A couple of hours passed with me so engrossed in numbers that I didn't budge from my desk. Somehow I'd gotten one entry inverted, so my cash balance just wasn't coming out right. I finally decided a little break might help. Sometimes numbers look clearer when you can step back from them a bit.
It occurred to me that I hadn't heard Ron yet, so I peeked into his office. Same clutter, no Ron. Downstairs, Sally was typing a letter. She looked a lot better. A waxed paper tube of saltines lay open beside the typewriter.
"No Ron yet?" I asked.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you. He had an appointment, and said he'd be in about three."
Just as well. Ron and I had had an argument Friday afternoon that was still a little fresh. I had a feeling it might be awkward when we came face to face again. It was an old issue, which had been once again thrust into the limelight at the climax of the last case I'd helped out on. Guns. I don't like them, Ron does.
Standing now, in the hallway outside the reception area brought it all back again, a little too close. Less than a month ago, a murderer had gotten the two of us cornered here in the office. It was up to me to get the gun from Ron's desk drawer and use it. And that was the source of our conflict. Ignoring the debate was not making it go away. I knew Ron would bring it up again. This week.
I stomped into the kitchen and splashed more coffee into my cup. This was not how I wanted the week to go. I wanted to be planning a romantic getaway with Drake Langston, not having a fight with my brother over gun control.
Chapter 7
At three o'clock Ron walked in and placed the gun on my desk. It lay there, a dull black deadly-looking thing. My insides tightened.
"You know how I feel about this, Ron," I warned.
"I know." He stood before me, a middle-aged balding man in faded Levis and plaid shirt. His eyes were sympathetic, but his mouth was firm. "You've got to overcome the fear, Charlie."
That was the hard part. Mainly because I didn't like to acknowledge fear. I like to think of myself as this independent, modern, fearless woman. But, around the gun, it was there. He was right, the word for it was fear.
I'd already given all the arguments about gun control. About how many accidents there are in homes every year involving guns bought for protection of the family. About how many domestic violence scenes turned deadly because of a gun already in the house. And Ron had argued about the stupidity of not being able to protect oneself. About becoming a victim needlessly. About learning to protect myself. And the hell of it was, because of the incident right here in this office, I was having to admit that he was right.
He came around the desk, knelt down, and took my hands.
"Look, hon, I'm only pressing this issue because I love you."
That brought tears to my eyes.
"I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you, and I could've taught you how to protect yourself."
My lower lip quivered a little. I bit down on it to make it stop. It is not like me to break into tears like this.
"Charlie, I'm not going to let us stay mad at each other over this. You know my view, and I know yours. The offer is there. I'll take you out to the shooting range and show you the safe way to use the gun. But only when you say it's time."
He stood up and holstered the gun. I heard him walk across the hall to his own office.
Damn! I wanted so badly to stay firm and fight for my cause. It was killing me to admit that Ron was right. But what kind of fool was I, knowing that I routinely get myself into dangerous situations, and not being able to protect myself? I pulled a Kleenex from the box on my desk, and sniffed into it a couple of times.
My legs dragged, but I made them do it. I walked across the hall to Ron's doorway.
"It's time." I said.
He looked up and smiled tentatively.
"Just don't give me any of that sanctimonious I-told-you-so shit," I warned him.
"Yes, ma'am." He stood up. "We could go out to the range now," he suggested.
Obviously, he figured that given the chance I would bolt. He was probably right. No time like the present.
"Do I have to dress for this?" I pictured fatigues, belts of bullets strapped across my chest, black and green face paint.
"Nope, you're fine."
Sally had left at noon, and there were no pressing matters that I could dream up. The phones had been deadly quiet all afternoon. The machine could answer for awhile.
With all the enthusiasm I usually reserve for trips to the dentist, I followed Ron out to his car. Rusty hopped into the back seat of the Mustang convertible. He had no trouble getting excited about the trip. Ron put the holstered gun into a tote box he kept in the trunk.
