“Try him again,” Banko said.
“I tried several times. He’s not answering.”
“Has the cruiser come in?”
“No, sir. There’s no sign of him.”
“Keep trying.”
“Yes, sir.”
Banko signed off. He turned to speak to Valentine, and saw that he was gone.
Lois sat at the dining room table grading a stack of history tests when she heard the rock come through the glass in the back door. The detectives assigned to guard her had gone home, and she froze in her chair. The nightmare was over. Tony had said as much.
Staring through the open doorway to the kitchen, she saw a man’s hand come through the broken pane of glass, and fumble as it tried to unlock the back door. She’d learned a lot of practical things from Tony over the years. The first, and most important, was never to panic. Rising, she went to the head of the stairs, and called to her son. “Gerry, I want you to go to your room, and lock the door. You hear me?”
Her son appeared at the head of the stairs. “What was that noise? What’s going on?”
“Go to your room.”
“But —”
“Now!”
She heard Gerry’s door slam. Then the back door banged open. She calmly crossed the room, and removed the Smith & Wesson Model 65 revolver from a shelf in the china cabinet. Tony had given the gun to her one Christmas, and taken her to a firing range and taught her how to shoot. It was a hefty, solid piece of steel. Equipped with a speed-loader, it was capable of popping all six rounds at once.
Two men entered the kitchen, and staggered towards her. The first was a baby-faced cop, the second a smaller man with a bloody face, who pressed a handgun to the cop’s side. Holding the Model 65 with both hands, Lois aimed at them.
“Stop,” she declared.
“Hello, Lois,” the man with the bloody face said.
“I said stop!”
The two men were inside the living room, and halted.
“Do you remember me?” the bloodied man asked. “My name’s Martin Hollis. Everyone calls me Farky. We met on the Boardwalk many years ago. I was in the Summer of Love show with you.”
Hollis wrapped his free arm around the cop’s neck, and pressed the handgun to his temple. “Put your gun down, or I’ll splatter his brains against your lovely dining room walls.”
“No,” Lois said.
“Do you want me to kill him?”
“He’s a cop. He knows the risks.”
The cop’s eyes went wide.
“I’m sorry,” Lois told him.
“God damn you, I said drop it,” Hollis screamed at her.
“No!”
“Very well.”
Raising his gun, Hollis pointed it at the ceiling, and let off a round.
Lois heard a loud thump on the second floor. She envisioned Gerry taking the bullet and nearly fainted. Hollis pressed the gun’s smoking barrel against the cop’s chin.
“Now, drop your gun,” Hollis said.
“Gerry,” she yelled upstairs, “are you all right?”
“What’s going on,” her son yelled back fearfully.
“What was that sound?”
“I heard a gunshot and dropped my guitar on the floor.”
“Stay in your room. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, mom.”
Hollis nodded at the ceiling. “He’s right above me. I can hear the pitter-patter of his little feet. I’ll shoot him through the floor. Do you want that?”
“
“Then do as I say, and put your gun away.”
Lois started to cry. Tony had told her to never put the gun down when faced with certain danger. But what choice did she have? She slipped the Model 65 back into the china cabinet. As she moved away from the weapon, her husband entered through the back door, gasping for breath. In his hand was his beloved snub-nosed .38.
