In Self-Defense

by A. W. Gray

  Sharon rolled her eyes. “Jesus Christ, the crime-scene people? As if we don’t all know who did this.”

  “We’ve got to gather evidence, Miss Hays, you know that.”

  Sharon had a twinge of conscience. As opposed to the time they’d come by after the poisoned-meat incident, both cops now seemed attentive and concerned. “Sorry to be so bitchy,” she said. “And, sure I’ll—”

  Her gaze was through the arched entry into the dining room, on the long, polished mahogany table. The letter she’d put there so carefully, the letter from Melanie, was gone.

  Panic surged as Sharon looked the table over end to end. Could she be mistaken? No. She’d put Melanie’s letter right there. The envelope had shown Melanie’s return address at Sky Ranch. God, she thought, he’s taken it. The filthy bastard has taken Melanie’s letter.

  The skinny cop sat forward on the loveseat. “Something wrong?”

  Sharon lowered her lashes and examined her lap. She firmed up her mouth and raised her head. “Nothing’s wrong,” she said, “that wasn’t already wrong. I’ll be happy to make an inventory for you, but can it wait until Monday? I just remembered. I’ve got something to do.”

  38

  Bradford Brie had never required much sleep to get by; in fact, he regarded time spent in bed as a waste of time unless he had a woman with him. Even in the Texas Department of Corrections—when the bosses had demanded that every man pick a hundred pounds of cotton between sunup and sunset, weighing each prisoner in at the end of the day and locking the slackers up in the hole on bread and water—Brie had never slept more than two or three hours a night even though he’d been so tired it was all he could do to crawl into his upper bunk. He’d spent most of the darkness hours just staring at the ceiling while Wilfred Donello snored and snorted just a couple of feet beneath him. As Donello dreamed on, Bradford Brie made plans. It was during one of those sleepless nights that he’d hatched his escape plot, and it had been the escape which bought him four whole days with the big-legged farmer woman. Those four days, Brie thought, had been the best ninety-six hours of his life, in complete control while the woman waited on him hand and foot and gave him sex whenever he wanted. Never before or since had Brie been so totally in control. A fucking king, that’s what he’d been.

  So at one o’clock in the morning, six hours after he’d returned home from Sharon Hays’ house, Brie hadn’t so much as thought of going to bed. He was too wired up to fall asleep even if he’d wanted to. What a victory, huh? He’d taken care of old Fido once and for all, then had left his calling card right there in her bedroom. Finding the letter from the little girl had been a bonus.

  Brie lay on his sofa, reading the letter by the light of his one unshaded lamp. The sofa was green chintz with a tiny rose pattern, and one exposed spring kept poking him in the hip. He wore white cotton pants which were grimy around the cuffs, along with a loud Hawaiian shirt which had a dirty ring around the collar. His sunglasses lay on a nearby table with the earpieces sticking up. As he read, he scratched his big bent honker of a nose.

  So the kid liked riding horses, huh? Well, old Bradford Brie had something for her to ride, and just thinking about the scrawny pipe-stem legs and bony little ass caused his pogo stick to come to life. He reached down to squeeze between his legs.

  He glanced at the clock. Two hours at the most, he figured, maybe an hour to find this—he picked up the envelope and squinted to read the postmark—Van, Texas, burg, another hour to roust one of the local yokels who could point him to the camp. According to what the little girl had written to old mommy-cunt, the campers had some free time to walk back to their cabins after breakfast. That’s when Brie was going to take the kid. He’d step casually out from behind a tree, and she’d look at him with trusting brown eyes. He’d tell her, I got a message from your mommy, sweetie, and then the kid would about piss in her pants to know what mommy had to say. Well, your fucking dog’s dead, little girl, that’s what he’d tell her then, and he’d let her have it, bam, right between the eyes. Then he’d carry her to his LeBaron convertible and away they’d go. Before she knew what hit her, they’d be tooling along some Florida beach, and she’d be his for as long as he wanted.

  The kid would want to know about her dog, and Brie had taken a picture of the fallen German shepherd with just that in mind. Here your fucking mutt is, little girl, and if you don’t want to wind up just like him, you’ll do as old Bradford Brie tells you. She would likely begin to snivel at that point, but a good hard one right where it counted would get her in line in a hurry. Brie had experience with captives. At first the girl would be afraid just like the farmer woman had been. After a month or so on the road, however, she’d beg him to do her, because she’d understand that him doing her was better than the alternative.

