“I have a gun,” I said. “Tell them I have a gun.”
“They’re in the house,” she reported.
“Tell them I have a gun,” I repeated.
“Police,” a loud voice yelled from the living room.
“I have a gun!” I yelled back.
“Put it down,” the voice commanded.
“Not until I see your uniforms!” I shrieked.
“Benni?” The faintly familiar voice broke through the loud adrenaline buzz in my ears. A dark head poked around the corner of the doorway. A bright light blinded me. I aimed the pistol at the light.
“Benni?” he asked again. I knew that voice. A sob gurgled up from my throat.
“Miguel?”
“Put the gun down, Benni. It’s Miguel,” he said in a soothing voice.
Another sob escaped, but I couldn’t put the gun down. A primordial voice in my subconscious whispered—it’s a trick—don’t surrender your weapon.
“Benni, I can’t put my gun down until you do.” His voice sounded apologetic. “Put it down on the floor next to you. Do it now.”
The deep, reassuring tone of his voice finally penetrated my brain. With trembling hands, I laid the gun on the floor next to me.
“Push it away from you,” he said softly. I shoved it across the slick floor. He turned off his flashlight, flipped on the bedroom light and picked it up, his pistol already back in its holster. Shaking his head, he removed the clip, pulled the slide back and emptied the chamber.
“Geeze Louise!” he said, sounding like the Miguel I knew again. “You scared the shit outta me.”
He passed the gun to the officer behind him and held out his hand. I grabbed it, pulled myself up, then burst into tears.
“Ah, don’t cry,” he said, putting a heavy arm around me. As I leaned against his comfortable bulk and tried to get control of myself, he carefully led me to the tweed sofa in the living room. His partner, a tall, freckled guy in horn-rimmed glasses, was inspecting the bullet hole in the wall across from the window.
“Looks like a .22,” he said to Miguel. He turned to me. “Who’s pissed at you, lady?”
I stared at them a moment, wondering where I should start, when we were distracted by the arrival of two more police cars. After getting my description of the truck, I was left alone as they put out a report to the other patrol cars and assessed the damage made by the three bullets. Finally, Miguel came over, pulled out a notebook, and started asking me questions. I repeated my story of the light-colored pickup.
“That could be thousands of people in this county,” he said. He started to ask who I suspected, when the front door flew open and Ortiz burst into the room. His navy L.A.P.D. sweatshirt had the crumpled look of something slept in or grabbed off the floor; the fierce expression on his face caused all of us to stop talking mid-sentence.
“What happened?” he demanded. For a moment, we all just stared at him, then three officers started talking at once. He held up his hand and scanned the room, glaring indiscriminately. His eyes paused at me, then moved on to the hole in my living room wall.
“Someone get the slug?” he asked, walking over to the wall.
“Whose smart idea was it to call him?” I whispered to Miguel.
“Probably the dispatcher,” Miguel said out of the side of his mouth. “Orders. Anything that involved you, we were suppose to call him pronto.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I blurted out. Ortiz turned and gave me a threatening look.
After taking my statement, Miguel helped me nail up the plywood my neighbor, Mr. Treton, had graciously cut to fit my broken window and pick up the groceries splattered across the porch.
“Man, I loved this movie,” he said, picking up the video dripping with Italian dressing. I turned down his offer to take me to Elvia’s with the assertion that I wasn’t going to let a yahoo with a peashooter run me from my home.
After he and his partner left, I looked around and realized the only people left in the house were me and Ortiz. His expression hadn’t changed since he’d arrived. Silently, he walked over to the front door and locked it, pulled down the shades on the front windows, then sat down in Jack’s brown leather recliner, arms folded, eyes angry.
“What happened?” he asked.
“It’s in the report. With your pull, I’m sure you can obtain a copy.”
“I’m not in the mood for your bullshit.”
“I told Officer Aragon everything. It’s in the report.”
He let out a string of Spanish words I vaguely recalled hearing spew from the mouths of Elvia’s brothers when we were kids. I also remembered them getting repeated whippings from Señora Aragon for it. His outburst caused no reaction in me, seeing as I didn’t actually understand what he was saying. That is, until I heard the word
estupida.
