by Sue Grafton
“I found the kickplate, didn’t I?”
“Only because I told you. You never would have found it without me,” Ray said.
Gilbert moved the gun away, his face dark. His movements were agitated. “Here’s the deal. I’m taking Laura with me. You better come up with something by tomorrow or she’s dead, you got that?”
“Hey, come on. Be reasonable. I need time,” Ray said.
“Tomorrow.”
“I’ll do what I can, but I can’t promise.”
“Well, I can. You get that money or she’s dead meat.”
“How am I going to find you?”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll find you,” Gilbert said.
Helen grimaced, rubbing one gnarled hand with the other.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“My arthritis is acting up. I’m in pain.”
“You want me to fix it? I can fix that in a jiffy with what I got in here,” he said, waggling his gun. He turned back to Ray. Helen raised her hand to attract his notice.
“What?”
“Now I’ve set down too long. Thing about getting old is you can’t do any one thing for more than about five minutes. I hope you don’t mind if I stand up a bit.”
“Goddamn, old woman. You’re just up and down and all over the place.”
Helen laughed, apparently mistaking his homicidal wrath for mere ill temper. I felt a bubble of despair rising to the surface. Maybe she was senile along with everything else. He’d kill her without hesitation – he’d kill all of us – but she didn’t seem to ‘get’ that. His threats sailed right over. Maybe it was just as well. At her age, who could tolerate fear of that magnitude? The anxiety alone could push her into heart failure. Me too, for that matter.
Gilbert pointed the gun in her direction. “You can stand up, but you behave,” he said. “I don’t want you running out of here, trying to flag down help.” His tone shifted when he spoke to her, becoming nearly flirtatious. “Patronizing” might be another word, but Helen didn’t seem to pick up on it.
She waved a hand dismissively. “I’m afraid my flagging days is over. Anyway, I’m not the one you have to worry about. It’s my friend, Freida Green.”
At least she’d caught his attention. I could see him suppress a smile, pretending to take her seriously. “Uh-oh. What is it, Freida some kind of hell-raiser?”
“Yes, she is. I am, too, for that matter. My late husband used to call me Hell on Wheels, get it? ‘Hell on.’ Helen.”
“I got it, Granny. Who’s Freida? She likely to be popping in here unannounced?”
“Freida’s my neighbor. She lives two doors down with her friend, Minnie Paxton, but they’re out of town right now. Hasn’t anyone ever said, but I think them two are sweet on each other. Anyway, we had us a rash of burglaries about four months back. That’s what they call them, a ‘rash,’ like somebody caught a disease. Two nice policemen come down to the neighborhood and told us about self-defense. Minnie learned to kick out real hard sideways, but Freida fell flat on her back when she tried it.”
Ray fixed me with a look, but I couldn’t read the contents. Probably simple despair at the banality of their exchange.
Gilbert laughed. “Jesus, I’d like to seen that. How old is this old bag?”
“Let’s see now. I believe Freida’s thirty-one. Minnie’s two years younger and she’s in much better shape. Freida cracked her tailbone and she got mad. Whoo! Said there had to be a better way to fight crime than tryin’ to kick some fella in the kneecap.”
Gilbert shook his head with skepticism. “I don’t know. Bust a guy’s kneecap, that can really hurt,” he said.
“Well, yes,” Helen said, “but first you’d have to get close enough to kick, which isn’t always easy. And then my balance is not that good.”
“Freida’s balance ain’t good, either, from what you said. So what’d she suggest?”
“She suggested she make us each a rack and bolt it onto the bottom of the table, where we could keep a loaded shotgun about like this.” Helen turned slightly sideways as she rose to her feet. She took a long step away from the table, pulling up a twelve-gauge side-by-side shotgun with twenty-six-inch barrels. She pinned the butt stock between her forearm and her side, letting the butt stock rest on her right hip for support. The four of us stared at her, riveted by the sight of a gun that unwieldy in the hands of someone who, a nanosecond before, seemed so harmless and out of it. The effect, unfortunately, was undercut by the realities of age. Because of her poor eyesight, she was aiming at the window frame instead of Gilbert, a fact not lost on him. He made a face, saying, “Whoa! You better put that gun away.”
