Gundown

by Ray Rhamey

  Marion gathered Suzanne in her arms, and then the cop knelt and checked Suzanne’s pulse. His glance at Marion confirmed what she already knew. He radioed in a homicide and then asked Marion if she was hurt.

  She was, but in no place that bled. Even though it was useless, she rode in the ambulance with Suzanne, holding her hand.

  At three in the morning, a dream took her once more out her door in answer to Suzanne’s cry. She saw the killer again, the blood on his overalls, the knife in his hand.

  Then his face morphed into . . . hers! Her body filled the jumpsuit, her hand held the knife.

  She woke to her own scream.

  Sleepless hours later, Marion stared at her television while the morning news reported that Suzanne’s killer, a convicted felon named Roy Pennington, had been released early from his sentence for assault and rape because of prison overcrowding. He hadn’t been able to get a job because of his record. He had died of shock and massive hemorrhaging before the ambulance got to the emergency room.

  Marion felt no guilt for having killed the man. There was only rage numbed by exhaustion and unrelenting grief. She dressed for work and then put her tear-soaked pillowcase and sweat-drenched sheets in to wash. In the bathroom, not even repeated drenching with Visine could get the red out of her eyes.

  When at last she thought she was ready to go to the office and endure the flood of sympathy and questions that would swamp her, she aimed the remote at the television to shut it up. But not soon enough.

  The announcement of a commentary titled “Our Failing Justice System” blared at her. Bruce Ball, wearing his most sober face, intoned, “Where are we safe anymore?”

  Her instant answer took her by surprise. “Nowhere.” She sank onto the couch. It was true. The proof was the bloodstains in the crime scene that had been her foyer. She wasn’t sure she had the will to walk past the yellow crime tape that blocked off the corner where Suzanne had— Suzanne had—

  Bruce Ball said from the television, “What are we coming to? A return to the Old West? Or the heyday of the Capone mob era? Will Attorney General Marion Smith-Taylor, tragically affected by the murder of her assistant yesterday—” He paused, and Marion felt that he was staring at her. “Will she have the muscle to do anything about the violence that rules our streets? Or will it be law enforcement as usual, our courts unable to move against criminals and our police outgunned?”

  Marion stabbed the power button to send him to blankness and then threw the remote across the room. Damn him! Damn them all. She did her best. It wasn’t her fault.

  It wasn’t.

  It was.

  The Protector

  She laughs and raises the child high in the air.

  He pulls the trigger.

  The bullet hits the woman in the side. The force of it staggers her. Her eyes straight at his, she throws the screaming child over the edge of the roof.

  A gasp pulled Hank out of sleep and sent his hand groping for the gun on his nightstand. He rolled out of bed into a fighting crouch, but the hotel room was empty. Morning sunlight cast a bright rectangle on unfamiliar gray carpet.

  It had been his voice. He’d been dreaming again. About . . . about . . . Amy? He glanced at his daughter’s necklace, its chain curled on his dresser. He couldn’t bring the dream back, though there was a sense of pressure in his head.

  He decided that going back to sleep was impossible. That was okay, he had work to do. He ordered breakfast from room service and showered.

  He spent the day familiarizing himself with Ashland, cruising through neighborhoods in bright sunshine with his car windows open, fresh air swirling, getting a layout of the town in his mind and making sure he had a “back door” for escape into the mountains in case he needed one.

  Late in the afternoon, Hank stood in the Alliance campus parking lot and did a slow turn, taking in foothills and mountains to the west, hills to the east, and rolling valley spotted by homes to the north and south.

  A red barn was the largest building on the campus. Chickens, goats, and pigs wandered freely. Two grade-school boys pursued a small spotted pig, their giggles music in the air.

  Other structures looked newer but designed to carry on a farm theme. Curving sidewalks connected buildings; people of all ages and colors strolled or hustled along them. He saw women in sweeping Indian saris and Chinese men in suits mixing with denim-clad Americans.

