Shot Girl

by J. A. Konrath

  I aimed the dot @ his ear and pulled the trigger, blowing half his head off.

  Tight.

  Not as much twinging and blinking and euphoria as b4, but still a feeling I liked a lot.

  #Addicted.

  Then I switched from SEMI back to AUTO and aimed @ a file cabinet across the room.

  I tried a short burst. The gun kicked to the right.

  I adjusted my grip, leaning into it, and tried again.

  After putting the remainder of my fifty round drum into the cabinet, I needed to practice with something farther away. I walked through the rear office door and found myself in a hallway about ten meters long.

  After swapping out mags, I aimed @ a framed painting in the distance.

  Squeeze.

  Adjust.

  Squeeze.

  Adjust.

  Then I went back to SEMI, turned off the laser dot, and found I was able to hit what I aimed at.

  Lit.

  #FortMyersHereICome.

  “Gun violence is not something that appears just in a bad neighborhood or in another part of the world. It appears right here, right outside your door.”

  STEPHEN YOUNG

  “The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.”

  G. K. CHESTERTON

  JACK

  The tissue plasminogen activator therapy seemed to be working. Mom’s next CT showed the clot had broken up, and her MRI revealed minimal brain damage.

  But she still couldn’t talk, her movement still severely compromised.

  I read to her, from the Kindle app on my phone. An old Travis McGee mystery that I’d gotten in paperback three decades earlier. Travis reminded me of Phin in a few ways. Not the criminal history, the drug use, the cancer, or the infidelity. But the quiet strength and unwavering determination.

  And the core of loyalty.

  That’s why cheating on me was so unlike Phin.

  My fault. Had to be.

  Once upon a time, I had a quiet strength. It had been usurped by mewling weakness. Doubt and self-loathing had done a hostile takeover of my determination.

  Phin had battled cancer. More than once.

  Travis McGee never gave up, no matter what obstacles author John D. McDonald threw at him.

  So what the hell happened to me?

  Why did I decide to stop fighting?

  The lights flickered, then went out. I faced my cell toward my mother, to see her face.

  “Dr. Agmont says there are generators. It’ll be okay.”

  Mom moved slightly. It might have been a nod.

  A few seconds later, the lights came back on.

  I got through another chapter, Travis digging deep to find some inner strength reserves he didn’t know he had, and then overcoming overwhelming odds, and I was ready to put the book down without finishing because it was bullshit.

  When the gas tank is empty, there are no reserves.

  I asked Mom if she wanted to watch some TV.

  A grunt.

  “Can you hear this, Mom? Should I turn it louder?”

  Grunt.

  “Louder?”

  Grunt.

  I cranked the volume up until it rattled my fillings.

  Hurricane Harry, all over the news. It sounded bad from indoors, but the outdoor footage bordered on surreal.

  Trucks tipping over.

  Boats in the middle of the street.

  Houses blowing to pieces.

  Trees and furniture rolling through parking lots.

  Emergency services maxed out.

  A meme-hopeful reporter, doing the obligatory standing-in-waist-deep-water bit, might wish-fulfill and go viral because he got sideswiped by a floating car.

  I switched the channel.

  Another news station had reports of a shooting in South Carolina. Some nutjob opened fire on a line of people. He’d been dubbed The Line Cutter, and wore one of those balaclavas on his face with silkscreen printing on it, giving me unwelcome memories of The Cowboy.

  The Line Cutter had shot at people waiting outside a VideoTown for the GameMaster 2 launch.

  I got a panicky spike in my gut about Phin and Sam, and called them.

  “How’s Mom?” my cheating bastard husband asked.

  “Not good, but stable. You guys okay?”

  “Generator still working. The house is shaking hard. Mr. Friskers is clinging to my leg. Roof sprang a few leaks.”

  “Bad?”

  “Not good, but stable. Making due with pots and garbage cans catching the water. No flooding. Not ready to run yet.”