  From the moment he’d walked out of the Lew Sterrett Justice Center, Brie’s number one goal—after his unfinished business with Sharon Hays, of course—had been to put at least a thousand miles between his own behind and Dallas County, Texas. He was no dummy. Maybe he’d never been too smart in school, he thought, but he had some education that school guys never dreamed about.

  Like many convicts, Brie knew the Code of Criminal Procedure backward and forward, and had a solid understanding of the manner in which assistant district attorneys conducted business. From the moment he’d learned of the murder indictment’s dismissal, he had waited for the other shoe to fall. He was certain that the DA would now charge him with the break-in at the lawyer lady’s house, and when he’d walked out of the jail and no one had been waiting with another warrant, he couldn’t believe it. On the way home, he’d gotten the picture. Sure, he’d thought, it’s Friday afternoon. What a break, huh? Any other day of the week they’d have had a second warrant before a man could say Jack Fucking Robinson. On Friday afternoon, the ADA assigned to the break-in at Sharon Hays’ house would either be fucking off on the golf course or drinking beer in some honky-tonk. Brie’s best estimate was that the new charges wouldn’t go to the grand jury until the following Thursday, but he wasn’t taking any chances. By Monday morning he intended to be long gone. Along with the little girl.

  Christ, but he’d always wanted to go to Florida, lie on the beach, and watch the women in their itty-bitty bikinis. He’d known a few Florida guys while in prison, and his mouth had watered as he’d listened to stories about palm trees by the millions and enough imported cocaine to keep a man in orbit for centuries. The most popular TV show in the Texas Department of Corrections had been Miami Vice, and Brie had never missed a single episode. On the Florida coast the living would be easy, and carrying his meal ticket along with him would insure that he’d never want for money. Anytime Brie ran short of cash, why, he’d just sprawl the little girl out in a motel room and snap a few pictures. He knew just where to sell the photos, too; no place in the world had as many old people’s homes as southern Florida. Just give Bradford Brie a gang of horny old bastards with nothing to do but sit around and watch the sunset, and he would live off the fat of the land.

  It was time to go. If he left right now he’d be in this—he picked up the envelope and checked the postmark once more—Van, Texas, by three in the morning. Brie folded the letter and crammed it into his hip pocket, then sat up to put on canvas tennis shoes. Adios, motherfuckers, was all he had to say to Dallas County, Texas. So long, see you later, I’m outta here.

  He retrieved his wide-brimmed straw hat from the arm of the couch and put on his sunglasses. They were so dark that he could barely see at night, but that didn’t matter. Appearances were what counted, and Brie considered that the shades made him look every bit as sexy as Newman in Hud. Softly humming the opening bars to “Ain’t That a Shame,” by Fats Domino, Brie went out on the porch and sucked in warm summer night air. His suitcase lay empty in the LeBaron’s trunk; he’d go get his luggage and hurry to pack. And then, he thought, Florida here I come. He hop-skipped across the porch and stepped dow
n on the weed-infested yard.

  Jesus, with his sunglasses on he hadn’t even noticed the woman. But suddenly there she stood, not five feet from him, her feet spread apart, right arm extended in his direction, left hand clamped on her wrist, holding a … He grinned slightly as he removed his sunglasses, then looked straight down the bore of one big fucking gun.

  Bradford Brie spread his hands, palms out. His sunglasses dangled by an earpiece from his fingers. He said, “Now, look.”

  And Sharon Hays said calmly, “Back inside.”

  Sharon had called on her old friend Doris once more, this time to help her coax up Bradford Brie’s address from computerized jail records. Even with the aid of a Mapsco, she’d had a terrible time finding the house. Oak Cliff was an endless succession of twisty, narrow avenues with broken, uneven pavement, all of which seemed to lead up one blind alley and down another. Streets changed names without rhyme or reason; Willow Avenue would become Tanner Boulevard, continue a few blocks under that title, then suddenly become Willow Avenue once more. Even when she was certain she’d located the right house, the numbers were missing from both curb and mailbox. She’d been about ready to throw up her hands when she’d spotted the car, the same old Chrysler LeBaron convertible as he’d driven on the night he’d broken into her house. The LeBaron sat in the drive on bald, dusty tires. A dead calm came over her as she parked a half block down the street, pulled on thin latex gloves she’d bought in an all-night drugstore, dug the .44 Bulldog out of her glove compartment, and walked up in the yard to wait.

