Gundown (9 page)

Old Pain, Still Hurts

Hank was sitting on his hospital bed when an aide came in with a tray of the stuff the hospital served in lieu of food. Hank said, “No thanks, I’ve been discharged and I’m leaving now.”

“You can still have this.”

He caught the aroma of a yellow pool of squash the consistency of soup and said, “No thanks, I’m leaving now.”

The aide grinned. “Don’t blame you.” She left, and he went to his closet to dress. His T-shirt was snug over his bandages. His ribs were wrapped, and the dressing on his arm wasn’t due to come off for a couple of days. But he felt sound enough.

He had just slipped his Windbreaker over his shoulder holster when a man he’d hoped to never see again stepped into his doorway. Hank had always hated the thought of anybody tinkering with his mind, and this guy had tried his best after Amy and Marcie were— He closed the closet door.

The psychiatrist stroked his salt-and-pepper goatee, and irritation churned in Hank at the sight of the gesture. But he kept it cool. “Hello, Doc. You’re a long way from the VA hospital. Run out of heads to shrink?”

Dr. Kensington grinned. “I never finished with yours. Saw the story on the news and thought I’d look in.” He scanned the room. “You’re out of here pretty fast.”

“Got things to do.”

The psychiatrist focused on Hank. “How are you feeling these days?”

Hank shrugged.

“Having any dreams about kill—”

“Nope.” He wasn’t about to mention tears on his cheeks when he woke up. The shrink would be all over that.

Dr. Kensington frowned. “That’s not good, Hank. It’s part of your PTSD. You need to—”

“I don’t!” The vehemence in his voice surprised Hank . . . but the guy ought to leave well enough alone. He lowered his volume and said, “I’m fine.”

The doctor studied him. “You’re still troubled by it, aren’t you?”

Hank lifted a fist, then uncurled it and smoothed his jacket instead. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have any reason to be troubled.” He advanced on the doctor, forcing him to back up and step out of the way. “Good to see you.”

It felt so good to get out of the hospital that the cab ride through Chicago’s muggy air was almost refreshing. Equally refreshing was the anonymity of his high-rise apartment building on North LaSalle—encounters with neighbors were few and far between, the way he wanted it. But it was nice to get a smile from Jim the doorman, a retired cop Hank liked.

In his bedroom, he glanced at the dirty clothes littering the floor and decided they were fine right there—he had enough clean stuff for his trip. Tidying for guests was no problem, because he never had them. No place to sit, for one thing. He kept things lean: one phone, one TV, one TV tray, one lamp, one table, one chair, one computer, one dresser, one nightstand, one bed.

He changed into fresh jeans and a black T-shirt, and then packed a suitcase, raiding the bathroom for his anxiety meds, regretting having to leave his stash behind. Weed helped keep the PTSD triggers down. But it was legal in Oregon, so he figured he could get some there. He left his gun and holster. It felt like he was going on a mission naked.

Back in the living room, he got online, bought a plane ticket to Oregon, and reserved a room at the Ashland Springs Hotel.

When he scanned the bedroom to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, he stopped at the photo of Amy on his nightstand. She gazed up at him, forever five years old, wearing her favorite flowery party dress, her black curls shining and her brown eyes alight. Her silver butterfly necklace hung draped over a corner of the frame by its delicate chain. She’d been wearing it the day she—the day she—

He turned his back . . . then he pivoted, gathered the necklace, and slipped it into a pants pocket. Outside the window, sailboats scudding across Lake Michigan caught his eye. His focus shifted north, to where the cemetery was. Dr. Kensington said Hank’s inability to remember Amy came from denying what had happened to the two people who lay at rest in that graveyard.

But he was wrong. Hank knew what had happened because he’d read the report—it had been a righteous shooting. He didn’t need to remember the actual event. He was done with it. He knew his failure.

When he drove out of the parking garage, he turned north instead of heading for O’Hare Airport.

At the cemetery, the two flat granite plaques lay side by side, surrounded by lawn. A surge of spring air jostled a dandelion plant that had evaded mowing and bloomed bright yellow next to the plaque engraved “Amy Lynn Soldado.” Amy had loved picking dandelions gone to seed and blowing the white fluff into a breeze. She’d chase after it, all a-giggle.

Hank clutched the necklace in his pocket, and then knelt to pluck the dandelion flower and lay it over Amy. But he decided to leave it be—if a mower didn’t get the flower, soon a breeze would waft white fluff across her grave.

His gaze turned to the stone marked “Marcella Caruso Soldado.” He would never understand how things had gone so wrong with Marcie. How she could have done what the report said. How she could have thrown . . . could have thrown— Pressure grew in his mind, a sense of something surging against the inner barriers that kept him operational.

Enough. He had a plane to catch. Duty called with a good mission to execute.

Sending a Message

Martha Hanson pulled the living-room curtains aside and peeked out. Her miniature poodle joined her and stood on its hind legs, yapping to be picked up. Martha scooped her up and held her so she could see out the window, petting her head. “Shh, Sparky.”

Across the street, the pushy reporter with the camera was still camped out, sitting in a lawn chair. Thank God Mackinac Island didn’t allow cars or there’d have been a news van parked out there. She looked up at the sky, hoping for rain to pound the jerk, but there was nothing but blue overhead. She shut the curtains, gave Sparky a hug, and put her down. Martha went to her office and fired up her computer. She pulled up her militia website, but then just sat there and stewed, too angry to think.

