premises as a cop. As a private operator, I leave guns alone if I can help it.
I always remember what Humphrey Bogart says in that old movie when he takes the gun away from the punk: “So many guns, so few brains.”
The foyer was big and cool, with wooden floorboards worn mellow. No quick sand-and-polyurethane job here.
Only care, years of care—the kind my Aunt Bea had lavished on her Cambridge home—gave it that warm sheen.
The wallpaper was one of those old grass-papers, in a faint beige. A worn octagonal Chinese rug colored the center of the floor. Overhead, a multiarmed chandelier hung low enough to menace.
The foyer had four escapes: three archways, the back one smaller than the right or the left, and a steep flight of beige carpeted stairs. I turned left toward what must have been the living room, and stopped with my jaw hanging wide.
Stuffing erupted from an overturned couch. Someone had slashed three huge X’s in the flowered upholstery and done his best to turn the sofa inside out. A wooden end table was cracked, baring pale wood under a dark finish. An amputated armchair leg stuck out of the shattered leaded glass door of a curio cabinet. A pile of smashed crockery lay at the base of one wall. It looked like someone had hurled Margaret’s treasures against the wall for the pleasure of hearing the crash and tinkle.
I swallowed and shoved my hands automatically into the pockets of my jeans so I wouldn’t be tempted to right a chair, smooth a torn cushion.
Margaret.
As I opened my mouth to call her name, I heard footsteps, heavy running steps, and the slam of a screen door.
Back door, side door, how the hell did I know? I ran out front, stared right and left, saw nothing, no one. I raced down the narrow walkway to the back of the house. Somewhere, a car engine roared to life and tires screeched on pavement. Through a stand of lilac bushes, I caught one glimpse of a hurtling dark van. By the time I’d vaulted Margaret’s back fence, it was gone.
Margaret.
I ran back to the house, calling her name, but my voice cracked and I don’t think I got much in the way of volume.
I started searching, careful where I put my feet. The destruction was even worse in the kitchen—canned goods, cereal, flour, emptied in a pile in the middle of the floor.
This didn’t look like robbery. It looked like vengeance.
Or war.
I found her in the dining room, crumpled in a corner, her flowered dress rucked up under her, a big white apron half covering her face. A trickle of blood oozed from one corner of her mouth. I put my ear to her chest, and felt the rise and fall of her breath. I don’t think I could have heard a heartbeat.
Blood was rushing in my ears, screaming.
I touched her shoulder, spoke her name, both more roughly than I intended. My hand was shaking, and I realized my teeth were clenched tight with anger. Anger at the chaos, at the broken useless dishes. Anger at myself, for not arriving moments earlier, not preventing this. Anger at my helplessness, as I knelt by my client’s battered face.
“It’s okay, Margaret,” I said softly, once I could force the words between my dry lips. “Don’t try to move. I’ll be right back.”
The jack was ripped out of the wall, so I ran across the street and used a startled neighbor’s phone. I know a number that gets a faster response than 911. Mooney’s number.
“You’re going to be fine,” I crooned in Margaret’s ear, straining to hear the wail of the ambulance. I touched her hand. It felt cool and dry. It moved, curling limply around my own, tightening. She moaned, or maybe she tried to say something. I put my head close to her lips, but I couldn’t make out any words.
All I could think of was Aunt Bea, and the way her hand gripped mine in that awful hospital room just before she died. I heard a voice whispering in the still room, and it was mine, begging Margaret to hang on, hang on.
If Eugene Devens was responsible for this, I would find him.
I always remember what Humphrey Bogart says in that old movie when he takes the gun away from the punk: “So many guns, so few brains.”
The foyer was big and cool, with wooden floorboards worn mellow. No quick sand-and-polyurethane job here.
Only care, years of care—the kind my Aunt Bea had lavished on her Cambridge home—gave it that warm sheen.
The wallpaper was one of those old grass-papers, in a faint beige. A worn octagonal Chinese rug colored the center of the floor. Overhead, a multiarmed chandelier hung low enough to menace.
The foyer had four escapes: three archways, the back one smaller than the right or the left, and a steep flight of beige carpeted stairs. I turned left toward what must have been the living room, and stopped with my jaw hanging wide.
Stuffing erupted from an overturned couch. Someone had slashed three huge X’s in the flowered upholstery and done his best to turn the sofa inside out. A wooden end table was cracked, baring pale wood under a dark finish. An amputated armchair leg stuck out of the shattered leaded glass door of a curio cabinet. A pile of smashed crockery lay at the base of one wall. It looked like someone had hurled Margaret’s treasures against the wall for the pleasure of hearing the crash and tinkle.
I swallowed and shoved my hands automatically into the pockets of my jeans so I wouldn’t be tempted to right a chair, smooth a torn cushion.
Margaret.
As I opened my mouth to call her name, I heard footsteps, heavy running steps, and the slam of a screen door.
Back door, side door, how the hell did I know? I ran out front, stared right and left, saw nothing, no one. I raced down the narrow walkway to the back of the house. Somewhere, a car engine roared to life and tires screeched on pavement. Through a stand of lilac bushes, I caught one glimpse of a hurtling dark van. By the time I’d vaulted Margaret’s back fence, it was gone.
Margaret.
I ran back to the house, calling her name, but my voice cracked and I don’t think I got much in the way of volume.
I started searching, careful where I put my feet. The destruction was even worse in the kitchen—canned goods, cereal, flour, emptied in a pile in the middle of the floor.
This didn’t look like robbery. It looked like vengeance.
Or war.
I found her in the dining room, crumpled in a corner, her flowered dress rucked up under her, a big white apron half covering her face. A trickle of blood oozed from one corner of her mouth. I put my ear to her chest, and felt the rise and fall of her breath. I don’t think I could have heard a heartbeat.
Blood was rushing in my ears, screaming.
I touched her shoulder, spoke her name, both more roughly than I intended. My hand was shaking, and I realized my teeth were clenched tight with anger. Anger at the chaos, at the broken useless dishes. Anger at myself, for not arriving moments earlier, not preventing this. Anger at my helplessness, as I knelt by my client’s battered face.
“It’s okay, Margaret,” I said softly, once I could force the words between my dry lips. “Don’t try to move. I’ll be right back.”
The jack was ripped out of the wall, so I ran across the street and used a startled neighbor’s phone. I know a number that gets a faster response than 911. Mooney’s number.
“You’re going to be fine,” I crooned in Margaret’s ear, straining to hear the wail of the ambulance. I touched her hand. It felt cool and dry. It moved, curling limply around my own, tightening. She moaned, or maybe she tried to say something. I put my head close to her lips, but I couldn’t make out any words.
All I could think of was Aunt Bea, and the way her hand gripped mine in that awful hospital room just before she died. I heard a voice whispering in the still room, and it was mine, begging Margaret to hang on, hang on.
If Eugene Devens was responsible for this, I would find him.
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