Make No Bones

Faces at nearby tables as well at their own turned toward him with varying expressions of astonishment.

'What did he say?” Frieda asked.

'I believe,” Miranda replied drily, “that he said ‘plastic wrap.’ I may be mistaken, however.'

But it was Callie that Gideon was looking at, and Callie who stared rigidly back at him, her long face frozen and waxy, her nostrils pinched. For a second their eyes locked, and then she was up too.

'Oh, no,” she said. “No, no, no. No, no, no.'

Even while rising she had been groping in her shoulder bag, and when her hand came out, it was clutching a squarish, compact handgun of dully gleaming black metal.

'This won't do,” she said wildly, but not so wildly that she forgot to slide back the safety. “I can't have this.'

The pistol's muzzle swept the table erratically. A wave of flinches followed in its wake. Leland made a peeping noise, either of outrage or fright.

Callie said something unintelligible. The pistol came up a few inches, sleek and wavering, like the head of a snake homing in on its prey.

My God, Gideon thought, she's going to kill herself. Right now.

'Callie, this is a bad idea,” he said calmly. He didn't feel calm. His pulse was thumping in his temples. “This can be worked out, believe me. Just put—'

'Goddamn you, shut up!” she screamed. The pistol jerked spasmodically at him. Gideon, who hadn't flinched before, flinched now.

Christ, it's me she's going to shoot, he thought, dry-mouthed. From five feet away the muzzle's trembling aim fluttered from his throat to his chest. His mind groped sluggishly for action, for words.

'Callie, look—'

'Oh, you bastard,” she said. Her arm extended the gun closer to him, quivering but aiming directly at his left eye. He tensed himself to make a grab for her hand. It had to be now. The gun was four feet from him. He coiled, his stomach muscles tightening. Now—

Without warning, Julie, sitting on Callie's right, brought her hand sharply down on Callie's forearm in a concise, chopping movement. Callie's fingers flew open. Her hand hit the table with a thump and bounced up, the pistol dangling by its trigger guard from her forefinger. With a grunt she tried to force it into her hand again, but Gideon had already launched himself over the table, arms extended, scattering plates and glasses.

His hand swooped down on the pistol, snaring it on the fly, like a brass ring on a merry-go-round, and flinging it away in the same motion. The other hand caught Callie at the base of the rib cage, and down she went like a bowling pin, hooked behind one knee by the bench. John, with one of those bursts of speed with which he sometimes amazed Gideon, was behind her the moment she hit the grass, hauling her roughly to her feet, practically on the rebound.

'What the hell is going on here?” His grip solidly encircled her upper arm. Somehow he'd picked up the pistol too, holding it not like a gun but like a parcel or a book, in his other hand.

Callie glared back at him, ashen-faced and twitchy, her lipstick askew. She said nothing.

An anxious Honeywell had appeared at the table, somewhat twitchy himself. “What is it? What's going on? What's happened now, for God's sake?'

'Lieutenant, you'll want to put Dr. Duffer here under arrest,” John said brusquely.

'Why?” the agitated Honeyman demanded. “What charge do I use? What the hell happened?'

'Hell, carrying a concealed weapon, ADW, intent to commit bodily harm, I don't know; you come up with something.” He held the gun out to Honeyman, who looked as if it were the last thing in the world he wanted anything to do with, but took it anyway.

'And check her bag,” John said. “She might have another one stowed away.'

'But what the hell happened?' Honeyman asked. “What was this all about? All I saw was—I don't know what I saw. What did I see?'

'Just do it, okay, Farrell? Trust me, I'll explain later.” He glanced sideways at Gideon. “When I know what the hell happened,” he said under his breath.

When the dubious but eventually cooperative Honeyman began to read Callie her rights, before a subdued, growing crowd, John gestured with his chin toward the open lawn, away from the others. “Let's go someplace where we can talk. My cottage.'

Gideon and Julie followed him there, Gideon wiping potato salad from the sleeve of his shirt. He caught Julie's hand. She turned to look at him.

'Thanks,” he said.

She laughed, her face flushed and excited. “I'll never complain again about having to take a forcible-restraint class. Oh, boy, my heart's still in my mouth.'

John smiled at her. “You did good, Julie.'

'We all did pretty good,” she said, laughing.

Nobody said anything else until they got to the cottage. Then John closed the door behind them and studied Gideon for several seconds, his hands on his hips, head cocked.

'Plastic wrap?' he said.

[Back to Table of Contents]