The Silver Gun

by L. A. Chandlar

  After the post office, I walked back into Grand Central and ran down several flights of stairs to the passages that led to my downtown subway line. There was a rollicking band playing a lively number with fiddles, banjos, and a washboard for percussion.

  I walked down the final flight of stairs to my platform, watching my plum-colored dress flare just below the knees as I skipped down the steps in my spectator pumps. The train had probably just departed, as the platform was pretty empty. I walked a little farther and stopped. The area began to fill up fast, this being one of the most popular stops. I adjusted my purse, took out my pad of paper, and perused some of my notes for the day.

  A gust of wind came down the tunnel, signaling a train coming shortly. I looked up at the people across the platform; an uptown train was about to pull in there as well. A man right across from me flicked his wrist, and a large pile of ashes from his cigarette fell to the ground with a red gleam.

  The uptown train pulled into the station with a rush of air blowing the hair about my face, a couple of strands sticking in my eyelashes. Our train was getting closer, the white light at the front appearing as I peered down the tunnel. A group of loud tourists came up behind and around me, chattering about their plans.

  Suddenly, something shoved into me, forcing me right to the edge. I lost my balance as I felt one more push and fell down onto the tracks. A lady screamed as I fell, then I heard several more screams as people saw the oncoming train. My palms hit the black ground hard, jarring my head as my knee slammed against the metal track. I whipped around to see what the hell had happened.

  Right where I’d been standing, I spotted slick black hair, and a leering face looking right at me. In a sardonic gesture, he brought the barrel of a gun up to his lips, hushing me with an evil smile. Oh my God. It is the silver gun.

  All my fear instantly slipped away and was replaced by seething anger. It was the same man who had grabbed me at the fire and he had that silver gun of my nightmares. Damn it, I was not going to be one of those ridiculous damsels in adventure novels who fall and are completely witless and helpless.

  The horn of the oncoming train blared relentlessly over and over again above the screams of people who looked infinitely far away on the tall platform that I had been standing on just a second before. I was between the first and second tracks. I looked at the third, taller track, which carried the electricity that powered the train, and then over to the farther side of the tracks, where the uptown train was pulled into the station, blocking an escape.

  I dashed over the top of the deadly third track to the middle, where the uptown and downtown trains would pass each other within just a couple of feet, which seemed like inches, bracing myself against two pillars just as the train careened by with a wild surge of wind and power.

  I was sandwiched between the two trains, but not dead. And that was a damn good feeling. There was a ruckus of yelling as people tried to figure out exactly what happened. Panicked faces started peering down from the windows of both trains. I was able to give a thumbs-up and saw plenty of relieved smiles and enigmatic gestures that were surely telling me to hold tight. That I could do.

  Apparently, this situation rarely happened, and it took quite a while to figure out what to do, but finally people motioned through the windows that the uptown train would pull out. I gave another thumbs-up, my heart still trying to thump its way right out of my chest.

  The train pulled out slowly, and I stood completely still, not wanting an inch of me to extend past those columns on either side of me. The last car went by, and I exhaled a big breath. I probably hadn’t fully breathed in about fifteen minutes, but it felt more like fifteen hours. I wobbled over to the other side, again carefully stepping high up over that electrified track, to where several kind people held out their arms to haul me up onto the platform. The police were already there, and that was about when the adrenaline started to ebb. Curse it, my hands started to shake.

  An arm wrapped around my waist just in time, and kept me firmly upright. The man’s head bent down, and his cheek touched the top of my head. “I’ve got you, love.”

  I let out a short, rather indignant gasp, saying, “What? Hey!” Just then, he firmly pushed me down onto a bench. About five other people quickly clustered around me, trying to assess if I had any injuries . . . and he was gone.

  A medic came over and started looking at my banged-up knee. I had torn a hole in my ivory stockings, and my knee was swelling up underneath the blood that trickled down my shin. My shoulder was throbbing, but I could move that as well. He handed me a hanky and said, “It’s all right, do you want something for the pain? Or are you crying from the scare?”

