“So,” Dix said.
Czernecki said, “Guns are dangerous. And too easy to obtain as it is; only qualified law enforcement personnel should be allowed to own a handgun, much less carry one on his person. Seems to me I recall you making those statements once, in no uncertain terms.”
Again, Dix was silent.
“They're particularly dangerous in the hands of someone who doesn't know how to use them. We both agree on that.”
“I know how to use a handgun. I was in the army.”
“Yes, during the Vietnam War. You rode a desk on one of the East Coast training bases, if I remember correctly. Never got off U.S. soil.”
“You say that as if I manipulated it that way. I was drafted, I served my two years, I went where and did what I was told. I didn't run to Canada.”
“But I'm sure you thought about running. Gave it careful and serious consideration.”
The hell with this, Dix thought. He said, “I didn't come here to argue politics with you, Czernecki. I told you what I want. If you won't sell me a handgun, say so and I'll go somewhere else.”
“If you had anywhere else to go, you wouldn't have come to me. Frankly, I find this request of yours fascinating. A liberal peacenik and strong advocate of gun control suddenly wants the privilege of carrying a concealed weapon. Is it that you've had a philosophical change of mind on the gun control issue?”
“No. I still believe there need to be controls.”
“In theory, but not where you're concerned.”
“If you want to put it that way.”
“Tell me, then: Why do you want a handgun?”
“For protection.”
“Really? Protection from what?”
“That's my business.”
“It's mine, too, if I'm to be your supplier.”
Dix hesitated. Then he said, “I have reason to believe that my life is in danger, that I'm being stalked. That's as much as I'm willing to tell you.”
“Why would anyone stalk a man like you?”
“I don't know.”
“You do know the stalker's identity?”
“No, I don't.”
“Invisible enemy, Mallory?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds paranoid to me. In fact, it sounds suspiciously like the paranoia you liberals are always ascribing to men who hold my beliefs. Gun nuts, the so-called lunatic fringe.”
Dix said carefully, “I'm sure you're enjoying the hell out of this, Czernecki. But spare me the irony. I wouldn't be here, compromising my beliefs, begging favors, if I weren't hurting and desperate. You must realize that.”
“Of course.”
“Will you help me, then?”
“I haven't decided. I want to think about it for a while.”
“How long?”
“I live near the campus,” Czernecki said, “and I generally go home for lunch. I'm going today at one. If I do decide to help you, I'll have a package for you when I return at two o'clock.”
“All right, fair enough. How much?”
“We'll discuss that if and when. Any preference as to type and caliber?”
“Something small and not too heavy.”
“Small-caliber weapons don't have much stopping power.”
“I wouldn't feel comfortable with anything larger than a thirty-eight.”
“Of course you wouldn't.”
The air in the cramped space was stagnant, too-warm, tainted with the sweet smell of Czernecki's cologne. Dix felt a little sick to his stomach. He said, “Two o'clock, then,” and made motions to leave.
“No, don't go yet,” Czernecki said. “I have a few more questions for you.”
“I'd rather not answer any more questions—”
“I'd rather you did.”
“All right. Ask them.”
“This stalking business. Is it related to your wife's death?”
Damn you! Dix thought. “No,” he lied.
“And her death
“Yes.”
“My condolences, by the way.”
“Thanks so much.”
“Under the circumstances, after such a tragic loss, I don't blame you for taking an aggressive position with this new trouble. I would do the same if I were in your shoes.”
Dix said nothing.
“The police, I suppose, haven't been much help?”
“There isn't much they can do in a case like this.”
“No. And self-protection is a constitutional as well as a God-given right. You agree with that, in theory at least?”
“I agree with it.”
“But to what length? To the death?”
“I'm not sure what—”
“If I sell you a handgun, and you have occasion to use it against an enemy, would you shoot to kill? Could you take a human life?”
“If I had no other choice.”
“Cold-bloodedly, if that was the only choice?”
“Yes.”
“You're certain of that? Absolutely certain?”
“I'm certain.”
“Then welcome to the real world, Mallory,” Czernecki said. “Guns don't kill people—people kill people. And sometimes fighting violence with violence is the only solution. Now maybe you see the distinctions.”
Dix saw them, all right. He saw them all too well. But what Czernecki didn't understand was that there had been no fundamental adjustment in his way of thinking. He believed as passionately as ever that if Charles Czernecki and his ilk had their way, they would help turn the real world into a nightmare place of ruptured freedom, atavistic violence as an accepted societal norm. The decision he'd made applied to him alone. He was scared, trapped by circumstances beyond his comprehension and control, driven to do what he felt he had to to survive, and these things made him weak, made him sell out on a personal level. But, by God, it didn't put him in Czernecki's camp. It didn't make what he was doing
The brief visit with Eileen left Cecca bleak and depressed. She'd been prepared for the worst, had tried to erect defenses to guard her own tender feelings, but imagining what Eileen would look, act, and sound like didn't match the reality of seeing her, listening to her. So pale, lying there; the stunned eyes and minimal awareness; the slurred voice and disjointed speech patterns.
“Mrs. Harrell's mind is bruised,” her attending physician, Dr. Mulford, had told Cecca beforehand. He'd insisted on seeing her first, to warn her that under no circumstances was she to mention the explosion, or what had happened to Ted and Bobby and Kevin. “She's in a great deal of emotional pain. She doesn't remember anything about that night, won't allow herself to even though at a deeper level she knows she has to eventually. She's afraid to face the enormity of it. But I don't think she'll let herself suffer that way for long. The wife and mother parts of
