Gundown (12 page)

Fury choked Jewel. “You son of a bitch!”

He rolled the cab forward.

“Let me out!”

He stopped and stared at her in the rearview mirror with all the emotion of a lizard. Fighting back tears, she struggled out and kicked the door shut.

The cab pulled away.

When it was about ten feet from her, the cabbie yelled, “THREAD!” The cab screeched to a stop. It idled for long seconds, then its tires shrilled as it raced backward and rocked to a stop next to her. The cabbie leaned toward her and said, “Okay, let’s go.”

She got in, and the cab sped down the street. The cabbie glanced in the rearview mirror. He didn’t look so angry anymore.

“I’m sorry, lady.” He held up his right hand to show a ring of many colors. One of them blended with the driver’s skin. She’d seen the same ring on a lot of hands during her travel through Oregon. Come to think of it, the old man she’d cut in front of at the Ashland bus station had worn one.

He said, “I’m new at this Alliance thing, just did the promise a week ago, and I ain’t used to trying hard with people.”

Grateful for the ride, she said, “That’s okay.”

“Name’s Franklin.”

“Yeah.” She stroked Chloe’s brow, afraid to touch her cheeks.

Five minutes later, Franklin wheeled his cab into a half-circle drive in front of an old, three-story brick home that had been converted into the Alliance Free Clinic. He eased to a stop. “That’s six eighty, ma’am.”

Jewel shoved a ten at him and ran, clutching Chloe to her chest.

Half an hour later, she walked out of the clinic, Chloe cradled in her arms. A gentle nurse practitioner had diagnosed a mild viral infection called fifth disease, which she said was also known as “slapped cheek disease.” Since a rash had appeared, Chloe was no longer contagious, and the nurse expected the redness to fade in a few days. She gave ibuprofen to Chloe and a double dose of calm to Jewel. The only cost had been a promise to do two hours of community service. Jewel had a list of places that needed help.

She stopped when she saw a yellow cab with a familiar-looking figure standing beside it. Hadn’t what’s-his-name told her he was beat and on the way home?

The cabbie opened the rear door and gestured toward the seat, an I’m-being-pleasant smile peeking through his beard. His body language still read exhausted, but his expression had new energy.

She ambled toward him. She figured it was up to him to start this ball rolling, so she held her silence.

His gaze dropped to the ground, shifted back to her face, then settled on Chloe. “How’s your little girl?”

“She’ll be okay. You waited to ask me that?”

He didn’t rise to the hostile edge in her voice. “Kinda. Wanted to see if I could help out.”

Okay, here it came. Why couldn’t guys just leave her be? If this kept up, she was going to have to gain fifty pounds and wear sacks. She played the game. “I don’t see how.”

“How about a free ride to where you’re going next?”

That sounded good. “Why?”

He said, “It’s the Alliance promise to help I made. I couldn’t stop thinking how you must have felt, scared for your little girl like you were and me actin’ like a total asshole.”

She couldn’t help but crack a smile. “Total.”

He nodded. “So I didn’t want to leave it like that. Where can I take you?”

“A motel, I guess. No, the bus station. I left our bags.”

“Let’s go.”

She stepped past him and sat on the rear seat. She thought about how much cash she had. “You know a cheap place we can stay?”

He nodded. “I’ve got a spare room you can use, too.”

She frowned and started to get out. “Yeah, right. Guys are all the same.”

He laughed and held up his hand to stop her. “I’m not thinkin’ what you’re thinkin’ I’m thinkin’. My cousin lives with me”—he smiled—“and he’d think it was a hoot, the idea of me hittin’ on a woman, even one pretty as you.”

It took her a few moments to realize he’d just told her he was gay. She had to get a grip. She couldn’t go around thinking all every man wanted was her brown ass. She sank back into the seat and the cabbie shut the door. She said, “Thank you, uh . . .”

“Franklin Emerson.”

“Thanks, Frank.”

“Franklin.”

She laughed. “Right. Chloe, this’s Franklin, our new friend.”

Chloe peeked up and dimpled a little smile.

