He takes out three automatics, lays them on the counter in front of me.
“What’s the difference, besides price?”
“Whatever feels good in your hand.”
I pick up each gun in turn. A chill wind blows through me as I heft them. This is a true turning point for me. I’ve always been down on guns. They kill people, that’s their purpose. Which is why I’m going to buy one today.
“I think I like the feel of this one,” I say, handing one over.
“Sig Sauer. Priciest, but an excellent choice. More movie stars carry this weapon than any other, did you know that?”
“I didn’t, as a matter of fact, but I’ll take your word for it. Can I take it with me?”
He shakes his head. “There’s a seven-day waiting period while your application’s being processed.” He pauses. “You need it right away?”
“I hope not. But you never know.”
He thinks a minute. “You don’t have a record, do you? No murders, arsons, rapes, any of that tawdry shit?”
“None they can trace back to me.”
He walks to the front of the store, locks it, turns the sign on the door from OPEN to CLOSED, comes back to me. “I’m gonna let you take it now,” he says quietly, as if we’re being eavesdropped on, “then I’ll adjust the purchase order date once you clear officially.”
I wonder how many times he’s done this before. I’m sure I’m not the first customer he’s made this exception for, and I’m also sure he isn’t the only licensed dealer who does this.
“Thanks, Billy. ’Preciate it.”
He puts the gun into a spiffy leather case. “Case is on me, since you’re my ol’ pard. You need ammo?”
I buy two boxes of shells—full-metal jackets for target practice, hollow-points for the real deal. Billy tells me they’ll stop a bull moose. That’s what I want, maximum stopping power.
“Kill a commie for mommy,” he advises me as I count out the money. I’m paying cash—less paperwork to get me into trouble with.
“Ain’t no commies left, Billy,” I tell him. “Cold War’s over.”
“Two billion Chinese beg to differ. Anyway, the real threat’s within. Always has been, always will be,” he says, spoken like a true believer.
“Pray for Charlton Heston,” I tell him as I’m walking out the door.
“I pray for all sinners,” he replies. “But you’ve gotta back up your prayers from the end of a gun barrel sometimes.”
“The meek shall inherit the earth, Billy.”
“Not while I’m still on it.”
• • •
I sit in my house and load my new purchase with full-metal jackets. Then I stuff cotton in my ears, walk outside, set some empty beer bottles on a level piece of ground, pace off thirty steps, and start firing away.
I don’t hit any bottles, but I bring up large clouds of dust, some close to the targets. Reloading, I cut the distance in half and try again. This time I hit two out of the six. Good enough for what I need—I’m not going to be using this thing unless I can see the whites of their eyes.
Back in the house, hefting the lethal weapon in my hand, I think about what I’ve done today, and the anger I feel at myself, that I’ve been sublimating, finally rises to the surface, a bilious gorge in my mouth.
What the hell am I doing owning a gun? How have I come to this state? I hate guns and everything they stand for. I’ve turned my core values on their head. For what?
I had a hole in my life, and something came along that filled it—the pursuit of justice. So I thought, and still do, on a righteously indignant level. Murder shouldn’t be allowed to go unpunished. But I’m not the one who should be administering the punishment. If I take that responsibility myself, how much better am I than those I’m judging? And if I am afraid of retaliation, why am I not backing off?
• • •
Maureen calls after ten. She’s in Cambridge, if I need to talk to her I have her cell phone number.
“I miss you,” I tell her.
“Me, too.” She pauses. “Darling.”
That washes through me like an electric current, hearing her use that word. We’re serious. We’re partway to being a couple. Maybe more than partway.
“When’re you coming home?” I ask her. Not “going” home, as to Boston, where she is, but “coming,” as to my little abode.
“Day after tomorrow, I hope. I have some loose ends to tie up here. As soon as I can,” she promises.