She had never been so pissed off, never. The goddam media still pestered her every time she went out about dumbass Jason Schaeffer trying to shoot that asshat Noah Stone. The reason she lived on an island was to avoid exactly that! Her gaze drifted to a .22 semi-automatic rifle leaning in a corner. Maybe if she just winged the guy . . . She shook her head. That would be even dumber than what Jason had done.

On the other hand . . . She snatched up the rifle, chambered a round, and went to her front door. When she opened it and stepped out on the porch, the reporter stood and lifted his camera to his eye. He’d march across the street any second now, yelling questions at her, embarrassing her in front of her neighbors.

She snugged the rifle into her shoulder and aimed at the reporter. She was close enough to see his one visible eye widen, and he lowered the camera. At that moment she squeezed off a shot and splintered a leg of the chair behind him.

And then she almost hurt herself laughing as he ran down the sidewalk at a pretty damn good pace, holding his camera cradled to his chest. The abandoned chair sagged on the sidewalk. Her across-the-street neighbor stepped out of his front door, gave her a thumbs-up, and hauled the chair inside his house. Feeling much better, she went back to her office.

The grin on her face slid away, though, when she pulled up the
Huffington Post
Crime page and there was Jason’s photo with the headline “Assassin or Victim?” She clicked on the article and sure enough, her picture was there, too. Christ, she’d like to put a bullet in Jason—although she might have felt differently if he’d succeeded. Jason’s bullet hadn’t had Noah Stone’s name on it, but someday one would.

Martha laughed. Why not now? She went into her gun room and pulled out a .44 Magnum deer rifle cartridge. Her grin came back when she rustled up a Sharpie and printed “Noah Stone” on the brass casing. From there it was a simple matter to snap a picture of it with her phone, email it to herself, and then put the image on her website. No way of knowing if Stone would ever see it, but there were plenty of folks who would get the message. She could only hope that they would do whatever they did smarter than Jason had.

Pistol-Packin’ Mama

Chloe had been complaining about being hot and tired, so Jewel was glad when her daughter stood on the bus seat as they came into Portland and peppered her with Why this? and Why that? Jewel held Chloe close, fascinated by the pretty city with wooded hills at its back and a river at its feet. Maybe it was only the pure light of early morning, but Portland seemed fresh and clean.

She wished they didn’t have one more leg to go in their journey. Why did Noah Stone have to hang out in the state’s bottom instead of this nice city at the top? At least they had an hour break before it was time to leave for Ashland. And they’d be on a different bus—the smell from the john in the back of this one was pretty rank.

She gazed at Chloe’s downy face with a rush of adoration, ran a fingertip along a rounded cheek, and provoked a giggle and a quick kiss. Oh, if only this place would be good to her child. She wondered again if she’d done the right thing.

A freeze-frame of those punks gunning down that kid in the courtyard popped into her mind. How could this be worse?

Brakes squealing the way they had at every stop for two days and two thousand miles, the bus stopped at last. The driver announced, “Welcome to Portland, folks. Since this is a port of entry, you will be checked for lethal firearms. Thanks for traveling with Greyhound.”

Wondering what that was all about, Jewel led Chloe out to the parking lot. The air reeked of exhaust fumes and the black smell of sunbaked asphalt, but the sky was pure blue with puffy white clouds. A breeze sighed through the lot and took the fumes with it, replacing them with a piney scent. Jewel took a deep breath, gathered her bags, and shepherded Chloe into the bus station.

Inside, passengers formed lines leading to inspection stations like in airports, schools, and government buildings—X-ray tunnels for luggage and bags, and electromagnetic sensor gates for people to pass through. Food smells drifted her way from a mini-mall on the far side of the building.

A big sign above the inspection area declared, “
Possession of a lethal firearm in Oregon is an automatic felony conviction.
” Wow. They were serious about this.

She joined a line. Three people ahead, a passenger set a small three-barreled pistol in a basket. The security guard glanced at it and passed it through to be collected on the other side by its owner.

In the line next to hers, a scruffy young guy who’d gotten on the bus in Montana stepped through the sensor gate. It beeped, and a guard told him to empty his pockets. The man dropped a large folding knife into the basket, his eyes darting as if he expected to be busted. The guard examined it, then handed the basket around the gate. This time the alarm kept its peace when the young man went through. As he collected his knife, the guard said, “You be careful with that, son.”

The next person in Jewel’s line to undergo inspection, a white-bearded old dude, whipped out an automatic pistol and dropped it into a basket. The guard picked it up and ejected the magazine. Instead of bullets, it held stubby cartridges tipped with white balls. They were maybe half the length of an ordinary cartridge.

The guard shoved the magazine back into the gun and passed it on. “Nice-looking conversion.”

The old fart smiled and cleared the sensor gate.

Jewel whispered into Chloe’s ear, “Honey, we are way-y-y out West.”

The fortyish woman in front of Jewel took a snub-nosed revolver from an attaché case. The guard popped the chamber open and found the brass-and-lead bullets Jewel expected to see. The woman held out a photo ID and said, “I have a permit to carry that, officer.”

“Sorry, ma’am, nobody does in Oregon, not even cops.”

She pointed at the old dude ahead and protested. “But that man had a gun.”

“His weapon was re-chambered for legal defensive use. You don’t have to surrender your weapon, but if you refuse I’ll have to arrest you.”