Carrying shotgun. B and E suspect escaping on foot northbound; check the alleys. I have Hansen, front yard. Approach premises with caution; there may be others watching or in the house.”
“It was a rifle,” I whispered, spitting grass from my trembling lips.
“What?”
The flash of rotating lights blinded me. Police cruisers were arriving, fast and hot, sirens off. “The firearm. It was—”
“How do you know?” Raymond asked, still pressing me to the ground. I could not tell whether he was holding me once again as a suspect, or to protect me.
“My father had one. Shot coyotes. We had a ranch—”
“Firearms sound alike,” he said suspiciously.
Adrenaline now had my mouth running a mile a minute. “No, they don’t. A rifle makes a cracking sound above the pow. A shotgun or a pistol, just the pow. Physics. The rifle bullet breaks the sound barrier, makes the crack, but you hear it right on top of the pow because you’re so close to it. My dad explained it to me.”
“Why?” he asked, incredulous.
“I don’t know. Because I asked. I stood beside him enough times when he was shooting. His shotgun had a kind of thud when it went off, because he carried a heavy load—big Wing-master, pounds you in the heart, but he was afraid of mountain lions—but his rifle was like a knock in the head. The idiot didn’t give me any earplugs. Made ’em ring for days sometimes. There’s a little muscle in your ear that—aw hell, you let me up and we’ll be picking two slugs out of the wall, not a bunch of shot.”
I could hear other cars arriving, footfalls as men hurried to the doors, the sound of the front door rending as someone worked it with a pry bar. I sighed. “I have the key right here in my hand.”
Officer Raymond rolled off me abruptly. “Over here!” he called as he took the key and pitched it to the policeman who was ripping at the door. Twisting my neck around to watch, I saw the key follow a perfect arc that ended squarely in the fellow’s outstretched hand. A portion of my mind noted the perfection of that throw, made from a prone position no less, and decided, with the odd detachment that adrenaline can produce at moments of crisis, He must have played baseball.
The man at the door wrestled it open, stood aside, pulled his pistol, nodded to a second officer, who had now joined him on the doorstep, and slipped in. A long minute later, I heard, “All clear!”
Officer Raymond snatched me up to a standing position as if I were a doll. “You okay?” he asked, still holding my arms.
“Define okay,” I said jerkily.
In the light that now filtered through the holes shot through the curtain of the front window, I thought I saw him smile. “No bones broken?”
“No.”
“No fresh blood?”
I checked the bandage on my thumb. Our little roll on the lawn had peppered it with dirt, but the wound had stayed closed. “Just good old American red, type A-positive, usual volume all present and accounted for.”
“Good,” he said, now smiling broadly. “You keep it that way, tough girl.”
7
ONCE AGAIN, THE HOUSE WAS ALIVE WITH POLICE DETECTIVES, who were sifting through every disturbed book and paper in search of evidence. I’d done my best to describe the man I’d none-too-clearly seen driving the tan Chevy to an Identikit specialist (Officer Raymond corroborated my take) while I watched a detective dust the house for prints, then had managed to hold myself together as another detective took my second statement of the day. I sat in the kitchen, head propped up in my good right hand, occasionally taking a sip from the cup of coffee I had scrounged. My adrenaline shakes had settled into a nervous fatigue.
Whoever had dumped George Dishey’s files and books out onto the floor had made a clean getaway—save for a clumsy-looking old walkie-talkie he had left behiind—and it soon became apparent that both men—presuming whoever had been in the house was male—had cleared the
“It was a rifle,” I whispered, spitting grass from my trembling lips.
“What?”
The flash of rotating lights blinded me. Police cruisers were arriving, fast and hot, sirens off. “The firearm. It was—”
“How do you know?” Raymond asked, still pressing me to the ground. I could not tell whether he was holding me once again as a suspect, or to protect me.
“My father had one. Shot coyotes. We had a ranch—”
“Firearms sound alike,” he said suspiciously.
Adrenaline now had my mouth running a mile a minute. “No, they don’t. A rifle makes a cracking sound above the pow. A shotgun or a pistol, just the pow. Physics. The rifle bullet breaks the sound barrier, makes the crack, but you hear it right on top of the pow because you’re so close to it. My dad explained it to me.”
“Why?” he asked, incredulous.
“I don’t know. Because I asked. I stood beside him enough times when he was shooting. His shotgun had a kind of thud when it went off, because he carried a heavy load—big Wing-master, pounds you in the heart, but he was afraid of mountain lions—but his rifle was like a knock in the head. The idiot didn’t give me any earplugs. Made ’em ring for days sometimes. There’s a little muscle in your ear that—aw hell, you let me up and we’ll be picking two slugs out of the wall, not a bunch of shot.”
I could hear other cars arriving, footfalls as men hurried to the doors, the sound of the front door rending as someone worked it with a pry bar. I sighed. “I have the key right here in my hand.”
Officer Raymond rolled off me abruptly. “Over here!” he called as he took the key and pitched it to the policeman who was ripping at the door. Twisting my neck around to watch, I saw the key follow a perfect arc that ended squarely in the fellow’s outstretched hand. A portion of my mind noted the perfection of that throw, made from a prone position no less, and decided, with the odd detachment that adrenaline can produce at moments of crisis, He must have played baseball.
The man at the door wrestled it open, stood aside, pulled his pistol, nodded to a second officer, who had now joined him on the doorstep, and slipped in. A long minute later, I heard, “All clear!”
Officer Raymond snatched me up to a standing position as if I were a doll. “You okay?” he asked, still holding my arms.
“Define okay,” I said jerkily.
In the light that now filtered through the holes shot through the curtain of the front window, I thought I saw him smile. “No bones broken?”
“No.”
“No fresh blood?”
I checked the bandage on my thumb. Our little roll on the lawn had peppered it with dirt, but the wound had stayed closed. “Just good old American red, type A-positive, usual volume all present and accounted for.”
“Good,” he said, now smiling broadly. “You keep it that way, tough girl.”
7
ONCE AGAIN, THE HOUSE WAS ALIVE WITH POLICE DETECTIVES, who were sifting through every disturbed book and paper in search of evidence. I’d done my best to describe the man I’d none-too-clearly seen driving the tan Chevy to an Identikit specialist (Officer Raymond corroborated my take) while I watched a detective dust the house for prints, then had managed to hold myself together as another detective took my second statement of the day. I sat in the kitchen, head propped up in my good right hand, occasionally taking a sip from the cup of coffee I had scrounged. My adrenaline shakes had settled into a nervous fatigue.
Whoever had dumped George Dishey’s files and books out onto the floor had made a clean getaway—save for a clumsy-looking old walkie-talkie he had left behiind—and it soon became apparent that both men—presuming whoever had been in the house was male—had cleared the
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