“I am not stupid,” I said. Before he could comment, the phone rang.
“Are you okay?” Dove’s voice sounded faraway but gruffly familiar. I wanted to crawl into the phone toward it.
“How in the world did you hear about it so fast? And yes, I’m fine.”
“That nosy old fart who lives next door to you.”
“Mr. Treton?”
“I give him a couple of jars of my clover honey and he keeps me informed.”
“You’re paying the neighbors to spy on me?” I asked incredulously. Ortiz’s scowl turned into a confused look.
“I prefer to think of it as bartering.”
“Dove, I’m thirty-four years old.”
“I know how old you are. Whose sports car is that out front?”
“You don’t miss a thing, do you? Are Mr. Treton’s binoculars trained in on me at this moment? Are you hooked up by cellular phones? What am I doing right now?” I stuck my tongue out at the phone.
“Probably making a face,” she said and cackled.
“Are you through? I want to go to bed.”
“So, what about the car? Heard it’s a great restoration job.”
“It’s the chief of police’s car and he was just leaving.”
“Heard he’s a fine-looking man,” she said. I looked over at him in his old jeans, the thick black mustache I still thought about at odd moments, and slightly perplexed blue-gray eyes.
“Pretty fine,” I said.
“Let me talk to him.”
“No.”
“Benni ...”
“No, Dove. He was just leaving. There’s nothing you could possibly have to say to him.”
“You need police protection.”
“I have Jack’s pistol. That’s all the protection I need.”
“Let me talk to him.”
“No.”
“I’m bringing Garnet out, then. You shouldn’t be alone. I can be there in a half hour.” Knowing how she drove, I didn’t doubt it.
“Why, you old coot, that’s blackmail.”
“So call the cops. Let me talk to him.”
I held the phone out to Ortiz. “My grandmother wishes to speak to you.”
He looked bewildered as he took the phone.
“Whatever she wants, tell her no.”
“I heard that,” a tiny voice squawked from the receiver.
He nodded as she spoke, her voice a frantic buzz audible from where I was standing.
“Yes, ma‘am,” he said. “Yes, ma’am. I intend to, ma‘am. I’ll take care of it personally.”
He handed the phone back to me, his face impassive.
“What did she say?” I asked.
He answered with a shrug.
“Dove,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”
“I know you will, honeybun,” she said in a saccharine voice.
I looked at Ortiz suspiciously.
“I’ll see you soon. Have fun,” she said.
“What do you mean, have ...” but she’d already hung up.
In the meantime, Ortiz had settled back in Jack’s recliner, and punched the television on to a rerun of Saturday Night Live. The Coneheads were going to the circus.
“Excuse me.” I grabbed the controller from him and flipped the TV off. “Weren’t you just leaving?”
“Can’t.”
“What?”
“Orders.”
“What?”
“Your grandmother demanded police protection for you, and since I don’t have any money in the budget for overtime, I guess I’m stuck with the job.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Your grandmother is a very influential person in this county. Purely a career enhancement move on my part.” He smiled and pushed the recliner back one notch.
“You can’t spend the night here.”
“She said I could.”
“Well, I say you can’t.”
He locked his hands behind his head and crossed his legs. “She outranks you.” His expression was as cocky as his position.
“Don’t you own a pair of socks?” I snapped, mostly because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“What?” He looked down at his topsiders, perplexed.
I glared, not about to admit that I was actually relieved someone was staying the night with me. The sight of his pistol lying on the end table next to him gave me as close to a feeling of security as I was going to have tonight.
“You can use the quilt on the sofa if you need it.” I laid the remote control on the table next to him. “Where’s my gun?”
“You won’t need it while I’m here.” He grabbed the controller, turned on the TV and started cruising the stations.
“It’s my gun. I want it back.”
“You’ll get it back tomorrow,” he said, his eyes never leaving the TV screen.
“I want it now.”
“I said no. Now go to bed.” He settled on the eleven o‘clock news and pushed the recliner back as far as it would go.
“Get out of that chair.”
“I told you, I’m not leaving.”
