I inched the door open and scooped up the heavy, battered package. Out of the corner of my eye a black blur bounded toward me. I stepped back.
The blur, a man in black track pants and hoodie, tackled me.
The box slammed into my gut, making breathing something I really wish I could do.
The man sprung upright, kicked the door closed, and pulled out a gun. “What is it?” he barked. He held a cell phone in his other hand and waved it at me.
“What?” I slowly stood, my eyes on the gun. Silvery, and not a revolver, and that was where my gun expertise ended. I held the box in front of me like a shield. I figured four yearbooks, eight covers, maybe a thousand pieces of paper, plus there was the box and shipping materials. That should be enough to stop a bullet, right?
“Oscar’s password.” He waved the gun.
I studied his face: pug-nosed, ruddy complexion, and super-angry eyes. Like so angry that he was going to kill me no matter what happened. Peter Adkins didn’t look innocuous now.
But one of my neighbors must have seen him tackle me and called the police. And Ray was right behind me. I needed to stall.
He waved the gun again. “What.” He stepped closer.
I clutched the box tighter.
“Is.” He closed the distance between us.
I stepped backward.
“It.” He pointed the gun at my forehead.
I kept the box between the gun and my heart and scrabbled backwards until I was in the dining room. “I don’t know.” I stood in front of the window, my butt pressed against the glass. Surely my neighbors would know my butt plastered against the window meant SOS and not an invitation to judge my cellulite.
He waved the gun toward the me. “You got into his tablet. I saw the pictures you printed at the cabin. What was his password?”
“The tablet password?” My voice trembled.
“Yeah.” He glanced down at the screen.
Stall. I wracked my brain for a logical password. The name of the judge that recognized out-of-state same-sex marriages as legal in 2014 popped into my brain. “Heyburn.”
“What?” The guy cocked his head.
“Heyburn. Judge Heyburn? H-E-Y-B-U-R-N.”
He punched the letters into the cell phone. The gun wiggled in his hand.
I took a step to the left. Could I escape before he realized I’d lied?
He pulled the trigger.
The deafening sound left me bewildered, and I found myself sitting on the floor, still clutching the yearbooks.
A second pop, this time from the front door, and then the air was filled with the gunman’s wail. He fell to the floor, clutching his dark pants. Red bubbled onto his hands.
Ray rushed toward him and kicked his gun across the room. “Charlie, are you hit?” His panicked voice called out.
I held the box away from me and looked. “No. I’m…” Not okay. Not fine. Not shot. “I’m not hit.”
Ray growled and the gunman screamed.
“I’m at Joe and Charlie Sanders house, need police and an ambulance.” Ray sounded angry, but in control. “A gunman has been shot.” Ray rattled off my address and stuffed the phone in his back pocket. His gun still pointed at the screaming man.
“It’s Peter Adkins.” My voice was quiet over the sound of my own heart beating.
“Peter Adkins?” Ray kicked the man’s foot.
“Who are you?” the gunman spat.
I swallowed, knowing I should grab a towel to staunch the man’s bleeding but my legs didn’t want to stand just yet.
Ray pressed his foot on the man’s wound. “Why are you here?”
The man squealed and cried out, “Stop.”
Ray took a step back.
I heard sirens getting louder.
I sucked in a deep breath, and yelped in pain. Apparently the bullet didn’t go through the boxes, but I may have cracked a rib. Or two. I panted and licked my dry lips.
Car doors slammed outside and I was pretty sure someone parked on my lawn.
“In here,” Ray called out. “Gunman is shot but not restrained.”
“Coming in,” said an unfamiliar voice.
An officer rushed in with his restraints ready. He hog-tied Peter and eyed Ray’s gun. “You can stand down now.”
Ray slid the gun into a belt holster and sidled toward me. “You’re looking a little pale.”
I nodded.
“I’m gonna grab you something to drink. And a blanket.” Ray headed to the fridge.
A blanket would be nice. The autumn air chilled the house and with the front door opened, my teeth chattered.
“Ma’am,” a young officer knelt in front of me. “May I have your box?”
I nodded.
He tugged on the box but didn’t take it. “Let me help you,” he said kindly. He gently ran his hand from my forearm to my wrist and pried my fingers off the box.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I released my other hand.
“Perfectly okay. You just sit here until the EMT’s have a chance to look you over.” He stood.
I saw the front of the box and the round circle where the bullet entered. I looked down at my scrubs, proving to myself again that I wasn’t shot.
My ribs hurt. My neck felt like I’d pulled a muscle. And it felt like the back of my head was bleeding. I pulled my hair out of the bun and massaged my head. A huge lump swelled on the back of my head, hot and tingly. I checked my fingers, but they were clean and dry.
Unlike the mess the gunman was making. Peter owed me a new rug.
Ray returned with a glass of iced tea and blanket from the couch. He sat down next to me. “Hey, Nurse Ratchet, don’t get all shocky on me, okay?”
“I hit my head.” I took the iced tea and sipped it. “Call Tom.”
“Relax, I’ve got this.” Ray tucked the blanket around me.
The EMT’s arrived and attended to the yowling gunman first.
“Where did you hit your head?” Ray asked, staring at my pupils.
I rubbed the growing lump. “I think when he shot me, I fell against the wall and smacked it.” An EMT popped up, reminding me of a prairie dog,