Loose ends? I tense. I’d assumed the friend she was seeing was a woman. But maybe it’s a man. An old beau; or a current one, more likely? Will she be in bed with him after we hang up, or will she tell him it’s over, she’s met the man she’s going to be spending the rest of her life with. Or neither, it really is a woman friend she’s with.
Don’t ask, don’t tell. I’ll find out, soon enough. If this is only a dream, I don’t want to wake up yet.
But she did call me “darling,” and she did say she was coming back.
“What have you been doing today?” she asks. “You haven’t done anything reckless, have you?”
I bought a gun. That qualifies as reckless in my book. But I don’t tell her that, it would scare the hell out of her.
“You need to be careful, Fritz,” she cautions me yet again. “Being away makes me realize how defenseless you are out there.”
I’ve thought the same thing. That’s why I bought the gun.
“I’ll be okay,” I say, trying to reassure her—and myself. “I’ll be watchful.”
“I feel like coming back right now. I could be there tonight.”
Wouldn’t that be lovely? But it would be selfish, too.
“There’s no reason to. I’ll be all right.”
“If you promise me to be careful. I really do have unfinished business here, some administrative problems that’re too boring to talk about.”
So it isn’t a man. I feel a weight lifting off my shoulders.
“I’ll be careful. I promise.”
“No more Wallace, or Roach, or anything about this? Can you let it go, Fritz? Can you?”
• • •
Maureen’s caution about my vulnerability gets my paranoia up and running. I decide to set up a warning system on my dirt road, which is the only passageway in here (except via the creek in back, which is virtually unnavigable if you haven’t done it countless times). I can’t imagine Wallace trying to ambush me that way, he’s so uncomfortable on the water.
I call my mother, make some feeble small talk, ensure that she isn’t planning on surprising me later tonight with a spontaneous, unexpected visit. She’s done that a couple of times, although never after dark; like most older people she doesn’t see that well at night, she doesn’t like to drive or venture out past her home boundaries.
After she scolds me for not paying enough attention to her and gets my promise that I’ll come to dinner soon and bring my delightful new girlfriend, I go outside to my perimeter and crudely booby-trap my entrance. My road, like many in this area, is covered with crushed oyster shells. I sprinkle some M-80s and other firecrackers that I brought with me from Texas (in case I wanted to celebrate a future Fourth of July the old-fashioned way) on top of the shells. If anything comes down the lane, driving or even walking, the pressure from their tire or boot will set off the explosives. It will also scare the shit out of whoever’s trying to violate my space. I know this for a fact, because I’ve done it before, as a prank. If it happens now it’ll be for real.
The question, of course, is what will I do if someone comes calling? I don’t have an answer. I have a gun and bullets, but I can’t see myself using them on a nighttime invader. Still, I make sure my new weapon of destruction is loaded and ready by my bedside.
No one pays me a visit, but I don’t sleep a lick anyway. At first light I drag myself out of bed, where I’ve been lying rigidly, and clear my road of the firecrackers. Then I go back inside and give some serious thought to how I’m going
to resolve this mess I’ve gotten myself into.
Being alone with my birds is the most therapeutic activity I do. I can admire their beauty, their uniqueness, their total birdness. Unlike humans, who have to think to be human, they merely have to be. So that’s where I go. I sit on the ground and watch them from a careful distance, marveling about how easy life would be if I could only let that happen. I don’t keep track of time, I go by feel—when it gets too hot in the sun to be comfortable I go back to my house, catching a glimpse of Roach’s property from the river. Nothing’s happening there, at least nothing I can see.
Back inside my shack, I have a red one for medicinal purposes, followed by a strong cup of coffee. My thinking lamp is lit about Wallace. He’s the immediate imperative for me now, until I can get with Buster—his role in all this, and his true relationship to Roach. As I’m trying to figure out how to start that exploration, the telephone rings.
“Fritz Tullis?” A woman’s voice. Deep, commanding. Not a voice I know.
“Who’s calling?” I ask distrustfully. I’m distrustful of everything now, particularly voices I don’t know.
