsy feet and splashed half the water out of the pool like the baby hippo that I am.”

  Bailey wipes her eyes and laughs. “Hippo?” she asks. “I think you’re a swan.”

  “Then clearly you are over-tired,” I say. “Why don’t you and Roxanne spend the night in my room? I’ll crash on the sofa and we’ll make a fresh plan in the morning.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I insist.”

  Bailey wraps me in another hug before returning to the bedroom and gently closing the door.

  Alone, I bring the gun case over to the coffee table and open it again. The Governor feels good in my hand, solid weight and comfortable grip. I open the boxes of ammunition and load it in an alternating pattern of one shotgun shell and one .45 until all six chambers are filled.

  I make sure the safety is on, a matter that can be confusing for gun virgins because there is no visual indicator to say the gun is safe. It’s only when you flick the thumb safety off that a painted red dot

  appears to let you know the gun is ready to fire. That’s why gun instructors tell you, “Red means dead.” I slip the Governor under the arm cushion that I’ll be using as my pillow.

  From the hall closet, I grab a spare blanket, strip down to my underwear, and eat a few mouthfuls of peanut butter out of the jar until my eyelids become heavy and my mouth too lazy to chew.

  Prince jumps onto the couch and curls his furry body around my butt as I succumb to the dark, hoping I can bypass REM and sink blissfully into dreamless oblivion.

  Pity it’s to be so short-lived.

  Seventeen

  The sound is more like scratching than anything sinister.

  I move my hand toward my butt and feel the warm fur still pressed against it. If Prince isn’t in his litter box …

  The scratching stops and there is a clunk and scrape of metal sliding back into its stainless-steel sheath. My upgraded security locks have just failed their first test.

  I slip off the couch and ease the Governor from beneath the pillow. It feels heavier in my hand than it did at the range, but the rubber grip holds secure despite the film of perspiration that coats my palm.

  I thumb off the safety, revealing the ominous red dot, and cup my shooting hand with my left to form a triangular support. My eyes never leave the door as I move sideways toward the armchair, its antique solidity making it the most protective piece of furniture in the room.

  By the time the door begins to swing open on whispering hinges, I am steely-eyed, petrified, and concentrating on my breath. Unlike at the range, I am having trouble keeping my inhalations calm and steady.

  When the door is three-quarters of the way open, I see a silhouette straightening up from a crouch in the doorway. The ever-burning hallway light is dark, but loose strands of moonlight entering through the small street-side window are enough to let me know that whoever is standing there is a solid object.

  When the silhouette steps forward, I thumb back the Governor’s hammer with a click that sounds more like a thunderclap.

  The dark figure freezes in place and its head turns in my direction.

  I wonder if I should speak or if it’s better not to let the intruder know that I’m alone. If he has an imagination like mine, he might wonder if the room isn’t filled with ninja assassins or a ruthless biker gang that owes me a favor and plans to use his limbs as baseball bats.

  Neither of us moves, but I wonder if he can hear my heart on its thudding journey from chest to throat.

  Perhaps deciding the sound was in his imagination, the intruder lifts his foot to take another step.

  “I will shoot,” I say, hoping I sound more like 24’s Jack Bauer than Three’s Company’s Jack Tripper.

  “We need to talk,” says the silhouette.

  “I have a phone for that.”

  “I can help you.”

  “If that were true, I doubt you’d be breaking into my apartment in the middle of the night.”

  The silhouette moves his head, surveying the room. He doesn’t appear to be wearing night-vision goggles. In the movies, they always glow green, and no part of him is glowing, but the longer he stands there, the clearer he’s becoming as my eyes adjust to the dark. Which also means his eyesight is improving, too.

  “Are the sisters here?” he asks.

  “What sisters?”

  I see his lips bend in a smile and it worries me. Soon, he’ll be able to tell that I’m alone, in my underwear, hiding behind a chair.

  “You won’t be able to protect them by yourself. Mr. Lebed is far too powerful to take on alone.”

  This catches me off guard, since I assumed it was Lebed who sent him.

  “You don’t work for Lebed?” I ask.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Now I’m even more confused. “I want you to leave,” I say.

  “If you answer one question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Who sent you?”

  The bedroom door creaks open as the question sinks in and I realize it’s the same one that the dead Russian had been asking me on the street.

  “Dixie?” calls out Bailey. “Who are you talking to?”

  The silhouette moves forward and turns toward the bedroom in the same instant that I call out for Bailey to get back inside. I see the intruder’s arm rising, the shape of a gun in his hand.

  I fire.

  The Governor booms, unleashing one of its shotgun shells in a spray of lethal force.

  The intruder spins and curses, his own gun firing in a rapid succession of trigger-twitching anarchy. Plaster rains from the ceiling and stuffing flies from my protective armchair.

  I crouch down low and roll to a new position behind the couch. From this vantage point I still have a clear view of the bedroom door. Ears ringing and eyes stinging from dust and sweat, I’ve lost sight of the intruder. But I know what he’s after.

  The sisters.

  So with eyes fixed on the closed door to his targets, I allow my ears to scan the room.

  They come up empty.

  I wait in silence until Sam’s voice calls from the hallway outside.

  “Dixie? Are you OK?”

  I don’t want to call back and give away my position, but I can’t let Sam walk into danger.

  “Stay in your apartment, Sam,” I yell back.

  “I’ve called the police,” Sam yells. “They’re on their way.”

  “You hear that?” I say to the darkness as a rush of relief ignites the adrenaline pumping through my bloodstrea
m. “If you’re still here when Detective Fury arrives, he’ll fold you in half and stuff your head so far up your ass you’ll need a snorkel to breathe.”

  The darkness doesn’t answer.

  Eighteen

  Frank hands me a coffee mug and tells me to drink. Expecting coffee, I shudder slightly as ice-cold vodka splashes over my tongue and burns my throat.

  “You have a lousy liquor selection,” says Frank. “But that’ll help with the shock.”

  “I should have one, too, then,” says Kristy. “My whole body is shaking.”

  Kristy and Sam are beside me on the couch. After making sure that I was alive and uninjured, Sam has been silently fuming on the far cushion. She’s in full-blown I-told-you-so blame mode in her belief that the mere presence of the gun brought armed trouble to my door. Kristy sits close and rubs my arm, making comforting cooing noises like a dove in its nest.

  When Frank doesn’t move to fetch Kristy a drink, she nudges Sam into action.

  “And get Dixie a refill,” she tells her. “This is a lot of shock. A shoot-out in our own home.”

  “It wasn’t a shoot-out,” I say.

  “It was,” insists Kristy. “He had a gun, you had a gun. The clock struck midnight—”

  “Who fired first?” Frank interrupts as he hitches his pants and crouches down to eye level.

  I hear his knees crack.

  “I did,” I say.

  “Because you felt your life was in imminent danger,” says Frank. He’s not asking the question, but guiding me on the proper response.

  “He came for the sisters,” I say. “I’m sure he was planning to kill them. He had a gun. He was aiming … ”

  Sam returns with the vodka bottle and a second cup for Kristy. As soon as she splashes a mouthful into my cup, I swallow it. Hole in one. Doesn’t even touch the sides.

  I hold up my cup for another, but Frank takes it away instead.

  “I need you sober,” he says.

  “I don’t,” I answer.

  Frank’s lips twitch. “There’s blood on the wall, so we know you wounded him. None of it appears arterial, but I’ve put out an alert to the local hospitals and walk-in clinics.”