  Satisfied that the place seemed peaceful and fortified by the pistol under his Windbreaker, Hank headed for the main building. It looked new, built in Victorian style, with gingerbread and odd wings and angles to it. Two stories tall, it had a three-story, round tower on one corner.

  The place was so rustic, he wouldn’t have been surprised to find a gingham-clad receptionist in a lobby of Early American furniture. But the reception area was a mix of modern, antique, and happenstance—a neon sculpture complemented an antique oak sideboard; a glossy black Oriental desk sat on a Navajo rug.

  The receptionist, a barefoot young woman working at a file cabinet on one side of the room, wore a denim miniskirt and a black T-shirt with a diagonal orange line wandering across it. Her olive skin and black hair suggested Hispanic heritage, and her accent confirmed it when she asked if she could help.

  He said, “I’m here to see Noah Stone.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No. Name’s Hank Soldado.”

  She brightened. “Really? Super!” She came to him with a hand outstretched and a smile beaming. The orange line on her shirt turned out to be a hugely magnified photo of a thread like the one Stone had used in his Chicago speech.

  “We’re all so grateful to you for saving Noah. We’d be lost without him.”

  He took her hand, struck by the size of her emotion and what it said about Noah Stone. “So, is he in?”

  She pointed at a spiral staircase at the round tower’s base. “He’s at the top. I’ll let him know you’re coming.”

  As Hank passed the second floor, Noah Stone called down. “Hank Soldado! I hoped, but I didn’t really think you’d come.”

  Hank reached the top and Noah greeted him with a broad smile and a strong handshake. The intensity of Noah’s welcome came at him like a warm breeze; the man held nothing back.

  Or was it just the practiced glad-handing of a slick salesman?

  Noah said, “Are you all right?”

  Hank nodded. “Almost good as new.” He took in the room. Windows encircled it, giving a 360-degree view of the valley and mountains. At the rear of the house, a field sloped down to a tree-lined creek three hundred yards away. Those trees could conceal a sniper’s approach; a marksman could easily take out someone in the room. The scene was beautiful, the exposure dangerous.

  Stone’s built-in desk occupied eight feet of the curved wall. It held two computers, both turned on. A chaos of papers and books covered the remaining surface. A drawing board created one of the few uncluttered spots, a sketch of a beach scene taped to its surface.

  In the room’s center sat a round coffee table, complete with coffee thermos; around it were a half dozen comfortable-looking directors chairs.

  Noah said, “Coffee?”

  Hank nodded. “Black.”

  Stone took a chair at the round table. He wore a small holster on his belt, a pistol butt sticking out of it.

  As Noah poured, he said, “I inquired about you. I now understand why our promise wasn’t something you feel comfortable with. But I still think you can help me.”

  Hank sat next to him. “You look like you’ve got all the help you need.”

  “The attack in Chicago scared me, Hank. Badly. I went to that militia’s website, and would you believe they have a picture of a bullet with my name on it? And that woman, Colonel Hanson . . .” His eyes widened. “It’s like she’s asking people to shoot me.”

  “Yeah, she’s a piece of work.” Not to mention a certified psycho.

  Noah pointed at the road leading into the campus. “Then the other
day, right out there, a man aimed a gun at my head.” He told Hank about the incident.

  Hank studied Noah. Mouth tight. Eyes tight. Body tense. The man was terrified. And Hank couldn’t blame him. But Noah’s move to stop that shooter showed guts. He gestured at Noah’s gun. “Stopper?”

  Noah handed the pistol to Hank. “Chicago started me carrying it, thank God.”

  After Noah took him through its capabilities, Hank said, “Looks like a good idea.” It wasn’t. Once Hank had his Colt in his hand, nothing the stopper could do would be fast enough to stop him. He gave the gun back to Noah. A water pistol would do as much good.

  Noah said, “The whole time, I wanted to run. I felt like a coward.”