  “I’m not sad! Or scared. I’m mad! I’m crying because I’m really, really mad!” He blinked. “I saw the guy who pushed me, and . . . I’m furious!” I exclaimed with gritted teeth.

  “Okay . . . Okay . . .” said the medic as he raised two hands in a defensive, okay, crazy lady motion.

  I really was mad. And it was utterly frustrating when I teared up because I was mad. Just then, I saw a very familiar and very comforting vision running toward me, arms flailing, bellowing at everyone.

  “Fio,” I said, with a great sigh of relief.

  “What the hell happened, Lane?” he screeched, with the force of a foghorn. “I heard someone fell onto the tracks on the police radio, then a buddy called from the department moments later saying they thought it was you! Good God, you scared me.” He pulled me into a careful, one-armed hug as he sat down next to me. He took a good look at me and nodded sagely. “You’re crying. You’re angry.”

  I started to laugh. “Only you, Fio . . . Yes, I’m ticked off, and damn these tears!” I said, half-chuckling, half-crying.

  Fiorello turned my face to him with a gentle finger under my chin. “First, are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  “I just banged up my knee and shoulder, but nothing’s broken and no stitches needed or anything.”

  “Good. Secondly . . .” Here, he paused and looked even more intently into my eyes. “Why exactly are you angry? Did you see who did this to you?” He really was omniscient.

  “Didn’t you say that over the police radio the report was that someone fell onto the tracks?”

  “Yes. But you’re not someone, Lane. You were pushed, weren’t you?” His eyes looked stormy, and his fedora was cocked at a rakish angle.

  “Yes. I know I was. It was the same guy, Fio. The same guy who pulled me into the shadows. I looked up after I fell, and he was smirking at me. And that horrible, sarcastic, mocking smile actually ended up helping me,” I said, with a self-deprecating grimace. “I got so mad; I was not going to let him finish me off like that. I ran to the center of the tracks between the trains.”

  “Good. Good, Lane. We’ll handle this. The police aren’t going to be much help, because I think they still believe you fell, and I doubt the tourists around you saw anyone, they never do. But I believe you. My buddy on the force will get a sketch from you on that guy. Can you do that? Describe him in detail?”

  “Yes. Absolutely, Fio.”

  “I need to see this guy, and I’ll get the description into the right hands. When I hear something, I’ll let you know. Now, let’s get you home.”

  My knee was starting to feel very tender and stiff. So, in spite of the fact that I wanted to get to work and be part of whatever Fio had in mind, I absolutely needed to get off my knee. Fio took me home in his car. I spent the ride replaying over and over again that sickening gesture from the man who tried to kill me. Instead of a hushing finger to the lips, he held a gun. The silver of the gun had glinted in the lights, and the bloodred scroll on the handle matched the blood on my knees.

  CHAPTER 5

  Aunt Evelyn and Mr. Kirkland were waiting for us on the sidewalk, Kirkland with his arms folded across his chest like an imperious king and Aunt Evelyn piercing every car that went by with her steely glare. Fio had called, so they knew the details already and I didn’t have
to go into them all over again. I eased myself out of the car, and although the day had been chock full of surprises already, the most surprising of all happened next.

  I looked up at all those stairs ahead of me and practically groaned. Mr. Kirkland strode over with a scowl worthy of Fio, picked me right up like I weighed about ten pounds, and carried me up all those flights of stairs. I was utterly stunned.

  I looked up at his face, and a funny feeling of déjà vu stole over me. Kirkland looked fearsome, yet he gently set me down on the bed in my room. I looked up at him as he put his hands on his hips just like Valerie.

  “Are you all right, Lane?” he barked, with a demanding, gruff voice.

  “Yes, Mr. Kirkland. I really am. My knee is just very tender.”

  “Hmph.”

  “Thank you for carrying me up all those stairs,” I said.

  “You’re welcome,” he said gruffly, and turned around and left.

