Back at my house, alone.
Allison was in Boulder, Colorado, for a conference. After that, she’d be traveling to attend her former father-in- law’s birthday.
I’d driven her to the airport, and she’d spent the night at my house. After I stashed her suitcases in the car, she removed something from her purse and handed it to me.
Petite, chrome-plated automatic. As I took it, she said, “Here’s the clip,” and gave me that, too.
“Forgot to leave it at home,” she explained. “Can’t get on the plane with it. Could you keep it for me?”
“Sure.” I placed the gun in my pocket.
“It’s registered, but I have no carry permit. If that bothers you, you can put it in the house.”
“I’ll chance it. Ready to go?”
“Yup.”
As we neared the 405 South, she said, “You’re not going to ask?”
“I figure you’ve got a reason.”
“The reason is after what happened to me, when I finally got my head straight, I told myself I’d avoid feeling that helpless again. I started with the usual stuff- self-defense courses, basic safety manuals. Then, years later, when I was a postdoc, I treated a woman who’d been raped twice. Two separate incidents, years apart. The first time she blamed herself. She’d been out-of-her-mind drunk, got picked up by a lowlife in a bar. The second time was some monster managing to jimmy a closed bedroom window. I did all I could for her, looked up gun shops in the yellow pages, bought my little chromium friend.”
“Makes sense.”
“Does it?”
“You kept it.”
“I like it,” she said. “I really think of it as my friend. I’m a pretty good shot. Took basic and intermediate training. Still go to the range once a month. Though I’ve missed a couple of months because we’ve been spending time.”
“Sorry to distract you.”
She touched my face. “Does it bother you?”
“No.”
“You’re sure.”
Within ten years, I’d shot two men to death. Both had been out to kill me. Evil men, self-defense, no option. Sometimes I still dreamed about them and woke up with acid in my stomach.
I said, “In the end we look out for ourselves.”
“True,” she said. “I didn’t really forget to leave it home. I wanted you to know.”
22
Eric Stahl sat and drank water.
Tap water in a half-gallon Sprite bottle. He’d brought it from home.
Watching Kevin Drummond’s apartment on Rossmore.
He’d arrived before sunrise, checked out the rear of the building. Treading cat-light on old sneakers sure not to squeak.
No sign of Kevin Drummond’s car.
No surprise.
He found himself a good spot, catercornered from the dingy brick building. Nice oblique angle; he could study the entrance without straining his head, a passerby would have no idea what he was after.
Not that a passerby would be likely to notice. Plenty of vehicles on the block, and Stahl had brought his personal wheels: a beige Chevy van with windows tinted way beyond the legal limit.
All the comforts of… during the first hour, a blue jay had swooped and cast a shadow across the building. Since then, very few signs of life.
Seven hours twenty-two minutes of watching.
Torture for someone else; Stahl was as close to content as he could be.
Sit. Drink bottled water. Sit. Stare.
Put the pictures out of your head.
Keep it clear, keep everything clear.
23
I volunteered.
A visit to Charter College, where I’d try to find a sample of Kevin Drummond’s writing.
“Thanks,” Milo said. “Good idea, you being professorial and all that.”
“I’m professorial?”
“You can be- it’s a compliment, I’ve got great respect for academia.”
Before I started out, I took care of some unfinished business: second attempt to reach Christian Bangsley, nee Sludge, now CEO of Hearth and Home restaurants. It had been months since the first call. This time the young- sounding receptionist put me through. As I introduced myself, Bangsley cut me off.
“I got the first message,” he said. “Didn’t call back because I have nothing to tell you.”
“Was anyone stalking China?”
Silence.
He said, “Why, after all these years?”
“It’s still an open case. What do you know?”
“I never saw anyone bugging China.”
Tension in his voice made me persist. “But she did tell you something.”
“Shit,” he said. “Look, I’ve put all that past me. But there are assholes out there who don’t want me to.”
Recalling the Internet flames-
“Nothing regular, but sometimes I get letters. People who claim to be fans and don’t like what I’m doing. People living in the past.”
“Have you contacted the police?”
“My lawyers say it’s not worth it. That people telling me they’re unhappy with how I’m running my life is no crime. Free country and all that. But I
“I’m sorry you’re being harassed. And I promise to keep anything you tell me under wraps.”
Silence.
I said, “What happened to China went well beyond harassment.”
“I know, I know. Jesus- okay here it is: China bitched once about someone bugging her. Following her. I didn’t take it seriously because she was always paranoid about something. High-strung. The band used to joke she’d been weaned on chili peppers.”
“When did she start complaining?”
“A month or two before she disappeared. I told the cops, they blew me off, said I needed more details, it was worthless.”