  Hank had seen the expression on Noah’s face before, on men so crippled by deep fear that it broke them. “It’s not cowardly to run when someone wants to shoot you.” That triggered the beginnings of a flashback to an ambush in Afghanistan, heat and scrub brush and shots—Hank fought it back and offered a smile. “I’ve sure done it.” He was going to have to find a marijuana dispensary this evening.

  Noah didn’t smile back. His face was drawn, and he seemed older. “I used to feel safe here, but now . . .” He gazed out the window. “I don’t know if I can do it without the help of someone like you. Hell, I don’t even know if I can do it at all anymore.”

  Would Stone’s dread take him out? It seemed likely. If there were another incident, a man untrained in combat couldn’t keep playing the role of a target in a shooting gallery. Maybe if Hank got closer, he could give the guy a little push toward quitting now and then. “When do you want me to start?”

  Stone turned to him. His rigidity left him with a sigh and a slump of his shoulders. He smiled. “Now would be good.”

  Hank nodded, and then gave his first little push. “Then you should have bulletproof glass in those windows.”

  Stone seemed shocked. “Oh, no one would ever—” He broke off and scanned the windows.

  “They could.” Hank stood and walked to a window and pointed. “And they can, from that creek.” He swiveled. “Or those houses over there.”

  Noah joined him. “Way over there?”

  “I know a dozen men who would call it an easy shot.”

  Noah’s eyes widened, and he stepped back from the window. “What else?”

  Hank pointed at the stairs. “There’s no security in your lobby. The receptionist just sent me right on up, no ID check, nothing.”

  Noah shook his head. “I have a hard time ascribing evil intentions to people. But you’re right.” He turned to Hank. “I’m glad you’re on my side.”

  The man’s open trust invited—no, demanded—honesty. “I’m not on your side when it comes to taking away gun rights guaranteed in the Constitution. I never will be.”

  “You know the argument is that the Second Amendment refers to militias.” Before Hank could protest, Noah held up a hand. “I know. Nobody’s going to win that one the way things are now. That’s why we sorta did an end run with stoppers.”

  “Seems to me that banning guns is an overreaction. Why not work to control them?”

  “The easy answer to that is the politicization of the issue. Nothing’s going to get through Congress that would amount to any meaningful control.” Noah looked him in the eyes.

  Hank knew that was the truth. Nothing would happen. “Yeah, but still—”

  “Hank, the real answer is that there are three hundred million guns out there. Do you think controlling them is remotely possible?”

  Okay, not when you put it that way. He shrugged. “Why you?”

  Noah gazed out the window at the mountains. He sighed. “Remember that school shooting in California a couple of years ago? The kindergarten class?”

  He did. “It haunted me for weeks.” They all haunted him. Guns gone wrong hurt everyone.

  Noah turned to Hank. His eyes glimmered with moisture, and he wiped at them. “My niece was one of the children slaughtered by that madman. She was five.”

  A wave of emotion gripped Hank’s throat, and he saw Amy’s picture, back home on his dresser. Forever five. He wanted to remember his daughter clearly, but his mind blocked the memories, the doc said to protect him. He swallowed to get the lump to go away. It didn’t. It would fade, but it was never far from the surface, a giant sorrow waiting to drown him.

  Noah’s mouth hardened, his gaze intensified, a force of its own. “I will do everything in my power to clean this land of this terminal malignancy that kills thousands of innocents every year.”

  Hank had nothing to say to that. He had to admit that if all those guns weren’t out there, he might not feel like he had to carry one. But the only world he could deal with was the real one.

  Noah breathed out and relaxed. “Sorry, Hank, I get a little worked up. But doing something about guns is what led to the Alliance. I promise that I won’t proselytize to you about what we advocate, even though we need you and I think you need us. All I ask is that you listen and learn with an open mind.”

  “Doing that is a necessary part of my job, sir.” The “sir” that popped out of Hank surprised him. But there was an uprightness to the man that merited it.

  Noah clapped Hank on the shoulder and said, “Let me give you a quick tour.”