  Phin had the same problem I did. Neither of us knew when to run. We never took the multiple obvious hints.

  “Maybe you should go to the neighbors.” I tried to remember their name. “They have hurricane straps for their roof.”

  “The Patels. If it gets bad, we will.”

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise.”

  In the background I heard Sam squeal, igniting all my mother cells. “What happened?”

  “New leak. Big one. Gotta go. Love you.”

  He hung up before I could dispute that.

  I flipped through channels, and actually found a Columbo marathon. Coincidence much? Mom and I watched a few episodes.

  I remember liking the show as a kid, thinking Peter Falk an uncanny genius able to figure it all out. But as an adult, and a former cop, I was way ahead of every mystery and found it depressing.

  Real life didn’t work like that. It didn’t have obvious clues and obvious villains and all loose ends tied up in a neat bow. Real life was messy, and sometimes there were no answers, and sometimes the hero didn’t win the day and bad guys got away with it.

  A nurse came in with food, and I fed Mom applesauce and thickened water; H20 with some sort of ingredient that made it the consistency of a milkshake. When Mom tried to drink regular water her throat muscles couldn’t swallow right and it went into her lungs and she choked.

  I didn’t want Mom to see me cry, so the nurse had to finish feeding her.

  After that, more TV. Columbo had ended, and the next timeslot featured another 70s sleuth, Ironside. I had less-than-zero desire to watch Raymond Burr play a former cop who got shot and became paralyzed, confined to a wheelchair.

  Should have called it Ironyside.

  I switched off the TV and went back to reading, getting through the ending where Travis McGee’s totally unrealistic access to his hidden strength reserves won the day.

  Bullshit.

  When I put the book down, I knew I’d run out of things to distract myself with, so I managed to summon up enough guts for the Big Talk.

  There were things I had to say, and I wasn’t sure if there would be time later to say them.

  I took my mother’s hands, the skin translucent and paper thin and so cold, and remembered when her hands were young and mine were small.

  “You’re going to make it, Mom. I know you are. You’re a fighter. This is… it’s just a bump in the road. You’ll be back to normal, swimming with Sam, in no time.”

  She grunted once.

  “I… I know that… that I haven’t been the best daughter.”

  Mom grunted twice and tried to shake her head.

  “Lemme finish. I’ve… made a lot of mistakes. I’ve brought harm into the lives of people I love. I should have quit my job sooner. I haven’t been giving this rehab thing my all, and to be honest, I don’t even care about myself anymore.”

  Again, she grunted twice, a tear forming in her right eye. I kept going.

  “I know I’ve been in my own way, stuck in my own head. But… for once… this isn’t about me. This is about you. I need you to know something, Mom.” I took a deep breath, felt it jiggle in my lungs. “I need you… I need you to know… I need you know that you are the best mother, ever.”

  I couldn’t hold in the sobs, so I quit trying.

  “I’m so lucky and so, so proud to be your d
aughter. And… and I’m… I’m sorry that I’m not as strong as you are, but you’ve been everything to me.”

  I gripped her hand, crying so hard it was tough to see.

  “You’ve been everything, Mom. Lately… lately I don’t know how much I have left in the tank. I feel empty. But that isn’t your fault. Every bit of good I have left, every bit of strength I have left, every bit of fight I have left… is because of you. Thank you. Thank you for raising me. Thank you for always being there. Thank you for everything you’ve ever done. I… I appreciate it more than I can express. I love you so much.”

  I wanted Mom to say something. I needed Mom to say something.

  But all we could do was cry as I held her hand.

  I killed half a box of tissue on my face and nose, used a few on her, and put on a happy face.

  “TV?” I asked.

  A grunt.

  I channel-surfed for something funny, couldn’t find anything recognizable, and wound up on the Home Shopping Network, featuring walking shoes for the elderly.

  Ten minutes into the show, seconds away from using my new credit card to order matching pairs for me and Mom, I got a text from Phin and noticed it was past one in the morning.