  And there she’d stood, gun in hand, for almost an hour, and four or five times she’d nearly lost her nerve. The police will eventually get him, she’d told herself, then had remembered that he’d already been safely in custody once and that Dallas County had let him slip away. If she’d only had herself to worry about, she very likely would have turned tail and run, but the scum had taken Melanie’s letter. There was nothing Sharon wouldn’t do to protect her little girl.

  And all of a sudden—boom!—there he was, ambling across the porch wearing those dumb-looking sunglasses, gangly arms swinging at his sides. He was humming. The SOB was singing, jolly old him, just hours after he’d shot her dog, gone into her bedroom, her most private and personal place in this entire world and … Sharon’s heart turned instantly to flint. There was no doubt in her mind that she could shoot this man.

  “Back inside,” she said again.

  He showed a look-at-me-I’m-harmless grin and put on his sunglasses. “Hey, now. You don’t want to do nothing foolish, not to a man staying at home and minding his own business. Same as you ought to be doing, lady.”

  She didn’t say a word. She eared back the hammer with two soft clicks.

  He backed slowly up on the porch, his hands spread, his knees flexed, looking for an opening, any sign at all that her guard was down. He moved into the shadow of the overhang, only his feet in moonlight now, his big straw hat like headgear for the invisible man. “You got no idea what you’re doing, you know?” he said.

  “Open the fucking door and go inside,” she said.

  He hesitated, reaching behind him, and pulled the handle. The door creaked outward. He backed over the threshold. “Hey, no use to cuss a man. Nice lawyer lady like you, you never done anything like this. You know what, you might be even scareder that I am. You just might be, you know?”

  She held the barrel of the .44 about two inches from his chin and followed him into the house. His grin was frozen on his face. The stench of grease-cooked meat assaulted her nostrils. “You have my daughter’s letter,” she said. “Where is it?”

  His voice was a singsong chant, his manner taunting. “Well, now. What letter would you be talking about, lady? You come here to rob me or something? You got them gloves on, you must be one of them big bad criminal people. Scare a man to death, you know?”

  She pointed the Bulldog at the floor between his feet and pulled the trigger, bracing herself just as she’d practiced. The gun blasted and slammed hard against her palm; the slug tore a fist-sized hole in the floor, ricocheted from the concrete foundation, and buried itself in the ceiling. The odor of burnt gunpowder obscured the meat smell.

  “Goddamn, lady, you be careful with that thing.” He dug the letter out, his tone now a frightened octave higher. “You hurt somebody, you’re going to be in trouble.”

  “No need to cuss a woman, Mr. Brie,” she said. “I want your gun now.” She glanced at the page, recognized Melanie’s handwriting, stowed the letter in her jeans, and steadied the Bulldog.

  Slowly, walking on tiptoes, his chin moving up and down as his gaze roamed from the Bulldog to Sharon’s face and back again, Brie went into the kitchen. Sharon followed two paces behind, tense and alert, watching his feet. His feet will move first if he rushes me, she thought. She hoped he did charge. Sharon had never in her life felt the kind of hatred for any human being which coursed through her at that moment. She fleetingly pictured Melanie in this creature’s grasp, and very nearly pulled the trigger right then and there. She stepped on something sticky, lifted her foot, and placed it gingerly to one side.

  He opened a cabinet drawer and reached in. She steadied the Bulldog. “By the barrel,” she said.

  “Sure, by the barrel. Old Brad Brie’s no idiot, no, ma’am. Lady points a gun, I do what she says. Now, you be careful with that thing.” Brie showed a broad grin as he lifted a .45 automatic from the drawer, holding the barrel between his thumb and forefinger.

  Sharon stepped forward, took the .45 in her left hand, laid the Bulldog on the counter, and switched Brie’s pistol to her right. “Go in there and sit on the sofa,” she said.

