“He was a sailor,” Mom says. “I never knew his last name.”
“I’m going for the fuse box,” I say.
“What was his first name, Mom?”
Mom pats Harry on the head. “His name was Ralph.” She used the same soothing voice on me when I was younger and sick with the flu. “You have his eyes.”
“I’m going now,” I announce. “I hope I make it.”
“Did you love him?” Harry ask.
Mom says, “For about three hours.”
“Wow,” Harry says. “Three hours.”
“Latham!” I call out to my fiancé. “I’m going for the circuit breaker!”
I hoped for a be careful. Instead I got: “Is that creepy private eye really your brother?”
I rub my eyes.
“Ralph had a lot of body hair too,” Mom says. “All over.”
That’s my cue. I duck low, suck in a breath, then hustle out the door and down the rest of the hallway, skidding into the laundry room. No one shoots me. The circuit breaker is on the wall, next to the dryer. I hook a finger through the metal ring on the door and tug. It’s stubborn, and doesn’t want to open. The panel isn’t broken, it has a strong spring inside that makes sure it’s always closed. I pull really hard, my finger aching, and then it finally gives. I squint at the rows of breakers, and press the large black button that reads MAIN .
The house goes dark, and the panel door slams back into place. I don’t hesitate, scrambling back into the hall, using memory and feel to find my bedroom. I take four steps inside before bumping into the bed. Then I spread my hands out over the top, seeking the ammo bag. My fingers brush the carrying strap, and I jerk the bag to me. I work the zipper, stick my hand inside, and yank out my competition pistol, a Kimber Eclipse II.45 ACP. I flip the safety and jack a round into the chamber. I feel around for extra clips, find three. They’re all empty. Bullets have been on my shopping list for a while.
There’s also a nylon holster in the bag. I shrug that onto my shoulder, the straps getting twisted in the dark but still doing the job.
Then I head for the window to sneak outside and round up the bad guys.
9:31 P.M.
PESSOLANO
WHEN THE LIGHTS GO OUT in the house, Pessolano takes the Leupold optics off the quick-release mount, puts it back into his bag, and attaches a Gen 3 starlight scope to the rifle.
Night vision works by using an image intensifier with a photoelectric effect to amplify ambient light. At least, that’s what the instruction manual says. Pessolano doesn’t understand it, but he knows that it turns images from pitch-black into a phosphorescent green.
He peers through the scope, and there, silhouetted at the bedroom window, is the female cop. He has one remaining Lapua FMJ round left, so he aims carefully, trying to adjust for the wind that has picked up.
BANG!
He sees the bullet strike the cop in the head, sees her jerk back, and smiles as she collapses.
“Bull’s-eye,” Pessolano says to himself.
This is so much more rewarding than working at a video store.
9:34 P.M.
MARY
MARY STRENG IS STILL TRYING to wrap her mind around the possibility that this strange man in her bathroom might actually be her son.
Almost fifty years have passed since she gave up her infant boy. She doesn’t remember his exact birthday, only that it was before Easter, and bitterly cold. Labor had been lonely, frightening, miserable, the pain of childbirth exacerbated by the knowledge that she wasn’t going to keep her baby. She’d gotten pregnant at eighteen years old, still in high school. Dropped out when she began to show. Left home soon after that, never telling her parents the reason why, preferring their protestations to their judgments. Got a job at a deli in another part of town. Lived in a fugue for a few months, then moved back home and finished school when it was all over.
She used to fantasize that someone adopted her son. Someone rich and caring, who spoiled him with extravagant gifts. A year later she met her future husband and got on with her life. Mary still thought of her son sometimes, on cold days in March, but she managed to forgive herself.
Hearing that Harry had been raised by the state, and not by Mary’s imaginary perfect family, reopened a long-sealed box of regret. She wants to ask him about his life. If he’s happy. If his childhood was okay. If he hates her.
Then she hears the shot, hears the thump of her daughter hitting the floor, and all thoughts of her past flit away.
“Jacqueline!”
No answer.
A feeling of dread unlike any she’s ever experienced drops over her like a shroud. Without giving it a second thought she grabs a flashlight from the bathroom closet and rushes into the hallway.
“Be careful,” Harry says after her. “Keep low.”
Mary doesn’t bother doing either. She moves as fast as she can, hurrying into the bedroom. Jacqueline is on floor, beside the bed. Her eyes are closed. Her hair is soaked with blood.
Oh no. Oh no no no no.
Mary kneels next to her daughter and directs the light onto the wound, her hands trembling. She can’t see the injury – there’s too much blood. Mary grabs a pillow, pulls off the case, uses that to mop at the spot that’s bleeding.
It’s a deep gash, three inches long, an inch wide. Mary presses the fabric to Jacqueline’s scalp, pulls it away, and can see her daughter’s skull bone, a startling white, before the blood begins to flow again. The bullet must have grazed her head, digging a trench in her skin. Thank God the bullet didn’t strike an inch lower.
Mary’s relief is short-lived, because the blood keeps coming. She estimates Jacqueline has already lost close to a pint, and she’s still pumping it out. Mary wraps the already-soaked pillowcase around her daughter’s head, tying it under her chin like a babushka. In the bathroom, there’s a first-aid kit. She could go and get it, then come back, but she’s unsure if the kit will be enough to stop the bleeding. Better to bring Jacqueline into the bathroom. Then Harry could help.
Keeping low, Mary pulls the comforter off the bed, and then the sheet beneath it. She lays the sheet on the floor, and with a deep grunt she rolls Jacqueline on top of it, placing the flashlight on her daughter’s chest. The effort leaves Mary gasping for air, but she doesn’t pause, instead crawling to the foot of the sheet and grasping it as hard as she can in her arthritic hands. Then she scoots back on her butt and pulls.
Pain, like sparks, shoots from Mary’s knuckles, up her arms, where it meets with other pain from her shoulders and back. Mary grits her teeth, squeezes her eyes shut, and fights against the pain. Arthritis produces a deep ache, like a migraine in the bones. Mary takes drugs to control the worst of it, even though they make her dizzy. She’s missed her last pill. The agony is worse than childbirth. Worse than a toothache.
Jacqueline slides across the carpeting, about a foot.
Mary doesn’t rest. She scoots back again, takes a deep breath, and pulls.
Another foot.
And another.
And another.
She reaches the bedroom doorway, her whole body shaking. The pain in her knuckles has become so bad that she’s moaning. She can’t make a fist anymore, so she wraps the sheet around her hands, around her wrists, which presses her inflamed knuckles together.
Pull.
Pull.
Pull.
“You’re almost there, Mom!” Harry shouts. “Just a little more!”