  Outside, Hank heard pride in Noah’s voice as he pointed out buildings. “That cottage houses our public relations and advertising group. They do promotion, set up press speeches and conferences, that stuff.”

  He pointed at a building that looked like a stable. “In there is our legal department, with advocates who help people in court inquiries and researchers looking for better laws. We had something to do with getting the gun laws changed in Oregon.”

  “I heard you’re out to ban guns.”

  “If I could, but that’ll never happen.” He patted the stopper holstered on his belt. “We were behind the effort to get these adopted by the state. What I’m against are weapons that are designed to kill people.”

  “But what about our rights—”

  “Your rights?” Noah scowled, and his voice rose. “What about this one? ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.’ Is it a denial of your rights to make sure that you can’t open fire and extinguish my right to life?”

  Hank opened his mouth to argue, but a good counter didn’t come to mind. “Well, I’m sure not against your right to life.”

  Noah’s voice turned rough. “You aren’t, but there are plenty who are. For example, that guy in Chicago. If he hadn’t been able to have a gun, you wouldn’t be here.”

  Hank raised his hands in surrender. They’d have to agree to disagree. He said, “What’s the round building?”

  Noah eased his body. “That’s our commons. It has a hall for gathers, a cafeteria, a library, recreational stuff, and a workout room.”

  Hank said, “Who comes to these gathers?”

  “Alliance members and nonmembers who are interested in us. We’ve taken heat from several churches because some of their people stopped going to church and started coming to gathers, even though we’re careful to schedule around church service times.”

  This sounded like what Mitch had been talking about. “So you’ve got a religion going here?”

  Noah laughed. “No, no. But our gathers do fill a need for community. We have our rituals, and a speaker gives a talk. I guess you could label the promise our dogma, but that’s ridiculous.”

  Sure sounded like a church to Hank. If it waddles like a duck . . .

  “Actually, the idea of the Alliance started with a religious studies class I took at the Unitarian church.”

  And quacks like a duck . . .

  “That sounds religious to me.” Hank wished he were wired; this could be useful to Mitch.

  “It wasn’t so much religion as a book I learned about in that class. The Chali
ce and the Blade showed how different the world was ages ago in societies where men and women operated as equals instead of as masters and subjects. It traced many social problems to the breakdown of that ancient partnership.

  “That book set me to thinking on what we could do if we all worked in partnership. It gave me an organizing principle for something that could start small. It’s like trying to write a novel—conceiving the whole thing at once is an impossible task, but writing one page isn’t so hard.”

  He stopped and gazed at Hank. Noah’s passion burrowed into him. Noah said, “If I talk with you and persuade you to make the promise because you see the good it can do, then you’ll talk to someone else, and they’ll talk to someone else.”

  The man’s charisma tugged at Hank, and he shook it off. It was clear that Noah had the power to head one of those mind-bending cults that shaped people to fit his “vision.”

  “So how does all that come around to taking away . . . restricting guns?”

  “After I read that book, I had the idea that people could partner together in an alliance. The promise came along, and it all came together in my mind. As for guns, when you think about a peaceful society such as ours, lethal firearms in the hands of criminals and killers is just wrong. Out of sync with who we have become as a people, a society of laws. It’s logical that protecting people from being gunned down is a big way to implement the promise—and to protect our right to life.”

  They came to a cluster of bungalows around a central fountain. A bell rang, and teens, middle-aged people, and seniors bustled from one building to another. Hank said, “You’ve got a school?”

  “Sort of. Must be time to change classes. We’ve taken a page from the Mormons. This’s a training school for people who volunteer to spread the word.”

  And has feathers like a duck . . .

  “Missionaries?” For the Apostle Noah?

  “Advocates. I look at it this way: the quicker we get the word out and the better we are at doing it, the quicker things can change.”

  Mitch had to hear about this.

  A lean, dark-skinned man with a bushy black mustache, his head swathed in a kaffiyeh just like the checkered headgear that Yasser Arafat had once worn, hurried up to Noah. “Mr. Stone, Mr. Stone!”