  * * *

  Aunt Evelyn refused to entertain me going back to work for at least a week. My knee and shoulder were fine, but I have to say, the next couple of days they were very sore. No high heels this week. The good thing was that I was just badly bruised, no twists or sprains. I had a lot of visitors, including the police artist who was a buddy of Fio’s. He was quite talented, and after I had described the man and adjusted his drawing, it was very accurate; he captured the arrogant, leering attitude perfectly.

  Valerie came by every day, and she also brought me my tattered purse and notebook, which had gone flying through the air when I fell. The police recovered them and had them sent to the mayor. Thank God both my purse and notebook had landed in the trench beneath the train, sparing them from annihilation. I pawed through my bag immediately and got my hands on my precious scarlet book from my parents. It was like me: banged up, but not too damaged. I sighed a breath of relief. I would be keeping that by my bedside from now on.

  One day, I leafed through my parents’ notebook. I loved this book; it was full of notes and charming little letters from one parent to another. Matthew to Charlotte, Charlotte to Matthew. A few clippings, many photographs and postcards of things they’d done and places they’d visited. When I came into the picture, they moved to Rochester, Michigan, and stayed put other than their business trips buying books for the store. But there were a few mementos from that time, too. Mostly many little notes to each other that were inside jokes where the actual meaning was lost on me. But it was always fun looking at them, even though it felt like someone else’s family, someone else’s life.

  The spring was in full bloom; however, today was surprisingly cooler, like the ghost of winter wanting to make a last farewell. I was talking with Aunt Evelyn by the glowing fireplace in the parlor. After we chatted for quite a while about insignificant yet entertaining day-to-day things, I got up the nerve to ask her something that had been on my mind a lot lately. With a knowing smile on my face, I asked, “So . . . were you surprised by Mr. Kirkland’s remarkable burst of energy when he carried me up the stairs, Aunt Evelyn?”

  She let out a very unladylike guffaw. “I could tell he gave you quite a shock, Lane! Your eyes were as big as saucers. I’ve never seen you more stunned in your life!” She kept laughing, and it caught hold of me, making me laugh, too.

  When we finally stopped laughing, I asked again, “But really, didn’t he surprise you as well?”

  “Well, Lane, I’ve known him a very long time. And one thing I’ve learned: He feels very deeply about a few people in this world. And for those people, he would leap over mountains if they needed him to. And, Lane . . . you’re one of those people.”

  I was shocked. I mean, I sort of had a soft spot for the man myself, but he wasn’t exactly demonstrative. “I am?”

  “Yes, dear. You are.” I let that sit and took a thoughtful sip of my tea.

  Aunt Evelyn tilted her head thoughtfully and nodded once at my notebook lying open on my lap. “Lane, I’ve noticed that you’ve been reading your journal from your parents a lot lately. With all you’ve been through, is it bringing back memories from your past?” she asked, with a furrowed brow.

  “You know, I hadn’t thought about it like that, but I suppose it is,” I said as I caressed the binding of the deep red journal in my hands. “When I look at it, I feel closer to them. Closer to the world I came from, even though I don’t remember much. Sometimes, though, it feels like this album is about some other family or distant ancestors. We’re related, but from a different world.

  “But you know,” I continued on, warming to the subject, “I remembered the old Brownie camera that was a constant companion to my mom and dad. And I’ve always loved this one photograph my mother took of me and my father outside, sitting on a dock with fishing poles in our hands.”

  I circled my fingers around and around on the moss green velvet of the soft, cushy chair I was curled up in, watching the alternately light and dark patterns my fingers created in the material.

  “Aunt Evelyn?” I asked, on an impulse. “What exactly is that lavender notebook of yours?” Her eyes looked slightly downward, and I blurted out, “I mean, I shouldn’t have asked. That’s your private business. It just . . . It reminds me of my journal.”

  She was quiet for a while, then she smiled a very small, thoughtful smile. “Actually, it’s funny that you should bring that up at this particular moment.”

  “It is?”