“Are you Mr. Tullis?” The caller sounds impatient, aggravated.
“Yes, this is Fritz Tullis.” I’m testy, I don’t need attitude from a stranger over the phone, I have enough crap I’m already dealing with. “Who are you?”
She answers in a tone that is not friendly. “This is Lieutenant Mabel Ricketts, Prince Georges County police department.”
I freeze. What the hell do the Prince Georges police want with me?
“Mr. Tullis?”
“Yes, I’m here. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”
“We’d like to talk to you, Mr. Tullis.”
“What about?” I ask suspiciously.
“We’ll discuss that when you get here,” she says firmly.
“Where is here?”
“Our main station, in Palmer Park. Are you familiar with the area?”
“More or less. But I want to know what you want to talk to me about, and why I have to come up there.”
I can hear her annoyed sigh hum over the wire. “Look, Mr. Tullis. We have a situation here. You may be able to help us. Now you can come up here voluntarily or I can get a warrant and have a sheriff come down to where you are and pick you up. I’ve already got the warrant made up, and the judge is across the street waiting to sign it, so it’s no skin off my nose. Your decision.”
Jesus, I think, what the hell is going on? “That’s not much of a choice,” I complain.
“It’s the only one you have,” she replies immovably.
“Okay.” This is fucked. “I’ll come up there. Let me check my calendar.”
“We’d like to interview you as soon as possible, Mr. Tullis. In other words, now.”
• • •
Ricketts’s directions in hand, I head up Highway 5. My mood is foul, and it isn’t improved when I run into a roadblock in Charles County that’s caused by an eighteen-wheeler which has jackknifed across all the northbound lanes on the highway, stopping traffic dead in its tracks. I sit in my car with hundreds of other frustrated drivers, muttering to myself.
The truck is finally cleared to the side of the highway and the traffic inches by. Then it’s pedal to the metal, changing from Highway 5 to U.S. 301, then again to Highway 202, the main drag into Palmer Park, one eye on the road while the other checks the rearview mirror for cops—there’s a notorious speed trap around the Upper Marlboro area. But I make it without seeing a single cop. It must be my lucky day.
I’m almost an hour late. I’d thought about calling Ricketts from the road and explaining the delay, but then I decided, to hell with it. I’m the one being inconvenienced, for reasons she won’t divulge. I’m coming here under duress. Let them cool their heels. What’re they going to do, throw me in jail for not having a tardy slip from my mother?
The station is a fairly new light-brick building, one story, with several flags—county, state, U.S.—flying in front. I park and go inside, clear through the security gate, and announce myself to the duty sergeant at the front desk. A moment later a stocky, middle-aged black woman in civilian attire, an ID badge clipped to her waist, comes out to meet me.
“Mr. Tullis?” She squints at me. A cop’s look, suspicious of everything and everybody. I should start to cultivate such a look. She doesn’t ask why I’m late, it’s trivial to her, I guess. I’m here, that’s what counts.
I nod. I’m going to play this cool.
“Mabel Ricketts.” She offers her hand. I shake it. It’s calloused, and her grip is firm. She must chop trees down for recreation. “Come with me, please.”
She leads me through a set of double doors, into the station proper. I follow her down a hallway, entering a door that reads CRIMINAL INVESTIGATIONS. The room is a regulation detective shop, the kind you see on every cop show on television—a bullpen area with desks facing each other, and small cubicles on the sides of the room for the brass. Ricketts qualifies as brass—she has her own eight-by-eight office, separated from the chaff by an opaque glass wall that extends halfway up to the acoustic tile ceiling.
Ricketts sits at her desk, motions to me to have the chair opposite her. She takes a notebook from a desk drawer and asks me for ID. I show her my driver’s license. She jots down the information.
“Do you know this man?” She reaches across the desk and hands me a picture. It’s a facsimile of a driver’s license. I look at it, grimace, hand it back.