  He retreated into the grungy living room, backed up to the couch, and lowered himself slowly down, all the while keeping up the singsong banter. “I know what you’re thinking, lady. But I’m out of jail legitimate. If you shoot me you’ve had it, you know? You can’t do nothing to me. I’m just a citizen minding his own business.” His look was uncertain, the chatter coming a mile a minute, the mouth slack with …

  Fear. The man was scared out of his wits, and his terror surprised Sharon. That night at her house, when he’d waited for her outside her shower stall, he’d seemed so totally … so totally evil that she’d supposed nothing could make him afraid. His terrified babbling aroused a strange sense of pity in her in spite of herself. She shored up her determination. Pity? she thought. For him? She held the .45 in both hands, cocked the hammer, and squinted down the barrel. He knew what was coming; his mouth gaped open and his rapid speech dissolved at once into a whine. She steadied her aim, increased the pressure on the trigger, squeezing, squeezing, and …

  And couldn’t do it. Try as she might, she couldn’t move her finger the final fraction of an inch required to blow the vermin into kingdom come. It was as if her hand was frozen. Shooting someone down in cold blood simply wasn’t in her. Oh, my sweet Jesus Christ, she thought, I cannot do it.

  She slowly lowered the pistol. Sharon Hays the avenger was suddenly Sharon Hays the lonely and frightened. The realization that Bradford Brie wasn’t going to die after all brought her a strange sense of relief. He straightened on the sofa, and his plastic grin returned. He snugged up his sunglasses on his nose. “Now you’re being smart,” he said. “Come on, give me the gun and you can go on home.”

  She gestured with the pistol. “Don’t you move a muscle or I will shoot you.” Her words sounded more frightened than forceful. She swallowed. Christ, now what was she to do? Phone, she thought dully. Call Teeter, Mr. I-don’t-like-people-calling-me-at-home Edward Teeter, and have the moron of an assistant DA send someone out here to arrest this guy. Breath escaped from between her lips in a rush as she glanced to her right. There was a black princess phone on the kitchen counter. “Don’t move, do you understand me?” she said, and edged sideways toward the telephone.

  And that’s when Bradford Brie committed suicid
e.

  The next three seconds would haunt Sharon for the rest of her life, and she would wonder over and over what went on in the lunatic’s mind. Likely he thought a woman would never have the nerve. For whatever reason, his smile dissolved into a sneer and up he came, bounding from the sofa, taking one long stride in her direction, two, and …

  Later she would be certain that she closed her eyes at the final instant. Her reaction, she would be sure, was pure reflex, the tightening of her hand on the pistol more an act of fear than anything else. The .45 erupted with a deafening blast which shook the walls. Sharon’s hand jerked upward; she yanked the trigger to send a second bullet rocketing into the ceiling.

  The first slug had caught him dead center in the left eye. Over he went, tumbling over the back of the couch with his arms flailing. As Sharon watched, the top portion of his head simply disappeared, his grin intact as he fell out of sight and thudded to the floor. The silence after the thud was louder to her than the gunshots had been. The wall behind the couch was spattered in red, garishly bright in the light from the one unshaded lamp.

  Sharon stood frozen in place for long seconds, then let the pistol dangle beside her hip. Fearfully, each step an effort, she walked up to peer down over the back of the couch. Her feet were numb. Bradford Brie lay on his side with his neck oddly twisted, his one remaining eye staring at nothing. His sunglasses lay shattered amid fragments of bone and gray pieces of brain matter. Sharon whimpered, dropped the gun beside the corpse, staggered into the kitchen, bent over the sink, and turned the water on. She threw up over and over, retching until there was nothing left inside her, then dry-heaving as she crumpled to the floor.

  She might have passed out for a few seconds; she wasn’t sure. When her head cleared she was lying face-up on the linoleum. She struggled to rise, slipped and fell, and finally gripped the counter to hoist herself up. Go, she thought, I must go. Her .44 Bulldog lay on the counter. She picked it up and ran. The screen door banged the wall behind her as she charged across the porch, the wind whipping her hair and drying the inside of her mouth as her footsteps jarred across the uneven yard. When she finally made the half block to stand beside her Volvo, she leaned against the side of the car and retched. Then, her fingers trembling, her breath coming in tortured gasps, she fell in behind the wheel and drove away. It was an accident, she thought. It had to be an accident.