The gun range is way out past the farthest reaches of the very absolute westernmost edge of the city. Way out there. It felt like hours before we arrived. Secluded isn't the word for it. Ron's membership entitled him to carry a key to the gate. He drove through, then got out to reclose it behind us. The late afternoon sun blasted the desert earth. There was no breeze to relieve the heat, nor to stir up the dust.
We parked near a row of wooden tables and benches. A small wooden building stood to one side. Large dirt berms stood in ranks at various distances ahead of us. The closest were probably twenty-five yards away. Ron set the tote box on one of the tables, then led the way to the wooden building. There he unlocked a padlocked door. Inside were all sorts of strange looking paraphernalia, the only item of which looked familiar to me were paper targets with black bulls eyes in the middle. He picked up a few of them and led me back outside. I tagged along like a little kid.
Rummaging through the tote box, he came up with a staple gun. We trudged out to the closest row of dirt hills, and Ron began to staple paper targets to frames erected in front of the dirt. I held the paper in place as he stapled, really getting into the spirit of the thing. Once we had four targets in place, we hiked back to the table. Now for the fun part.
"Okay," he began in authoritarian form. "First rule of the range is that you never handle your weapon when anyone else is down range."
I nodded.
"Second rule. Always be aware of where your weapon is pointed. Don't be lollygagging around, staring off every which way, and waving your gun around."
Being a person who is seldom given to lollygagging, I thought I could handle that one.
"Now. Loading the weapon." He pulled the gun from its holster. He slid a full magazine of bullets into the handle. Next he held it out to me, guiding my hands to hold it correctly.
"This is a Beretta 9mm semi-automatic weapon," he said. "That means after you fire your first shot, it's cocked and ready to fire another, and another, until the clip is empty. You can't forget that. The gun is hot unless you de-cock it." He showed me how.
"Here's how you aim it." He drew a little sketch to show me how to line up the front and back sights.
"Shall I demonstrate?"
I was glad to let him have first shot, although I was beginning to feel a little intrigued by the whole process. From the box he first pulled out two headsets. "Always wear your ears for practice," he said. "Otherwise, you'll be deaf before you know it." We both slipped the "ears" on.
Ron gripped the gun, taking time to show me how to hold it, to avoid being smacked by the slide as it automatically loaded the next bullet. I stood back as he aimed and fired. Fifteen shots in as many seconds.
"You want to shoot now, or shall we check the target first?"
"Let me shoot some, then we can check them both." Careful, Charlie, you'll start sounding enthusiastic.
I took the gun, replaced the empty magazine with a full one, just like Ron showed me, then imitated his stance in aiming at the target. Slowly and carefully I lined up the sights, just like he'd said. Slowly and carefully I pulled the trigger. Four more times.
"Okay," he shouted. "Let's check the target before you fire them all. Until you get used to the gun, you're just wasting bullets unless you know where they're going."
I remembered to de-cock the gun before lowering it.
"Always flip the safety on if you're going to carry the gun around," he said.
I did. I even remembered to point the gun off to the side as we walked down range. Of Ron's fifteen shots, twelve were in the black area of the target.
"Wow," he said, "I'm sure out of practice."
Of my five shots, two were in the white outer area. The other three were nowhere to be seen. I couldn't believe it. I'd aimed so carefully.
"See why you don't want to own a gun if you never practice with it?" he said.
I was beginning to see that maybe both the gun control people and gun advocates had their points.
"What happened? I was so careful in my aiming."
"It just takes a lot of practice, and being thoroughly familiar with your own weapon. They're all different. Come on, we'll mark these shots, and you can do some more."
He gave me a couple of pointers, and I fired five more shots. This time all five were on the target, one in the black area. All fifteen of Ron's shots went into the black this time. Four of them were in the smallest inner circle. On the next round, Ron allowed me to move in a little closer to the targets.