  She calmly laced her fingers together and said, “Yes. It is my most prized possession. I think you might find it intriguing. And possibly relevant to what you’re working through. I have often found that art has a special way of being a support system to life. I think that I would like to share it with you. How’s your French?”

  “Not too shabby. I can read it better than I can speak it.”

  “Excellent. Pour us some more tea, and I’ll be right back.” I did as I was told as I heard her climbing the stairs to her bedroom. She brought down the lavender volume, caressed the silk cover once, and handed it to me.

  “What is it, Aunt Evelyn? Is it something you put together, or is it from someone else?”

  “It’s quite old, from when I was a young girl. You’ll just have to read it for yourself, and then we’ll talk about it someday.” She remained standing as she picked up her cup of tea. “I hear my canvas calling. I think I’ll go and paint a while, Lane. Do you need anything else?”

  “No thanks, Aunt Evelyn.” She smiled with a glimmer of sadness in her eyes, and I wondered if this book was the source of that sorrow. She turned and made her way up to the attic, the stairs creaking in their familiar way. In a few moments, Bach drifted down. Her favorite.

  The well-worn pages had been turned many, many times. There were a few slight water stains on the front cover, but it was still in wonderful condition. Inside, it reminded me of my own notebook. It was full of intriguing quotes about life, nighttime, magic, and courage. I turned to one slip of paper that seemed to be written directly to Evelyn.

  My tiny darling friend, I am so happy to see you today. One may have a blazing hearth in one’s soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it. Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way.—ML

  Every one of the quotes was written by ML or about ML. Who was ML? I flipped to a page where Evelyn’s own but youthful hand had written a cluster of notes that read:

  He’s so brilliant, so immensely sad, and something in me wants to help heal him. It physically hurts to be around him.

  Why can he see such beauty that he can create deep, poignant images, but he can’t see that beauty in himself?

  Today we looked around the village. The houses are quaint and beautiful—he seems enthralled with them. And his painting of cornfields! There is something reaching out in this painting that you would think would be boring. But it is so, SO much more!

  It’s like part of ML’s heart was meant for a natural place like this. His good, good heart just wants to serve people, to help them. But there is something in
him that can’t do anything by halves. I worry that he scares the very people he longs to help. But I like him a lot! I hope that he knows that.

  I put the book down, thinking about the beauty and the sorrow of the words. I loved the young Evelyn’s use of exclamation points and her earnest questions of how to help this troubled man. Even then she was extraordinary. It seemed ML might have thought so, too.

  I was tired, and the rain was making me sleepy. I curled my legs up into the deep chair and laid my head down on the soft arm. I yawned, my eyes closed readily, and I drank in the warmth of the fire as a rumble of thunder rolled through the city and through my dreams.

  I was in the midst of a field in the middle of the night, walking on crisp grass in bare feet, the air soft and cool on my skin. The sky was a deep blue. There were millions of stars, even the highlights of the Milky Way, but the most remarkable thing was the beautiful, deep blue that seemed touchable. And in the sky, vaporous, curling clouds hung low, beckoning to me. I had never seen anything so inviting in my life. I wanted to wrap myself in the deep blue and misty white as though it were a cosmic blanket.

  I lifted into the air—what a delight to feel the air around me and not to be tethered to the ground. To be able to control my flight, going higher and higher, twisting and enjoying the airy freedom of being suspended without hindrance or contraption. The clouds were coming closer, and just as I drew near, I stopped flying and let myself linger in the clouds, curling my back into them, feeling the cold, tingly, crunchy mist like millions of minuscule snowflakes, an embrace from the heavenly cloud. I let myself slowly drop toward earth, and then I did it all over again for the sheer thrill of being wrapped in sparkling night and clouds.

  Something below caught my eye. I looked down. There were three men holding shotguns that gleamed in the moonlight. I willed myself to blend into the dark sky. What could they possibly be hunting in the middle of the night? I started to make a slow descent to get away from them, to find cover. I was exposed and vulnerable.