That said, most people don’t know there’s anything wrong with me. I don’t shake, rattle, and roll all the time or most of the time. When I’m with the uninitiated and my neck and head rear back for a direct shot at the heavens or I break out into a speech-throttling stutter, I explain that I have a movement disorder and leave it at that unless they ask for details I’m happy to provide. I’d rather people understand than speculate, but I don’t want to bore them with the details.
It was midafternoon when I got off the bus in Brookside, the long, jostling ride the last straw in a day that didn’t fit my tic-management routine. I grabbed hold of a NO PARKING sign, my knees buckling, my chin locked on my chest, my eyes shut tight as I corkscrewed toward the sidewalk, people skirting me, leaving me blessedly alone. The spasm passed, and I pulled myself up, took a deep breath, and walked home, wobbly at first, finding my legs, my head clear by the time I walked in the door and Roxie and Ruby jumped me.
There is only one thing better than a puppy, and that’s two puppies, even when they are no longer puppies. Roxie is white with a faint honey streak down her back you can see only on the day she’s groomed. Ruby’s coat is amber except for her white socks and chest. She’s the dominant sister, though Roxie is smarter, scratching at the door so that we’ll open it so that Ruby will go outside and she can steal the toy they were fighting over. They greet me like a liberator every time I come home, a few minutes on the floor with them climbing in and out of my lap, licking my ears, and nipping at my nose the perfect tonic.
“They’re glad to see you,” Joy said.
I was sitting on the faded oriental rug in the living den, a room whose hybrid name made up for what our house lacked in space, one room serving as two, the dogs flanking me, their front paws on my thighs. They’d met me at the door, sliding across the hardwood floor, attacking my knees until I surrendered.
Joy stood in the doorway to the kitchen, a dish towel over one shoulder. She’d lost her hair to chemo, but it had grown back, a thin, white downy layer. She called it low maintenance, claimed it was every woman’s dream. She was sickly thin, her clothes hanging off bony shoulders, and straight-line hips. The difference makers were the way her eyes glowed, the ease of her smile, and the sure way she carried herself, the combination saying that she’d taken her turn in the barrel and was determined to live as well and as long as she could. It was enough for her, and it was enough for me.
“Who can blame them?”
“Don’t kid yourself. They do that for everyone that comes in the door except they don’t get so excited that they pee when they see you.”
“Familiarity breeds continence.”
Joy rolled her eyes. “Save it for the revival of Urinetown. How’s that girl, Roni Chase?”
When I was at the FBI, I didn’t talk with Joy about my cases because our investigations were confidential and because I thought I was protecting her from things that would only make her worry. It wasn’t until after our divorce that I realized that the wall I’d built to keep her safe had kept us apart. I may have been slow to learn, but I was educable. I followed her into the kitchen and told her about my day, my visit with Roni, the old man on the bus, and the gang bangers.
“So, is Roni going to be okay?”
I shrugged. “Hard to tell. Depends on what happens. Quincy Carter won’t leave it alone. If he can tie Frank Crenshaw to the robbery of the gun dealer, some of that could splash back on Roni since she kept his books.”
“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the shooting. Is she going to be okay with that?”
That was Joy, more interested in people than problems, a lesson she says she learned the hard way. Fix yourself first and worry about the rest later.
“I think she’s strong enough to handle it. She went to the hospital to see Crenshaw, but the cops wouldn’t let her near him. She’ll probably feel better once she sees him up and around, even if he’s wearing a jail jumpsuit.”
She nodded, opened the refrigerator, the door hiding her face but not the catch in her throat. “That thing with the boys on the bus. I wish you wouldn’t do that.”
“I’m sorry. It just happened.”
“All the same.”
She closed the fridge, crossed her arms, and leaned against the counter, biting her lower lip. I put my hands on her shoulders, and we leaned into each other. I rested my face against her neck as a flurry of tremors bent me at the knees. She gripped my arms, and when the shakes passed, I whispered in her ear.
“Okay.”
Chapter Fourteen
Simon called as we were finishing the dinner dishes. I followed the dogs outside, letting them take me for a walk.
“The gun dealer’s name was Eldon Fowler,” he said. “He was hit for a hundred and six assault rifles and fifty-one or fifty-two handguns, depending on who you talk to.”
“Who did you talk to?”
“County sheriff’s deputy who was first on the scene and Fowler’s wife.”
“What about ATF? Wouldn’t they be running an investigation like this?”
“They are running it. They just aren’t talking about it. The sheriff’s deputy said it was one for the books. Fowler hit a deer. They figure he was going fifty miles an hour, which is a hell of a speed for a narrow gravel road in the woods, especially pulling a trailer full of guns at night in the rain.”
“Was he drunk?”
“He’d had a couple of beers with his buddies at the gun show, but he tested legal. Anyway, the deer smashes through the window, a big-assed buck, and spears Fowler in the chest with his antlers.”
“Christ! That’s a helluva way to die.”
“Only it didn’t kill him. He had a heart attack.”
“What happened to the deer?” I asked.
“That’s when things get really interesting. Someone put a bullet in the deer’s brain.”
“Fowler?”
“Don’t think so. The bullet they took out of the deer was a. 44 Magnum. Fowler’s wife said he was carrying a Glock 22. 40-caliber pistol, but the sheriff’s crime scene people didn’t find it. She said he also kept a Browning shotgun on the rack in his pickup, but they didn’t find it either. Thieves must have taken both guns.”
“Sounds like the thieves were following him and one of them took pity on the deer.”
“That’s what the deputy said. I talked to Fowler’s wife, and she told me that Fowler had called her when he was leaving the gun show in Topeka. He told her that someone had stolen a Ruger. 44 Magnum Redhawk from him during the show. Said it was his favorite gun. The sheriff’s deputy found Fowler’s inventory sheet for the guns he took to the show. Fowler had checked off what he sold and what he was bringing home. The Redhawk wasn’t checked off.”
“That’s why they don’t know whether the thieves stole fifty-one or fifty-two handguns,” I said.
“Right. And there’s one other thing. Highway Patrol got a call from someone an hour before Fowler’s wife found his body. Caller said he and his wife had passed a crazy man in a pickup truck that was pointing a shotgun out the driver’s window as they passed him on Highway 24. Fowler’s wife said he always took that highway. There was a hole in the passenger door of Fowler’s truck. The deputy told me it looked as if someone had fired a shotgun at point-blank range. Doesn’t make sense.”
“Part of it does. The thieves were on him at the gun show, at least one of them cocky enough to shoplift the Redhawk. Fowler realizes his favorite gun is missing and gets antsy, figuring they may be after the rest of his inventory. He thinks he’s being followed when he points the shotgun out the window. The driver who called the Highway Patrol, what was he driving?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Well, ask. The thieves may have been driving something similar, and that’s what spooked Fowler. And that means Fowler thought he’d seen the thieves and what they were driving.”
“I can buy that, but it doesn’t explain Fowler’s passenger door,” Simon said.