"If you were shooting an intruder in the house, he wouldn't be twenty-five yards away. Practice awhile at about fifteen yards."
My improvement was immediate. I fired fifteen shots, ten of which were in the black. I was actually beginning to enjoy this. We took turns, firing from the fifteen yard mark part of the time, and from twenty-five yards at other times. By the end of two hours, I was getting all my shots on the target. My success with the bullseye was sporadic. My arms were beginning to tremble from the strain.
"What did you think?" Ron asked, as we packed away the stuff. "Kind of fun, huh?"
I have a difficult time admitting a change in attitude, but I think he knew. He was cool enough about it not to say I-told-you-so.
"We can come out again, anytime you want," he said. "I try to get out here two or three times a week."
I told him to count me in. By the time he dropped me back at the office where I'd left my Jeep parked, the sun was low in the sky. I felt tired and dusty, but I was also starving.
"How about enchiladas at Pedro's?" I invited.
No one who's ever had them can turn down enchiladas at Pedro's. He decided to follow me there.
Pedro's missed being a tourist attraction by about a block. Just off the main plaza in Old Town, most visitors pass it by in favor of the expensive places. It's a small adobe building, with living quarters at the back where Pedro and his wife Concha settled after their kids all grew up. The two of them take turns cooking, tending bar, and waiting tables. They make the best margarita in town, and enchiladas that non-New Mexicans can't even imagine.
Two of the five parking spaces out front were taken. Ron and I filled two more. I recognized one of the vehicles as a dusty pickup truck belonging to Manny, a regular here. The other also looked local, so I figured it was safe to take Rusty in. Pedro saves me a corner table, where Rusty enjoys his own shadowy spot and waits for tortilla chips to fall his way. As long as the place isn't crowded, which is rare, Pedro doesn't worry about this little violation of the health code.
Inside, a large Mexican carved wooden bar fills the entire back wall. There are half a dozen tables. Manny sat at his regular spot, which is across the room from my regular spot. He raised his shot glass to me as we entered. He wears beaten down jeans with thick brown boots, either a striped or plaid shirt (tonight was the stripe), and a straw hat that looks like it's been stomped on by more than a few horses. His leathery brown face always has about three days growth of black and white speckled beard. His dusty fingers are usually wrapped around a shot glass of tequila. He wins his drinks by betting with gringos on how hot he can take his chile. Pedro claims Manny has the insides of a teenager.
Rusty went straight to his corner, while Ron and I took seats across from each other. Pedro had smiled his big white smile as we came in. He was occupied with taking an order from those at the other table, but still managed to get our drink order by raising two fingers toward us then pointing at the bar. I nodded. Two minutes later, we each had a glass of foaming margarita with salt crystals thick on the rim.
"So! When does that special man get here?" Concha caught me in mid-sip. She beamed down at me like the mother of the bride. She tends to move my relationships along faster than I do.
"Day after tomorrow," I answered.
"Well, you bring him here first thing," she instructed. "Papa and I gotta approve this guy, you know."
I hoped Drake was ready for this. Having been an independent soul all his life, I wasn't sure how he'd take to being adopted by the local restaurateurs. Well, he'd have to learn.
Meanwhile, Pedro appeared with two steaming plates of chicken enchiladas, smothered in green chile sauce, and topped with sour cream.
"So, what did you and Sally end up doing on your drive north?" Ron asked.
I told him about our visit to Laura Armijo and about the death of her friend, Cynthia. How Sally had wanted to stay over, and find out what happened.
"It seemed strange to me, Ron, how the doctor didn't seem the least bit concerned about whether Cynthia's husband had caused the miscarriage. He tried to make light of it, but he was keeping something from us."
"Well, even if he knew or suspected abuse he can't discuss that with everyone who asks. Doctor/patient confidentiality, remember? After all, you aren't a law officer. You didn't even know this woman."