“And I’m Jewel.” She took a closer look at the guy. Go to his house? Well, she kinda liked him. He was working hard on the promise thing. As she watched, his knees sagged ever so slightly. Man was beat. On top of that, she had her stopper. She could handle him.

She smiled and said, “So let’s go get our bags.” Franklin got behind the wheel and started out.

Jewel cuddled Chloe close, relaxed, and felt a rush of gratitude that she was okay; there was nothing like danger to your baby to remind you what was important.

Franklin’s home looked like an old farmhouse plunked down on a residential street. It sported touches of gingerbread, and a broad porch wrapped the front and one side. Jewel especially liked the porch swing hung from chains, partly screened from the street by a wisteria vine that grew across the front. Tall maples and oaks shaded the house and yard.

Jewel felt right at home in the living room, mostly because the furniture was early Goodwill like hers had been. She wondered what had happened to it. She should have told Juana to take whatever her family could use.

Franklin helped her and Chloe get their bags in. A hallway led to four bedrooms: a tidy one that Franklin said was his, one with a musky scent coming from it—his cousin Earl’s—and two unused but clean rooms with single beds and small dressers. Franklin said, “Sometimes I rent rooms to actors in town to do a play.”

Jewel was quick to say, “Let me know what, I’ll pay.”

“You get a couple days to look around.” He grinned and tousled Chloe’s hair. “And squirts stay for free. Don’t take up much space. Make yourself at home.” He pointed to his room. “I’m takin’ a nap.”

After Chloe and her rubber ducky had enjoyed a playful bath in an old-fashioned tub with feet, Jewel tucked her into bed in the smallest bedroom for a nap. Then she surrendered to exhaustion and collapsed on the porch swing. A quiet hour went by, and then Franklin joined her, two beers in hand. She accepted one, and they sat in restful silence.

The rumble of a busted muffler interrupted the quiet when a red pickup truck pulled into the driveway and stopped behind Franklin’s cab. A shirtless, blond young man, tan, lean, and muscled, bounded out of the truck and trotted up to the porch.

Franklin smiled. “Jewel Washington, meet my cousin Earl.”

Earl hopped onto the porch and took Jewel’s hand. His blue-eyed gaze flicked to her scar and then took in the rest of her, then came back to look her in the eye. He smiled. “A pleasure.”

Jewel was surprised to find herself liking the way Earl looked at her. She said, “Me, too.”

Franklin said, “Beer?”

“Like to, but I got a meeting.”

Franklin said, “Where you heading?”

Earl glanced at Franklin. “You know.” He rushed into the house.

Franklin scowled. “I don’t like that militia crap. It’s trouble.”

Earl burst out the door, pulling a white T-shirt over his head and trotting to the truck.

Nice butt. Lordy, it’d been so long since she’d had a little lovin’ from a decent man. She was lonely for some sweet company.

He jumped into the pickup, then leaned out the window and said to her, “Will I see you later?”

Franklin said, “She’s staying with us for a while.”

Beaming, Earl said, “Franklin, you have just made my day.”

He roared out of the driveway.

“Your cousin seems nice.”

“He’s one of the world’s great people, except for the militia thing. He’s a set designer for the Shakespeare Festival, got a real artist’s eye.”

“What’s the militia thing?”

Franklin gazed after the departing truck. “I just don’t understand it. Earl’s a liberal guy most ways—hell, he couldn’t care less that I’m gay. But his daddy was real paranoid about the government, especially gun control, and I guess he passed on a pretty serious case of it.” He glanced at her. “Don’t let on I said anything, okay?”

Jewel sat back and swigged her beer. “I won’t. Ah, how’s he feel about women?”

Franklin grinned. “I think you’re gonna like that side of Earl.”

Ashland was lookin’ good.

Hank Get Your Gun

As Hank’s plane descended to the Medford, Oregon, airport, he marveled at the contrast between the green Rogue Valley and the flat, gray-brown mess of Chicago. Oh, Chicago was a great city, but it sure didn’t come close to mountains surrounding a pretty valley when it came to being easy on the eyes.