“You better put that gun away before I blow you to kingdom come,” she said. She backed up against the wall, all business, except for the problem with her aim, which was considerable. The heavy flesh on her upper arms shook, and it was clear she could barely keep the barrel up, even if it was pointed in the wrong direction. I could feel my heart begin to thump. I expected Gilbert to shoot, but he didn’t seem to take her seriously.
“Gun’s pretty heavy. You sure you can keep it up there?”
“Briefly,” she said.
“What’s that weigh, six or seven pounds? Doesn’t sound like much until you have to hooolld it up for long.” He dragged out the word “hold,” making it sound exhausting. I got tired just hearing it, but Helen didn’t seem dismayed.
“I’m going to shoot you long before my arms get tired. I feel it’s only fair to warn you. The one barrel’s loaded with number nine birdshot. The other’s double-O buck, tear your face right off.”
Gilbert laughed again. He seemed genuinely tickled by the old woman’s attitude. “Jesus, Hell on. That’s not nice. What about your arthritis? I thought you had arthritis so bad.”
“I do. That’s right. Affecting all but the one finger. Watch this.” Helen shifted the gun to the left, drew a bead on him, and pulled the trigger. Ka-blam! I saw a few bright yellow sparks. The blast was deafening, filling the room. A shock wave of air and gas spread out from the muzzle, followed by a faint doughnut of smoke. The mass of birdshot blew by his right ear, continuing on past him at an upward angle, shattering the kitchen window. Stray pellets tore his earlobe and the top of his shoulder and the spreading fingers of the trailing shot cup raked his neck, painting it with blood. Laura screamed and hit the floor. I was down before she was. Ray’s startled reaction tipped his chair over sideways. Gilbert screamed in pain and disbelief, his hands flying up. His handgun flew forward and skittered across the floor.
The muzzle jump had knocked Helen back against the wall, the butt stock slamming into her right hip as the barrels whipped upwards with the recoil. She recovered and lowered the gun again, prepared to fire. Gilbert’s right cheek was already peppered with red, like a sudden rash of acne, and blood was seeping into the hair above his right ear. The air smelled acrid, and I could suddenly taste something sweet at the back of my throat.
“This time I’ll blow your head off,” she said.
Gilbert made a savage sound in his throat as he reached down and grabbed Laura by the hair. He hauled her to her feet, pinning her against him while he leaned down and snagged the harness with the other hand.
From the floor, Ray craned his neck, straining to see what was going on. “Ma, don’t fire!”
“Pull the trigger and she’s dead. I’ll snap her neck,” Gilbert said. He was clearly in pain, breathing heavily, no longer armed but still out of control. He had his forearm locked up under Laura’s chin. She was forced to hang on to him, pulling down to keep from being strangled. Gilbert began backing out of the kitchen and into the dining room. Laura was stumbling backward, half lifted off her feet.
Helen hesitated, no doubt confused by the jumble of sounds and shapes.
Gilbert disappeared into the dining room, plowing backward through the piles of junk furniture. Laura was making a series of chuffing noises, unable to vocalize with her windpipe choked off. I cou
ld hear a crash and the sound of glass shattering as he kicked the front door open. Then silence.
I was torn between the desire to chase after Gilbert and the need to help Helen, who was trembling and deadly pale. She lowered the gun barrel and sank weakly into her chair. “What’s happening? Where’d he go?”
“He’s got Laura. Just be cool. Everything’s going to be fine,” Ray said. He was still on the floor, lying sideways in the chair, struggling to get free of his bonds. I scrambled over to him, trying to help him right himself, but with the awkwardness of the chair he was too much for me to lift. I grabbed a butcher knife off the counter and cut through the layers of duct tape that bound his hands and feet. With one hand liberated, Ray started tearing off the rest of the tape, his attention still focused on his mother. “Gimme a hand here,” he grunted at me.