“Yes.”
“For the record—do you know his name?”
“His name is Wade Wallace,” I say stiffly.
“Was,” she corrects me.
“Was?” This doesn’t sound good.
She nods. “Mr. Wallace is deceased. He was killed,” she specifies. Her tone of voice is even—all in a day’s work.
Not to me, though. I sit back in my chair. “When? Where?”
“Sometime late last night or this morning. In his house,” she adds, answering the second part of my question. “His watch was missing, ditto his wallet. Some other personal items. We don’t know everything yet, what was taken.”
“It was a robbery?” My gut reaction is that I find that hard to believe.
“Until we have evidence to the contrary, that’s how we’re labeling it.”
I’m in shock. “You wouldn’t think that could happen to someone like Wallace,” I say. “Given his training and background.”
“No,” she agrees. “You wouldn’t.” She obviously knows Wallace’s history. Shifting gears she asks, “Do you know where Wallace lived, Mr. Tullis?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I know where he worked, but I don’t know if he lived there.”
“For James Roach,” she says, keeping a tight watch on me. “Who he worked for. The assistant secretary of state.”
I nod. “Yes.”
She picks up a file, opens it, glances at the top sheet. “Wallace lived in Bowie, in this county, which is why the case is in our jurisdiction.” She puts the file aside. “Tell me what you know about the deceased.”
Is she trying to set me up? I don’t know. I’ll tell her the truth—that’s all I can do. “He handled security for James Roach.”
“And you know James Roach?”
“Yes, we’re neighbors.”
She makes a note in her notebook.
“Do you know what he used to do, before his present job?” she continues with her questioning. “The dead man, not Roach.”
“I think he was in the military, in some capacity. He may have worked for the CIA, but I’m not sure about that. He was a creepy guy, that I can attest to.” Screw the convention of not speaking ill of the dead—I’m not going to sugarcoat Wallace, just because he’s been killed. He was a prick. I’m sure he pissed a lot of people off.
She grunts, a verbal shrug, briefly refers to the material in the file again. “Do you own a firearm, Mr. Tullis?”
Her question catches me off guard. “
No,” I answer reflexively; immediately, I know that was the wrong answer. “No, I don’t.”
Technically, my answer is true—I don’t officially own my new Sig Sauer automatic, the paperwork hasn’t cleared yet, Billy Higgins would have notified me. Still, it was the wrong answer. I hope I don’t get tripped up on it. Looking across the desk at this woman, I’m afraid I might.
Too late, now. I’m going to have to brazen it out.
She stares at me for a moment, then sits back. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Wallace?” she asks.
“A few days ago. Why?”
She doesn’t answer my question—she has her own agenda, and we’re going to follow it.
“There was bad blood between you and Wallace, wasn’t there.” It’s a rhetorical question.
“Yes,” I say honestly. “He almost killed me, once.”
“That was an accident, wasn’t it?” she asks. Obviously, she’s talked to others already regarding the incident on Roach’s yacht.
“I guess. But if he hadn’t missed me by inches, it wouldn’t have mattered whether it was accidental or not, would it?”
“Did you hate him enough to want to kill him back?” she asks, ignoring my question. “Accidental or otherwise?”
“I don’t hate anyone enough to want to kill them,” I reply strongly. I don’t like the direction this conversation is taking. “That’s not me.”
Another glance at the documents in front of her. “This last time you saw the deceased. That was on your mother’s property, is that correct?”
“Our family’s property, that’s correct.”
“And at that time . . .” She pauses momentarily, then gives me a strong, direct look. “At that time, did you assault Mr. Wallace and threaten him with further bodily harm?”
Oh, shit.
“According to eyewitnesses”—she glances at her notes—“you hit Mr. Wallace hard enough to draw blood, and you also told him that if you ever saw him again, there was going to be a problem. One could infer that to mean an escalation of physical violence against him,” she says severely.
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