“You won’t shoot,” he said. “You won’t risk hurting the girl.”
He was right, and I knew it, and he knew that I knew it. I focused on his gun hand. As soon as it tightened I would dive, and maybe the girl could get out of the way before he killed me.
“Daddy,” Missy said.
Her voice scraped out as if her throat was nearly shut.
“Be still,” he said.
“You are hiding behind me,” she rasped.
“I’ll kill him,” he said. “Then you and I will leave.”
“You are going to hide behind me and shoot a man.”
“I am,” Ariel said, and raised the pistol.
I watched his hand. Missy stood up quite suddenly and lunged in front of me. I grabbed her and pushed her sprawling down behind the couch, and joined her. When we hit the floor, I shoved her away and rolled onto my stomach with my gun out ahead of me. The sound of a big flat shot filled the room, and Ariel stepped backward calmly and fell over on his back. I came to my feet and stepped around the couch to where Ariel lay on his back, his eyes open, seeing nothing. I crouched down and felt for his pulse, but I knew that there’d be no pulse. And there wasn’t. I stood and looked up. Winifred was at the top of the stairs, holding a long-barreled rifle. She was crying. Behind the couch, Missy was crying and yelling, “Momma.” She was struggling with her crying. “Momma.” Still carrying the rifle, Winifred half ran, half fell down the stairs and dropped to her knees beside her daughter. She put the rifle down on the rug beside her and put her arms around Missy, and they rocked back and forth together on the floor behind the couch. I took my gun off cock and put it back on my hip. I went to the kitchen and found a bottle of scotch and a water glass. I got ice from the refrigerator, put the ice in the glass, and poured some scotch over it. Then I walked back into the living room. A big container ship went dreamily past the picture window, heading for the Mystic River. The women cried and rocked.
I found a big hassock and sat on it and sipped my scotch and was quiet.
66
They stopped crying and sat together on the floor behind the couch.
“We need to talk a little before the cops come,” I said.
“Do they have to come?” Winifred said.
“Yes.”
“I know,” she said.
Winifred stood and put the rifle carefully on the long coffee table. Then she turned and put her hand out to Missy, and pulled her to her feet. Neither one looked at the dead man lying on the floor.
“Where did I hit him?” Winifred said.
“Middle of the mass,” I said.
“I was the best shot in the Chicago office,” she said. “He was going to take her.”
“You shot him,” Missy said.
Winifred nodded slowly.
“Yes,” she said.
“Is he dead?” Missy said.
“Yes.”
“Will they arrest you?” Missy said.
“I don’t think so,” Winifred said.
“No,” I said. “They won’t.”
“I don’t want to talk in here,” Winifred said.
“Kitchen?” I said.
“Yes.”
We sat at the kitchen table with the scotch bottle in front of us. Winifred got glasses and ice, and poured a drink for Missy and a drink for herself.
“Okay,” I said. “The rifle legal?”
“Yes,” Winifred said.
Missy sipped some scotch.
“He didn’t love me,” she said.
“He didn’t have much in the way of feelings,” Winifred said. “He might have cared more about you than anyone else.”
“I thought he was a hero,” Missy said. “Restoring not only things but honor to his people, helping to erase some of the stain of the Holocaust, all this time later.”
“You’re quoting him,” Winifred said. “He used to say the same thing to me.”
