The Shadow Guardians meeting at the library had gone well. Penny felt better about it when she learned that Ms. Culver wasn’t going to attend. She had a seminar on e-books at another library that evening.
Penny had come away assured that the Shadow Guardians weren’t a group of far-right or far-left nutcases. They were wives and children of cops who wanted to make sure their loved ones had every advantage in a war against crime that was becoming more and more one-sided. The bad guys-the drug dealers, muggers, gang- bangers, and plain old thieves-were winning. And had the police outnumbered and outgunned. The Shadow Guardians were there to help and to prevent, that was all. But there was no doubt that even that could be dangerous.
The guest speaker at the meeting, a woman with sprayed, helmet-like hair, from California, talked about how this concept was working in some of her state’s large cities. The organization wasn’t an extension of the police force, but a simple aid in the critical time before confrontations and arrests. It helped to put time and numbers on the side of the law. It had saved some lives.
Though she’d been advised to sleep on her decision, Penny joined the Shadow Guardians that evening.
It was Penny’s day off at the library. She kept her destination a secret from Feds, and from everyone else. Feds didn’t really understand the pressure she was under because of his job. He certainly wouldn’t understand how what she was doing would relieve that pressure-at least for a while.
Penny had roamed the Internet until late last night, contacting several Shadow Guardians via their websites, searching for answers. She’d been referred to a woman named Noreen, an ex-cop’s wife who ran a blog about and for cops’ wives. Sensing a kindred spirit, Penny had messaged Noreen.
She’d been surprised when she got a reply early the next morning. Surprised again by something Noreen recommended.
Penny took the subway to Grand Central, then a short train ride to a spot in New Jersey outside Newark. She was wearing jeans, a darker blue blouse, her worn jogging shoes, and dark sunglasses. All very unobtrusive. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if she was recognized, but she’d have a lot of explaining to do. Mostly to Feds.
It would be better all around if he never found out about this. And, she hoped, she wouldn’t always need it.
She hailed a taxi and gave the driver an address.
Half an hour later she was on the line at Shooter’s Alley, a public firing range. Penny used a house gun. She didn’t own or want a gun, and using a rental precluded Sullivan Act violations and crossing state lines and sundry other problems a gun could cause.
What surprised her about the firing range, and the nine-millimeter Walther semiautomatic that she used, was that she loved to shoot. The bullets went into a paper target on which was the outline of a man. Life-sized, from the waist up. He had broad shoulders and an oval face without features.
She could imagine the man to be whomever she chose. Usually it was the man who’d killed her sister. Sometimes it was the killer Feds sought. Sometimes it was simply a stranger.
Penny wore earplugs, but she liked the heavy bark of the gun, the feel of it kicking in her hand.
When the electric winch brought the target back to her on its track, she enjoyed seeing that most of her shots had gone where she’d aimed. Usually it was the target’s head. Sometimes the heart.
The experience was, as Noreen on the Internet had promised, stress relieving and liberating.
Not that she ever wanted to use the gun on someone, or even carry the bulky, oily thing in her purse.
But somehow it helped her to know that she could.
If she wanted to, she could.
59
J ody stood up so Sarah Benham would notice her on the other side of The Happy Noodle.
Sarah, smoothing back her hair and patting this and that into place after coming in out of the cooling summer breeze, saw her immediately and smiled and waved back. She began weaving among the tables of the crowded restaurant, holding a general direction toward Jody like a ship in a storm.
Jody sat back down with her apple martini and watched her. The two women met for lunch every now and then. Despite-or possibly because of-their age difference, they had become very comfortable in each other’s company; each knew the other wasn’t a competitor in either work or love.
Sarah was still attractive, for a woman past the edge of middle age. She took good care of herself, spent money on it. Jody had decided weeks ago that Sarah might well have employed the services of a cosmetic surgeon. There was a subtle stiffness to her features, and deepening lines running from the corners of her mouth to her chin.
“I ordered you a drink,” Jody said, as Sarah sat down on the chair across from her. “An apple martini. I hope you don’t mind.”
“It’s what I would have ordered,” Sarah said. “That’s why I introduced them to you.” She settled deeper in her chair, leaning briefly to rest her purse on the floor, then did a lot of fidgeting and rearranging, like a bird settling into its nest.
The server came with her drink. Sarah accepted it, then raised her glass. Jody followed suit.
“To good friends,” Sarah said.
Jody smiled and repeated the toast. She took a sip of martini. There were a lot of people she’d choose not to lunch with before Sarah.
Sarah smiled and licked her lips. The way she always did after the first sip of any kind of drink. She seemed very much to enjoy the moment. Something Jody would have to work on.
“So how are things in your life?” Sarah asked, placing her glass on the table but leaving a fingertip touching it, as if she’d be aware if it started to wander.
“If you mean love life,” Jody said, “I’m too busy for anything like that.”
“It’s been my experience,” Sarah said, “that love lives pretty much take care of themselves, and in their own time. There isn’t much to be gained by planning.”
“Good. Because I don’t.”
The waiter returned and Jody ordered penne pasta and a salad, Sarah only a salad.
“Not hungry today,” she said. “The heat.”
Jody took a sip of her martini, which prompted Sarah to do the same.
“I never asked you about your family,” Jody said. “Do you have-”
“Children?” Sarah grinned. “Not me, and not ever, at my age. I suppose you’re wondering if I ever married, whether I’m widowed or divorced.”
“I don’t want to pry,” Jody assured her.
“Of course you do.” Sarah touched the back of Jody’s hand. “We all do, but we don’t want to step on someone’s feelings.”
“Would I be doing that?”
“Not in the slightest, dear. Both my parents have been dead for years. My mother had a fatal heart attack while swimming. My father died a month after that. He was in an auto accident. A one-car crash. I’ve always wondered if he’d made it happen, if he was simply ready to go to a place without grief.”
“You were left an orphan,” Jody said sadly.
“For a few years. I was sixteen when I found myself without parents. Or siblings. I lived in an institution-it was never called an orphanage-for about two years, then I found a job that would allow me time to also go to college. I was good at math, and was drawn into the insurance business. Started out with mortgage insurance, then life and property for several years. Then I got a job offer and moved to Manhattan. I’m an adjuster, mainly. Mostly art.”
“Art insurance. That’s fascinating.”
“Not really. Not once you get used to staring at damaged Van Goghs and Kandinskys and calculating their
