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Authors: Charlotte Hinger
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eyes.
“The county has no money, right?”
He nodded wearily. I was clearly wearing him down.
“This investigation is going to put a terrible strain on the county’s resources. You need all the cheap help you can get.”
“You still have to have training, Lottie, and we’re broke. Police departments are being sued over inadequate training.”
“No problem. I’ll pay my own way to seminars and teach other people when I get back.”
There was a glint of interest in his eyes.
“I’m physically fit,” I said quickly. “I work out. I’ll take classes in self-defense.”
He drew a deep breath, leaned back in his rickety swivel chair, put his locked arms behind his head.
I waited.
Abruptly he swung into a full upright position and fixed me with his sad, old eyes.
“Can you kill someone, Lottie?”
“Kill?”
“Yes, kill someone, woman. You’ve thought everything through but that, haven’t you? It would be your duty, your obligation, to use deadly force if necessary.”
“I think so,” I stammered.
“Can’t be
think so.
Gotta be
know so.”
I gave him a look and left.
Chapter Twelve
I managed to get out the door without crying. But then I’ve always been good at saving face. I was ashamed of my little venture into the big bad world. My stomach tightened as I drove home.
We have photos of jack rabbit hunts at the society. Men stood proudly behind a mesa of rabbits neatly stacked as high as the roof of a porch. Clubbed to death. Years ago, it was a form of recreation second only to wolf hunts in general popularity. The children watched, and the womenfolk served pie afterward.
I have pictures of children watching public hangings. They, too, were family affairs. Occasions for picnics.
“Can you kill someone, Lottie?”
I was free to cry now.
“Not even a rabbit,” I whispered softly. There was no one to see my shame.
Our farmstead is chock full of guns. We have shotguns and rifles. Hunting is a way of life. Two of Keith’s daughters, Angie and Bettina, hunt game. Surprisingly, Elizabeth does not and I never do. Don’t know how, don’t want to learn.
I turned on the radio and was assaulted with information about the newest murder in Western Kansas. It had taken place in a rural farmhouse. A young couple shot. Just a little over a week ago, in our own pristine little town, a fine lady had been bludgeoned to death.
“Can you kill someone, Lottie?”
Who was I to expect other people to kill on my behalf? I wanted to keep my own hands clean. Yet I expected a peace officer to kill for me in a heartbeat. Wanted him to have the sin on his head. His hands bloody.
Ironically, I knew all about hand guns. They had been my version of teenage rebellion. Josie and I had attended a private Eastern boarding school. When our father insisted we adopt a sport, I took up archery and target pistols, and Josie fencing. Loner activities, despite the fact we competed against teams from other schools. It was not what Daddy had in mind.
I had a whole collection of purple ribbons. Handguns were a sport to me.
By the time I turned up our lane, I had made myself profoundly miserable and could hardly stand my own double-minded company. Once inside, I sought refuge in front of the TV. I flipped over to PBS and stared stupidly at Jim Lehrer.
Elizabeth’s nasty words kept echoing in my mind. “A lady whose idea of real life is working with dusty old manuscripts.”
Keith came through the back door, and I jumped at the sound.
“Nothing ready for supper,” I mumbled.
“That’s okay,” he said with a quick glance. “You all right, hon? Can I fix you something? Headache coming on?”
“No,” I said coldly, taking umbrage. I felt like there was a sign on my forehead. “Neurotic, pampered, high-strung bitch. Beware of the headache.”
“Okie, dokie,” he said carefully.
I closed my eyes, heard him start down the hallway.
***
That night I snuggled up against him, making myself small against his
“The county has no money, right?”
He nodded wearily. I was clearly wearing him down.
“This investigation is going to put a terrible strain on the county’s resources. You need all the cheap help you can get.”
“You still have to have training, Lottie, and we’re broke. Police departments are being sued over inadequate training.”
“No problem. I’ll pay my own way to seminars and teach other people when I get back.”
There was a glint of interest in his eyes.
“I’m physically fit,” I said quickly. “I work out. I’ll take classes in self-defense.”
He drew a deep breath, leaned back in his rickety swivel chair, put his locked arms behind his head.
I waited.
Abruptly he swung into a full upright position and fixed me with his sad, old eyes.
“Can you kill someone, Lottie?”
“Kill?”
“Yes, kill someone, woman. You’ve thought everything through but that, haven’t you? It would be your duty, your obligation, to use deadly force if necessary.”
“I think so,” I stammered.
“Can’t be
think so.
Gotta be
know so.”
I gave him a look and left.
Chapter Twelve
I managed to get out the door without crying. But then I’ve always been good at saving face. I was ashamed of my little venture into the big bad world. My stomach tightened as I drove home.
We have photos of jack rabbit hunts at the society. Men stood proudly behind a mesa of rabbits neatly stacked as high as the roof of a porch. Clubbed to death. Years ago, it was a form of recreation second only to wolf hunts in general popularity. The children watched, and the womenfolk served pie afterward.
I have pictures of children watching public hangings. They, too, were family affairs. Occasions for picnics.
“Can you kill someone, Lottie?”
I was free to cry now.
“Not even a rabbit,” I whispered softly. There was no one to see my shame.
Our farmstead is chock full of guns. We have shotguns and rifles. Hunting is a way of life. Two of Keith’s daughters, Angie and Bettina, hunt game. Surprisingly, Elizabeth does not and I never do. Don’t know how, don’t want to learn.
I turned on the radio and was assaulted with information about the newest murder in Western Kansas. It had taken place in a rural farmhouse. A young couple shot. Just a little over a week ago, in our own pristine little town, a fine lady had been bludgeoned to death.
“Can you kill someone, Lottie?”
Who was I to expect other people to kill on my behalf? I wanted to keep my own hands clean. Yet I expected a peace officer to kill for me in a heartbeat. Wanted him to have the sin on his head. His hands bloody.
Ironically, I knew all about hand guns. They had been my version of teenage rebellion. Josie and I had attended a private Eastern boarding school. When our father insisted we adopt a sport, I took up archery and target pistols, and Josie fencing. Loner activities, despite the fact we competed against teams from other schools. It was not what Daddy had in mind.
I had a whole collection of purple ribbons. Handguns were a sport to me.
By the time I turned up our lane, I had made myself profoundly miserable and could hardly stand my own double-minded company. Once inside, I sought refuge in front of the TV. I flipped over to PBS and stared stupidly at Jim Lehrer.
Elizabeth’s nasty words kept echoing in my mind. “A lady whose idea of real life is working with dusty old manuscripts.”
Keith came through the back door, and I jumped at the sound.
“Nothing ready for supper,” I mumbled.
“That’s okay,” he said with a quick glance. “You all right, hon? Can I fix you something? Headache coming on?”
“No,” I said coldly, taking umbrage. I felt like there was a sign on my forehead. “Neurotic, pampered, high-strung bitch. Beware of the headache.”
“Okie, dokie,” he said carefully.
I closed my eyes, heard him start down the hallway.
***
That night I snuggled up against him, making myself small against his
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