A Perfect Canvas

by Kevin Adkisson

  Chapter 24

  Eddie learned to shoot handguns before he learned to read. At the age of three, he’d shot tight groups the size of a softball resting the seven-inch barrel of a Ruger .22 on sandbags from as far as twenty-five feet away. By the time he was five, the groups were the size of a baseball and he was shooting at twice the distance. By ten, he was shooting groups the size of a golf ball from a two handed standing position. As a teen, he’d shot in high-powered pistol competitions, won medals.

  He made it a point to go out to the range once every couple of months to relax, to get out of the house, to keep his skills sharp.

  The .45 had a titanium firing pin and competition sights that glowed a dim green even in complete darkness. The double diamond checkering on the grips had been honed and additional hand checkering had been added to the steel front strap and mainspring housing to provide even better sandpaper-like grip. Hand checkering had even been added to the hammer and trigger. The pistol wouldn’t come out of Eddie’s hand if it had been dipped in baby oil.

  Eddie hit the oversized eject button, and the clip dropped into his hand. Pushing down on the top of the clip with his thumb, he made sure it was fully loaded with rounds before sliding it back up into the frame. It clicked into place. So did a doubt.

  Could he really shoot someone? He’d never shot a living thing before--he didn’t hunt--and he’d certainly never killed anyone, which was exactly what the .45 would do. Some people equated owning a firearm and target shooting with some innate ability to kill people, but Eddie knew that wasn’t the case. He’d never even considered pointing the pistol at another human being, and he certainly didn’t want to kill anyone.

  Eddie’s mouth went dry. He licked his lips.

  The clip was loaded with Black Talons bullets designed to open up like a flower. This kept the rounds from penetrating walls, which made them more ideal for home defense. Any person hit by such a round most likely wouldn’t survive even if hit in the arm or the leg. Said appendage would be blown off. But at least the assailant wouldn’t keep coming at you.

  Pulling back the slide, he chambered a round and flipped the thumb safety on. He didn’t want to live with the guilt of having killed someone, but he would use lethal force if he had to. He wanted to live.

  Eddie pulled a spare clip out of the box--not that he expected that he would need it unless a small army was planning to assault his home--and slid it into his back pocket. The clip was loaded with hollow-points, which wouldn’t be as effective as the Black Talons, but would still get the job done.

  He slipped the metal box back under the bed.

  Eddie duck-walked toward the window using the bed for what little cover it provided. He held the semi-automatic with both hands, keeping the barrel up. Once he was at the end of the bed he remained in a squatting position, situated himself where he could see through the bedroom door, down the short hall, and into the blackness of the living room while still being able to see a good amount of yard out the window.

  He waited.

  His hands were damp. He rested the butt of the .45 on the bed, sighting the barrel halfway between the bedroom door and the window. The garage door was closed. The back door was closed. The front door was locked. A closet was just behind Eddie to his right. That door was shut. The bathroom was just behind him to his left. That door was also shut. All the entrances to the bedroom were covered. He was probably being paranoid. It was probably nothing.

  His eyes shifted back and forth between each possible entrance. The door to the bedroom. The window. The door again. Eddie considered checking inside the bathroom and then the closet but decided against it. He was in a good position. If either door swung open he would see it and be able to react.

  He peered back through the window and saw the shadow of someone standing outside, maybe thirty feet away. His chest constricted. He pivoted the pistol toward the window and took aim. The streetlamp popped off and on and the shadow vanished with each pulse of light. There wasn’t someone outside. It was just the moonlight casting shadows through a tree. Eddie breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

  This would drive Paige absolutely nuts. She’d say he was being an unreasonably suspicious ass. He stood, rubbed the sweat from the back of his neck, and chuckled. He was being ridiculous. He was getting himself all worked up over nothing, over a shadow. If anyone had seen him, how he'd been acting, they would have figured him for a paranoid lunatic. If Paige had seen him, well...

  The air conditioner fan kicked on and the house groaned from the change in air pressure. Eddie shifted his feet, spinning away from the window towards the interior of the house. A silence followed that he found nearly as startling as the shadow had been. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it.

  Out the window, behind the tin barn, in the bright shutter-flash of the streetlamp, he saw the front fender of a car, a dark car. A car that someone had tried to hide behind the tin barn. A car he didn’t know.

  Someone was there. Someone was watching him.

  He turned back to the door to the bedroom. He didn’t know how he knewhe’d never before had any kind of psychic premonition--but he knew. With uncanny certainty he knew the someone wasn’t out there. They were in here. Inside his house.

  Eddie’s heart jumped like a bullfrog. A sickening feeling made its way down his spine and into his gut. It made his balls ache and his sphincter tighten.

  Squinting in an effort to force his eyes to pierce the darkness of the living room, Eddie saw nothing but black. Then the streetlamp popped on and cast a dim arm of light through the bedroom and into the living room. Again he saw a dark figure standing at the end of the light, a ghost in the darkness. He shook his head. It can’t be a ghost. But he’d been watching, studying that very spot, and he’d seen nothing there until now. The streetlamp went out.