  Safe @ neighbor’s with Sam and pets.

  I texted back, WTF happened?

  Lost roof. Blew onto van.

  A picture came next. A picture of the house we paid cash for. The house without homeowner’s insurance, because that was something I was supposed to do and kept putting it off. Harry had torn the entire roof off, and it had pancaked our van.

  My cell rang a moment later.

  “Mommy our house blew away like Wizard of Oz!”

  Sam didn’t sound traumatized. She sounded excited.

  “Are you okay, peanut?”

  “I’m good. We all went to Mr. and Mrs. Patel’s house when the shaking got bad. Daddy saved the GameMaster 2.”

  “Can you put Daddy on?”

  “Sure. Daddy, Mommy wants you.”

  If only Daddy wanted Mommy just as badly.

  “The Patels have roof straps,” Phin told me. “We should be fine. How’s your mother doing?”

  “We don’t have insurance, Phin.”

  “It’ll work out, Jack. It always does. How’s Mom?”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Because we always get through it. No matter what happens. We always get through it.”

  What didn’t he understand?

  “How are we going to get through this, Phin?” I noted an edge creeping into my voice, and stared at my mother to see if she’d noticed. “The house looks totaled. Do we have enough to repair it?”

  “It’ll work out.”

  Hysteria peaked and took over. “How can you say that? I’m crippled. Mom can’t talk, can’t move. And I know you’re cheating on me. Maybe you’re wrong this time. Maybe we don’t get through this one. Maybe this ends with everything going to shit.”

  Phin didn’t answer.

  “Did you hear me? This is where you talk me down off the ledge. I need you to convince me we’re going to be okay.”

  Phin didn’t talk me off the ledge. He didn’t convince me we’d be okay. He didn’t say a damn word.

  I looked at my cell.

  NO SERVICE.

  I glanced around for a land line, and wheeled over to the phone, my mother following my movement with one eye.

  The Patels next door. We’d only met them a few times. Nice people, but not friends. I didn’t have their number in my cell, so I picked up the room phone to call information.

  “All circuits are currently busy. Please try your call again later.”

  “Goddammit!”

  I slammed the phone down. Then I did it a few more times, for good measure.

  Mom eyed me.

  “The roof blew off our house, onto our van,” I said. “Phin, Sam, and the pets are at the neighbors. The neighbors have a hurricane roof, so they should be fine.”

  Mom stared.

  “Phin and I haven’t had sex in months. The other day I found an empty condom box in the garbage. It’s my fault. I don’t blame him. My sex drive has been zero lately. Nothing. I feel dead. But I could have taken care of him. We’re partners. I could have taken care of him.”

  I shut off the TV, reached for my mother’s hand, and began to sob, surprised I had any tears left. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take, Mom. I keep screwing up. This is it. This is officially the lowest point in my entire life. And that’s saying something, because I’ve had some really low points. I’ve bottomed out. For the first time ever, things cannot possibly get any worse.”

  And then I heard it. A rapid BBBBRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTTT! like a string of fireworks going off.

  But it wasn’t fireworks.

  I knew what it was.

  So did Mom, her good eye wide with fear.

  Gunfire.

  Sounded like it was coming from the floor below. I had no idea how long it had been going on, because we had the TV cranked up loud.

  Run. We needed to run.

  But neither of us could run. We couldn’t even walk.

  Hide. Second option was to hide.

  Hide how? Each patient room had windows facing the hallway. And the only thing to barricade the door to Mom’s room was Mom’s bed.

  That left the only option.

  Fight.

  The door burst open, scaring the crap out of me. Dr. Agmont hurried inside.

  “He’s on the second floor.” Agmont panted, his expression pure disbelief. “A masked man with a gun. He’s… he’s… killing everybody.”

  I reached under my wheelchair, pulled out my leather pouch, took out my .38, then looked for the key to the trigger lock.

  No key.