“I’m not telling you to leave. I’m telling you to
get out of that chair.”
His head snapped up.
“Okay, no problem,” he said in the pacifying tone a person might use on a nervous horse. In seconds, he was out of the chair, sitting on the sofa. “Is here all right?”
“Fine.” I went into the bedroom and slammed the door.
A few seconds later, he knocked. “Don’t lock it.” His voice was muffled by the thickness of the door.
I swung it open. “What did you say?”
“Don’t lock this door. I might need to get in there quickly.”
Another time, that remark might have made me laugh, but I was too close to the edge to find any humor in it. “Do you think he’ll come back?” My voice cracked, but I was beyond caring.
“Probably not. He was either a very poor shot or he was only trying to scare you. With the caliber of gun he was using, my guess is the latter.” He took off his glasses and cleaned them with the edge of his sweatshirt; his eyes drew tight with fatigue. “I’m not done talking with you. We’re going to continue our conversation first thing tomorrow morning.”
“I know.” Right then, I didn’t care. Tomorrow was a lifetime away. I was still wondering how I was going to make it through tonight.
He started to turn away, then stopped and turned back, his face apologetic. “Look, about the chair.”
I held up my hand. “I’m sorry I snapped. It’s just that ...”
“I get it, Benni.” His voice was strained. “I’ll be out here if you need me.”
Though I took a hot shower to relax, my sleep was fitful all night. Even Ortiz’s presence in the house failed to lessen the apprehension that held me tight as a wrestler’s grip. More than once I woke suddenly, my throat tight, my face hot from the adrenaline coursing through my body.
I lay there and thought about the last three months, how different living in town was, how I missed the sounds and the odors of ranch life: the groaning of cattle echoing through the gullies on a clear night, the smooth feel of worn leather reins, horses whinnying to be fed at the end of the day, the tart, earthy smell animals bring to your life.
At one point, in a sort of panic, I pulled the embroidered case off Jack’s pillow and rubbed my face where he once laid his head, trying to find his scent. But it had been too long; only my smell was there. I held the pillow to my face, stifling my sobs, wishing suddenly I were alone, yet glad I wasn’t.
I woke for the last time at five A.M. and read the ceiling for an hour, worrying about what Ortiz was going to ask me and how much I should tell him. Now that there was a link to Jack’s accident, I wanted to get to this Suzanne Hart before the police. If they talked to her first, it would get all tangled up in legalities and I’d never find out if she knew anything about the night Jack was killed.
Since sleep was obviously out of the question, I crawled out of bed, put on a pair of thick gray sweats and slunk down the hallway into the kitchen. I couldn’t see Ortiz, so I assumed he was stretched out on the sofa asleep.
The kitchen was a mess as usual. I hadn’t washed dishes in a week, and though I didn’t honestly care about impressing Ortiz with my housekeeping abilities, I was vain enough not to want anyone to see what a closet slob I had become.
I turned the hot water on to a quiet trickle and pushed up the sleeves of my sweatshirt. I was on my second load of glasses, trying to shove the dishrag down into a thin, elegant iced tea glass given to me by Elvia, when it broke, slicing deep into the palm of my right hand. Forgetting I wasn’t alone, I let out a yelp. Tears stung my eyes as I held my hand under the running water, washing the soap out of my wound.
“Cut yourself?” Ortiz whispered about three inches from my ear, causing me to jump.
“For crying out loud, why don’t you cough or something before you sneak up on someone?” I grabbed a dish towel and wrapped it around my hand.
“And take away my only advantage?” he asked. “Let me see.” He unwrapped the towel and pried at the slit with his thumbs.
“Stop it.” I tried to pull away. “You’re making it bleed more.”
He continued to grip it firmly. “That’s the whole idea, gets rid of any glass chips. You probably need stitches. And a tetanus shot.”
“Forget it. I’ll just stick some gauze on it.”
“Sit down. I’ll do it. Where’s your first-aid supplies?”
I pointed to the cabinet above the refrigerator and sat down on a kitchen chair. After a lot of complaining about my pitiful box of supplies, he fashioned a neat though bulky bandage.