  One part of Eddie’s mind leapt at the idea that maybe the figure was Paige returned home while another part whispered it could only be the angel of death.

  “Who’s there?” Eddie said.

  No answer came from the figure. There was only silence.

  Eddie flipped the safety off with his thumb and raised the .45. He kept the muzzle angled downward. His hands shook a little, and he took a deep breath in an attempt to steady them. He hoped for another flash from the streetlamp. He wouldn’t shoot without knowing exactly who or what he was shooting at, and he wouldn’t shoot without giving a warning.

  “Don’t come any closer,” Eddie said. “I’ve got a gun, and I’ll shoot.”

  If it was Paige, he figured she would answer. She knew he owned firearms. She wouldn’t take such a statement lightly. Still, he needed to be absolutely sure. Know your target. Know what’s beyond your target. He wished he’d turned on a light instead of leaving the house dark. He didn’t want to be one of those people who accidentally shot their spouse.

  The wood floor in the living room creaked. Eddie wondered if the figure had taken a step toward him.

  He stood his ground. “Paige?” he asked, hoping, if it was her, to prompt her into a response. “Honey, if it’s you then you need to tell me. I’m going to shoot.”

  The wood floor creaked again, and Eddie thought for sure it shifted beneath his feet. Had the figure moved closer? He couldn’t tell in the darkness.

  It couldn’t be Paige. She would have answered, said something. She wouldn’t risk getting shot. He had to be absolutely sure though. The gun felt heavier in his hands, required more force to keep it raised. Realizing it was likely he would kill whomever it was with a single shot and wanting to give them every opportunity to flee, Eddie gave the intruder one last warning.

  “Whoever you are, if you take another step I will blow a hole the size of a softball through you.”

  A burst of strobe-like light lit up the interior of the house again, Eddie saw the backlit phantom had moved closer, had crossed the living room and was nearly to the bedroom do
or. The figure looked too large to be Paige.

  Adrenaline screamed its way through Eddie’s body telling him to run, to get out of the house. The apparition had moved closer, although he’d never seen it move, and it was ignoring his warnings.

  Oh dear Jesus get out. Don’t be one of those idiots you see in horror movies standing there waiting to get murdered. Get out of here.

  But there was nowhere to go except out the window and there wasn’t time to get it open, the figure was too close.

  Eddie aimed the .45 at the place where he’d last clearly seen the figure. The pistol trembled in his hand. He brought up his other hand, cupping it under the .45 to help steady the firearm. He searched for the silhouette in the blackness, prayed for another flicker of light.

  The interior of the house lit up for a second. Eddie caught a glimpse of the face. Nicholas. No mistaking that grin. The sight of him spurred Eddie into action. Taking a deep breath, letting a little out, he aimed the pistol at Nicholas’s chest and squeezed the trigger. The hammer dropped.

  Clink.

  The handgun misfired.

  Nicholas took a couple of steps toward him. Eddie heard each thud of his heavy boots against the wood floor. He jerked the slide back chambering another round, letting the dead slug fall to the floor with a clatter.

  He brought the pistol back up. Nicholas was close enough now for Eddie to make him out even in the darkness. Eddie aimed for the chest again.

  Nicholas was in his bedroom, but he wouldn’t be there for long. The bullet would blow him back through the doorway and into the living room shredding his chest. Eddie squeezed the trigger. The hammer dropped.

  Clink.

  Eddie couldn’t believe it. A second misfire? What were the odds? Had to be astronomical. A bad batch of rounds? Couldn’t be. He’d popped off a couple Black Talon rounds from the same box just a few weeks ago. They’d been fine then. He didn’t have time to ponder the problem any longer. In two long steps, Nicholas was around the bed, nearly face to face with him. Eddie only had a couple of seconds to come up with a new plan of defense.

  The big man’s large fingers reached out for his neck.

  Eddie dropped down and rolled onto his back bringing his feet up in front of his body as Nicholas charged him. Using Nicholas’s weight and momentum against him, Eddie kicked with everything he had flipping Nicholas up and over him and slamming him into the wall.

  Both men scrambled to their feet. Eddie was faster. A 12-gauge pump shotgun was in the closet. He needed to create space in order to give himself time to get to it. He swung the butt of the .45 at Nicholas’s head. One good blow to the skull with the heavy pistol and Nicholas would go nighty night giving Eddie all the time he needed to go for the shotgun.

  Nicholas pulled back, and Eddie’s swing came up short. It threw him off balance. He spun around and something slammed into the back of his head, jamming his face into the wall. His nose exploded with pain.

  Eddie’s gun hand tugged away from his body. Nicholas was trying to wrestle the .45 from his hand. Eddie’s hold tightened on the handgun, the checkering ripping at the skin of his palm. Eddie grabbed for the gun with his free hand, but a blow to his kidneys took his legs. He nearly crumpled, refused to go down. Standing meant life. Falling, sure death.

  He spun back around and a punch with the force of a fastball pitch caught him square on the cheek. Eddie tasted blood. He didn’t know whether it came from his nose or his cheek. He only knew it was bad. He was losing this fight, losing badly. He had to do something, and soon, before Nicholas killed him.