  I tried to remember where I put it, and recalled my mother was the one who locked the gun last, during my rehab session.

  “Mom, where’s the key?”

  Mom stared, unable to answer.

  “Where’s her clothes?” I barked at Agmont.

  He opened up a drawer and we both pawed through her things, checking every pocket, rifling through her purse.

  No key.

  “Where’s the key, Mom? In your room?”

  Mom grunted once.

  More pops of gunfire, so fast it had to be a fully automatic weapon.

  “We need to get to another room and hide,” I told Agmont.

  Agmont’s dark complexion had lightened by ten shades. “Windows,” he said, pointing at the privacy curtains that blocked out the hallway. “Every room on this floor has windows. And the shooter has tools on his belt. A hammer. A crowbar.”

  Shit. Premeditated.

  “What kind of gun does he have?” When Agmont didn’t immediately respond, I rephrased. “An assault rifle? A machinegun?”

  “He held it in one hand. It had a long front, and the bottom was curled.”

  Sounded like a modified semi-auto with an extended mag.

  “He also had a bag with him. A large gym bag.”

  Filled with ammo and more guns, no doubt. This kept getting worse and worse.

  “Body armor?”

  “A bulky vest. A helmet. Yellow glasses. Latex gloves.”

  Gloves?

  Holy shit.

  In just about every active shooting situation I’d heard of, the killer expected to get caught or taken down. Usually they knew it was a one-way trip. A suicide mission.

  This guy played by different rules. Worse rules. Automatic weapon and lots of ammo. Ballistic armor. Tools to get into rooms. Choosing a retirement home during a hurricane. Gloves so he didn’t leave prints, and a mask to hide his face.

  I looked at my mother for confirmation. “He’s expecting to get away with it.”

  She grunted once.

  We needed to move. Fast.

  “911 won’t pick up,” Agmont said, his voice squeaky. “I tried the clinic phone, I tried my cell—”

  “How many people are in this b
uilding?”

  He blinked.

  “How many people?” I repeated, louder.

  “People. Right. Clinic staff, eight people, including me. Sixteen patients. Ten on the floor below. They’re… I don’t see how any of them can get away. I have eight patients on this floor, plus a nurse and an orderly. I told them all. They’re getting out now.”

  “Out? Where? Into a hurricane?”

  “The basement has service corridors that connect all of the buildings. It’s how we move patients and residents without drawing attention.”

  I’d wondered about that. The Darling Center was a retirement home and rehab facility. Invariably, people die, the elderly sooner than most. But all the time I’d been here, I never saw any dead bodies being carted around. They must have been transporting them underground.

  “How about maids? Laundry? Janitors? Maintenance?”

  “Sent home because of the storm.”

  BBBBRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTTT-BBBBRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTT!

  The gunfire sounded closer.

  “The key to my gun lock has to be in my mother’s room. B65. She also has a gun safe with another firearm and ammo, and a bulletproof vest.”

  Agmont had already unplugged Mom’s bed from the wall and released the brakes. “He’s on the east side of the building, moving west. We’ll take the east elevator, hope he doesn’t notice.”

  I rolled out into the hallway, looking in both directions.

  BBBBRRRRRTTTTTTT! from the floor below.

  Agmont pointed. “To the right. Go.”

  I rolled right, the doctor pushing my mother’s wheeled bed behind me. The corner of the hallway seemed to distort and expand, getting further away, like in Hitchcock’s Vertigo. Since hearing the first gunshots, I’d been on autopilot. But now, trying to get away, thoughts and doubts began to override training.

  We can’t protect ourselves.

  We’re going to die.

  All my experience, all my preparation, undone because of one stupid key.

  Homeland Security was wrong. I’d been right all along.

  All we could do was hope we got lucky.

  We turned the L shaped corner, and I saw a handful of people ahead of me, waiting for the elevator, three in wheelchairs.

  I knew how big those lifts were.

  I knew we all wouldn’t fit. Not with my mother’s bed.