When he went to claim his suitcase, he found incoming luggage being X-rayed and some bags searched—he was glad Parsons had warned him about trying to pack a gun.

He rented a four-wheel-drive SUV and sped south on Interstate 5. In twenty minutes he took the Ashland exit and soon drove along the city’s main drag, if
city
was the right word for two primary streets lined with tidy little buildings that housed shops and restaurants. He parked on Main Street and left his car to get a feel for the place.

The physical pleasure of just being there surprised him. The mountain air was crisp and fresh. It felt good to breathe. The late-afternoon sun warmed his skin, and a breeze brushed his face with a softness unlike Chicago’s heavy air.

On lampposts hung crimson banners with a golden lion rampant, celebrating what Wikipedia said was the town’s most famous institution, the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. Who’d have thought a tiny town way out West would have theater that could win a Tony Award? Tree-shaded sidewalks were lively with tourists. There were long-haired young men and tattoos aplenty on colorful people, a mix of young and geriatric, all lively and busy. No gangbangers swaggered with pistols in their hands.

But there were guns. Brightly colored pistol grips stuck out of small holsters on a half dozen strollers, mostly women. Maybe these were the nonlethal guns Noah Stone talked about in his speech. Which reminded Hank that he had no weapon.

He pulled out his wallet and fished for the card Mitch had given him. A call from his cell phone and the password got him directions to an address. Now impatient with strolling tourists and their chipper mood, he hurried to his car.

The address on Kent Street was an ordinary ranch house in an orderly row of middle-class homes. Grade-school children played in the driveway next door, and a blond, lean woman in her twenties walking a beagle came toward him. She gave him a nice smile, which he was happy to return.

When he stepped onto the porch of his contact’s house, he heard a man shout, “Goddamn it, we gotta take Stone out!”

Hank peeked in a narrow window beside the door. Two men sat in a cramped living room, drinking beer from cans. He waited a moment, but nothing more was said. A scrawny cat appeared from under a bush and wound around his legs. He gave it a scratch on the head and then knocked.

A short, beer-bellied man opened the door. A woolly black Fu Manchu mustache framed his down-turned mouth, and bushy muttonchops decorated his fleshy jaws. “Yeah?”

Hank said, “I called. You Hatch?”

Rick Hatch nodded, his manner cautious but welcoming. “Yeah. I got word from Mitch you might be coming around.” He pushed the door open and stepped out. After careful looks up and down the street, he said, “Ah, you got an ID?”

After Hank showed his driver’s license, Hatch backed into the house and said, “Come on in.”

When Hank entered, Hatch waved a hand at the other man: clean-shaven, good-looking with a lean body, blond hair, and a tan. He sat forward on a plaid couch, a framed velvet painting of dogs playing poker on the wall above it.

Hatch said, “This’s Earl Emerson.”

Earl smiled and said, “Howdy.” His voice was the one that had shouted the threat to Noah Stone.

Hank nodded.

Hatch eyed him. “What can I do for you?”

“I need a handgun.”

The fat guy raised his eyebrows and smirked. “Hey, you can get a stopper at a buncha stores. Five bucks.”

“You call those handguns?”

Hatch snorted. “I call ’em pee shooters ’cause they’re about as useful as pissin’ into the wind.” He led Hank down a narrow hall to a closet in a small bedroom. He pulled on the hanger rod, chock-f of clothes, and it swung toward him and out of the way. Reaching up, he hauled on a slim rope and drew down an attic stair. The odor of gun oil spilled from a dark hole above. Hatch led the way up, turning on a light at the top.

Hank could stand straight only in the center of the attic room. Racks filled with shotguns, rifles, and assault weapons lined one wall. A table at the end of the space displayed a dozen handguns and holsters, plus boxes of ammunition.

Hatch smiled and said, “Welcome to the right to bear arms. What’s your preference?”

Hank picked up a .45 automatic like his own—yeah, the Colt was an old design, but he trusted it, and it fit his hand just right. He racked the slide, then ejected the magazine; the weapon was clean and well cared for. But there was a red square bonded to the frame that didn’t belong. “What’s this?”