by Sue Grafton
Laura screamed and ducked. I hit the ground, looking up in time to see Gilbert take aim and fire at her. There was a click. He looked down at the Colt in astonishment. He recocked and pulled the trigger; the hammer clicked again. He pulled the slide back, ejecting a round, then let it slam forward again, popping another round into the chamber. He swung the gun around and aimed at Ray. He pulled the trigger. Click. He recocked and pulled the trigger again. Click. "What the fuck?" he said.
Ray smiled. "Well, shame on me. I forgot to mention I shortened the firing pin."
Ray fired and Gilbert went down with an odd sound, as if the wind had been knocked out of him. Ray moved forward easily until he was standing directly over Gilbert. He fired again.
Spellbound, I stared as he fired again.
Ray turned and looked in my direction. He said, "Don't do that."
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a blur of motion and then I heard the crack of the baseball bat coming down on my head. In the split second before the dark descended, I flashed on Helen with regret. Her erratic batting practice had come to an abrupt halt and she'd popped me a good one. The only problem was I could see her and her hands were empty. Laura was the one up at bat and I was gone, gone, gone.
I spent the night in a semiprivate room at a hospital called Baptist Hast with the worst headache I believe I've ever had in my life. Because of the concussion, the doctor wouldn't give me any pain medication and my vital signs were checked every thirty minutes or so. Since I wasn't permitted to sleep, I spent a tedious couple of hours being interrogated by two detectives from the Oldham County Sheriff's Department. The guys were nice enough, but they were naturally skeptical of the story I told. Even mildly concussed, I was lying through my teeth, cleaning up my culpability in events as I sketched them out. Finally, a call was placed to the Courier-Journal and some poorly paid reporter checked through the back files to find an account of the bank robbery, including names of all the suspects and a lot of colorful speculation about the missing money. As it turned out, of course, the money was still missing, as were Ray Rawson, his aged mother, and his daughter, Laura, whose common-law husband was laid out in the morgue, his body perforated with bullet holes.
I maintained stoutly that I'd been forced along at gunpoint, clobbered and abandoned when my usefulness ran out. Who was there to contradict me? It helped that when a call was placed to Lieutenant Dolan back in Santa Teresa, he spoke up in my behalf and defended my somewhat sullied honor. The investigating officer laboriously handprinted my account of events, and I agreed to be available for testimony when (and if) Ray Rawson and his merry band were arrested and tried. I don't think the chances are all that good myself. For one thing, Ray has all that money in his possession, along with the forty years' worth of contacts and criminal cunning he picked up while he was in prison. I'm relatively certain he's managed to acquire three sets of false identification, including passports, and first-class tickets to parts unknown.
Wednesday morning, when I was released, a nurse just getting off duty offered me a ride as far as the Portland neighborhood where Helen Rawson lived. I got out at the corner and walked the remaining half block. The house was dark. The back door was standing open and I could see where miscellaneous items of clothing had been dropped in the haste of their departure. I went into the bedroom and turned on the table lamp. All the old lady's pills were gone, a sure sign she'd decamped with her son and granddaughter. I took the liberty of using her telephone, not even bothering to charge the call to my credit card. I had a dreadful time getting through to anyone. I tried Henry and got his machine again. Was the guy never home? I tried Rosie's and got no answer. I called my friend Vera, who must have gone off with her doctor-husband for the long Thanksgiving weekend. I called my old friend Jonah Robb. No answer. I even tried Darcy Pascoe, the receptionist at the company where I once worked. I was out of luck and beginning to panic, trying to figure out who in the world could help me out in a pinch. Finally, in desperation, I called the only person I could think of. The line rang four times before she picked up. I said, "Hello, Tasha? This is your cousin Kinsey. Remember you said to call if I ever needed anything?"
Epilogue
* * *
The wedding took place late Thanksgiving Day. Rosie's restaurant had been transformed by flowers, by candles, by room deodorants. Rosie in her white muumuu, a crown of baby's breath in her hair, and William in his tuxedo, stood before Judge Raney, holding hands with tenderness. Their faces were shining. In the candlelight they didn't look young, but they didn't look that old, either. They were glowing, intense... as if burning from within. Everyone seemed to be part of the promises made. Henry, Charlie, Lewis, and Nell, Klotilde in her wheelchair. The terms "for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health" pertained to all of them. They knew what loving and being loved was about. They knew about pain, infirmity, the wisdom of age.
I stood there, thinking about Ray and Laura and Helen, wondering where they'd gone. I know it's absurd, but I found it painful they hadn't cared enough to stick around and see that I was okay. In some curious way, they'd become my family. I'd seen us as a unit, facing adversity together, even if it was only for a matter of days. It's not that I thought we'd go on that way forever, but I would have liked a sense of closure – thanks, fare-thee-well, drop us a line someday.
William and Rosie were pronounced husband and wife. He took her face in his hands, and the kiss they exchanged was as light and sweet as rose petals. Trembling, he whispered, "Oh, my love. I've been waiting all of my life for you."
There wasn't a dry eye in the place, including mine.
Respectfully submitted,
Kinsey Millhone