Guess that put me in my place. He was correct, but that didn't make it right. If Richard had beaten Cynthia, shouldn't he be held accountable?
We finished our enchiladas, slurped the last of the salt off the margarita glasses, and chatted a few more minutes with Pedro and Concha before leaving. Somehow, though, I couldn't forget Cynthia's face.
Chapter 8
"The abuser will almost always be contrite afterward. He'll plead forgiveness, he'll promise it won't happen again, he may even cry as he's making these promises."
I looked around at the women in the room. Several heads were nodding.
"Or he'll try to make it seem like your fault. He had to hit you because you were bad or stupid."
More heads nodded.
I'd looked up the battered women's shelter in the phone book, and decided to attend a group counseling session without letting on what I was up to. The speaker was a woman of about thirty-five or so, dressed casually in a cotton batik print skirt and loose fitting cotton sweater. Her blond hair framed her face with permed curls. Her slim hands worked as she talked, as though trying to paint a better picture for those she spoke to.
The ten women in the room were various ages, shapes, and backgrounds. Some had small children with them. The kids had been encouraged to play in another room at the beginning of the session.
"The thing you have to remember," she continued, emphasizing each word, "is that even if you do a stupid thing, it doesn't give anyone the right to hit you. The abuser is the one who's wrong, not the victim."
"But why does he do this to me?" The questioner was a young woman, no more than twenty, with a purple bruise next to her left eye.
"Because he's got problems," the speaker told her. "Problems that started long before you came into the picture. He continues this behavior because he gets away with it."
"But I've tried fighting back," another woman said. She was in her fifties, the kind of woman who should have been sitting on the front porch with a grandchild on her lap. "He just gets more violent. I've tried leaving, but he threatens, or worse yet, he'll cry."
The questions became more emotional, but the answers were always sensible and calm. I couldn't imagine staying with someone who treated me the way these women described. But then, I hadn't been faced with that decision. In college I'd been engaged once. His name was Brad North, and two weeks before the wedding he'd eloped with my best friend, Stacy. I run into Stacy every now and then. She and Brad live
in the most upscale part of town, she drives a Mercedes, has gorgeous clothes and lots of jewelry. But something in her face always remains tight, hidden. Much like some of the looks I was seeing here today. I don't know what secrets she hides, but I'm thankful to have narrowly escaped that trap.
My mind wandered away from the questions and answers. I found myself watching the women's faces, their emotions, for clues about Cynthia. What little characteristics could I ask Laura about? Cynthia must have dropped hints as to what was going on. I thought of the way Richard had looked that night, his haggard face, his tangled hair, his red rimmed eyes.
The session was over, and the women gathered at the back of the room for coffee and donuts. I slipped out the back door. I thought I had heard enough for now.
Outside, the air was still and hot enough to bake cookies. The sky was a deep solid blue. No sign of a rain cloud. Cicadas scratched out their rhythmic, tiresome noise. It was the fourth day in a row of hundred degree temperatures, and I was ready for a break. By the time we got any storms everything would be just dry enough to make top grade fuel for the lightning. I thought again of the forests around Valle Escondido.
At the office, Sally had left a note on my desk. Laura Armijo had called. According to Sally's comment on the note, "She said it wasn't urgent, but I get the feeling it is." I dialed the number, but there was no answer.
Ron's note said he would be at the County Courthouse researching public records all afternoon. There were no appointments scheduled, I had my own work fairly well caught up, so I decided to switch on the answering machine and go home.
Rusty was glad to see me. Usually he goes to the office with me, but today, knowing that I'd be at that meeting quite awhile, I'd left him home. He raced around the backyard several times to express his joy, then flopped on the floor at my feet while I flipped through the mail. Drake had sent a copy of his itinerary so I'd know what time to pick him up at the airport. Tomorrow already. I hoped his time here wouldn't fly by as quickly as these last few days had.
Small Towns Can Be Murder Page 4