“What’s he going to do to her?”
“Nothing ‘til he gets the money. She’s his insurance.” I grabbed his hand and braced myself as he hauled himself up from the floor. He glanced at me briefly. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said. Both of us turned our attention to Helen.
The shotgun was laid across her lap. I crossed to her, took the gun, and set it on the kitchen table. Her shoulders were slumped and her hands were shaking badly, her breathing shallow and ragged. Her hip was probably bruised where the gun stock had kicked into it. She’d used up all her reserves of energy, and I worried she’d go into shock. “I should have killed him. Poor Laura. I couldn’t bring myself to do it, but I should have.”
Ray reached for a chair and pulled it closer to his mother’s. He took her hand, patting it, his tone tender. “How you doing, Hell on Wheels?” he said.
“I’ll be fine in a bit. I just need to catch my breath,” she said. She patted at her chest, trying to compose herself. “I’m not as feeble-minded as I was acting.”
“I couldn’t figure out what you were doing,” he said. “I can’t believe you did that. You started talking to him, I thought it was all bullshit until you pulled out that shotgun. You were terrific. Absolutely fearless.”
Helen waved him off, but she seemed pleased with herself and tickled by his praise. “Just because you get old doesn’t mean you lose your nerve.”
“I thought you had trouble with your eyes,” I said. “How’d you know where he was?”
“He was standing up against the kitchen window, so I could make out his shape. I may be near blind, but my ears still work. He shouldn’t have talked so much. Freida’s got me into lifting weights now, and I can bench-press twenty-five pounds. Did you hear what he said? He thought I couldn’t even hold up a seven-pound shotgun. I was insulted. Stereotyping the old. That’s your typical macho horseshit,” she said. She pressed her fingers to her lips. “I believe I’m about to get sick now. Oh, dear.”
Chapter 18
*
Ray helped his mother to the bathroom. Soon after that, I heard the toilet flush and his murmured comfort and assurances as he tucked her into bed. While I waited for him to get her settled, I returned the contents of the junk drawer and slid the drawer back into its slot. I righted Ray’s chair and then got down on my hands and knees to look for Gilbert’s gun. Where had the damn thing gone? I raised up like a prairie dog and surveyed the spot where he’d stood, trying to figure out what the trajectory would have been when the gun flew off across the room. Picking my way carefully through the broken glass, I crawled to the nearest corner and worked my way along the baseboard. I finally spotted the gun, a .45-caliber Colt automatic with walnut stocks, wedged behind the Eastlake cabinet. I fished it out with a fork, trying not to smudge any latent prints. If the Louisville police ran a check on him, it was possible an outstanding warrant might pop up and give them a reason to arrest him – if they could find him, of course. I placed the gun on the kitchen table and tiptoed to the bedroom door. I tapped, and a moment later Ray opened the door a crack. “We need to call the cops,” I said. I meant to slip on past, heading for the telephone, but he put his hand on my arm.
“Don’t do that.”
“Why not?” We were keeping our voices down in deference to his mother, who’d had enough upset for one day.
“Look, I’ll be out in a minute, as soon as she’s asleep. We need to talk.” He began to close the door.
I put my hand on the door. “What’s there to talk about? We need help.”
“Please.” He held a hand up, nodding to indicate that we’d discuss it momentarily. He closed the door in my face.
Reluctantly, I returned to the kitchen to wait for him. I found the broom and dustpan behind the door to the utility room, and I made a pass at the mess. Someone had tracked through the broken bowl of mashed yams. There were little yammy footprints, like dog doo, everywhere. I pulled the garbage can out from under the sink and cautiously began to pick up shards of broken glass and crockery. I used a dampened paper towel to scoop up the remaining goo.
The kitchen sink and the counter were both littered with broken glass where the window had been shattered by the shotgun blast. I couldn’t believe the neighbors hadn’t come running. Cold air was now blowing in, but there was nothing I could do about it. I hauled out the ancient canister vacuum cleaner and affixed the upholstery attachment to the hose. I flipped it on and spent several minutes huffing up all the glass in sight. Between chasing and being chased, all I’d done since I’d left home was dust and vacuum. I put my ear to the bedroom door at one point and could have sworn I heard Ray talking on the phone. Ah. Maybe he had paid attention to my advice after all.
Ray came back into the kitchen and closed the bedroom door behind him. He moved straight to the pantry and pulled out a bottle of bourbon, took down two small jelly glasses, and poured us both a stiff drink. He handed one glass to me and then tapped mine in a toast. While I eyed mine he tilted his head back and downed his portion. I took a deep breath and tossed mine down my throat, unprepared for the vile fire that assailed my esophagus. I could feel my face flush with heat as my stomach burst into flames. After that, I could feel all the tension drift away from me like smoke. I shook my head, shuddering, as a worm of revulsion wiggled down my frame. “Yuck. I hate that. I could never be a drunk. How can you do that, just toss it back that way?”
“Takes practice,” he said. He poured himself another glass and tossed it after the first. “This is one thing I missed in prison.”
He spotted the Colt where I’d laid it on the kitchen table, picked it up without comment, and tucked it in his waistband.
“Thanks, Ray. Now you’ve messed up any fingerprints.”
“Nobody’s going to run prints,” he said.
“Really. What makes you say that?”
He ignored the question. He moved into the dining room and hustled up a cardboard carton, which he emptied, then flattened, and used to replace the broken window glass, securing it with Gilbert’s duct tape. The outdoor light was diminished and the cold still seeped in, but at least birds and small UFOs would be prevented from flying in the gaping hole. While I looked on, he began to empty the sink of its mountain of pots and pans, stacking them neatly to one side in preparation for washing. I love watching guys help around the house.
“I heard you on the phone. Did you call 911?”
“I called Maria to see how she was. Gilbert punched her lights out. She says he broke her nose, but she doesn’t want to press charges as long as he’s got Laura.”
“You could call 911,” I said. Maybe he hadn’t heard me right?
I flipped the vacuum on again and sucked up glass slivers as they came to light. I kept waiting for him to pick up the subject, but he studiously avoided it. Finally, I turned the machine off and said, “So what’s the deal? Why not call the cops? Laura’s been kidnapped. I hope you don’t think you’re going to do this on your own.”
“I told you. Maria’s not interested. She thinks it’s premature.”
“I’m not talking about Maria. I’m talking about you.”
�
�Let’s look for the money first. Nothing turns up in a day, then we can bring the cops into it.”
“Ray, you’re crazy. You need help.”
“I can handle it.”
“That’s bullshit. He’s going to kill her.”
“Not if I can find the money.”
“How’re you going to do that?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He tied an apron around his waist. He put the stopper in the drain and turned on the hot water. He picked up the liquid detergent and squirted a solid stream into the sink, holding his injured fingers away from the water. A mountain of white suds began to pile up, into which he tucked plates and silverware. “I learned to wash dishes when I was six,” he said idly, picking up a long-handled brush. “Ma stood me up on a wooden milk crate and taught me how to do it right. It was my chore from then on. In prison, they use these big industrial machines, but the principle’s the same. All us old cons know how to make ourselves useful, but these new punks coming in can’t do a damn thing except fight. Dopers and gang-bangers. Scary bunch.”
“Ray.”
“Remind me of fighting cocks… all puffed up and aggressive. Don’t give a shit about anything. Those are kids bred to die. They have no hope, no expectations. They got attitude. It’s all attitude. Insist on respect without ever doing anything to earn it. Half of ‘em don’t even know how to read.”
“Make your point,” I said.
“There’s no point. I changed the subject. The point is, I don’t want to call the cops.”
“Is there a problem?”
“I don’t like cops.”
“I’m not asking you to form any kind of lasting relationship,” I said. I watched him. “What is it? There’s something else.”
He rinsed a dinner plate and placed it in the rack, avoiding my gaze. I picked up a dish towel and began to dry while he washed. “Ray?”
He put the second dinner plate in the rack. “I’m in violation.”