gun.
Somehow, despite the pain, Twain had managed to hold on to his. His back pressed to the industrial carpet that looked like crushed caterpillars, his legs splayed awkwardly, Twain arced his arm swiftly, desperate to get a bead on Sommer.
Pfft.
Twain felt something hot under his right arm and dropped the gun. He wanted to reach for it, but this new pain, this was something very different than the pain in his foot. It was sapping him, instantly, of all strength.
Sommer moved toward him, stomped a foot on his wrist to make sure he couldn’t get to his weapon. Twain looked up into the barrel of Sommer’s weapon, noticed the silencer attached to the end.
Pfft.
The second shot went directly into Twain’s forehead. A couple of twitches, and then nothing.
Sommer’s cell phone rang. He tucked his gun away and took out the phone.
“Yes?”
“What are you doing?” Darren Slocum asked.
“Taking care of that thing you told me about.”
Slocum hesitated, like he was going to ask, then thought better of it. “You said you were going to Belinda’s to get the money, that Garber said to check with her by the end of the day.”
“Yes. I called her. She said she had the money but there was a problem. Something to do with her husband.”
Sommer looked down and took a step away from the body. The blood was moving, and he didn’t want any to get on his shoes.
“That’d be George. He can be a bit of a tight-ass.”
“It won’t be a problem.”
“I’m coming with you. If she has that money, eight grand of it’s owed to me. I’ve got a funeral to pay for.”
FORTY-SIX
I threw the truck into drive and fell into traffic behind the silver Golf.
The night of the shooting at my house, the cop had told Wedmore that my neighbor-Joan Mueller-had seen a small silver car with something round and yellow on the antenna drive past.
This car being driven by Corey Wilkinson’s friend matched that description very nicely.
I moved over a lane and got in behind them. I made a note, on the pad I kept mounted on the dashboard, of the car’s license plate. I suppose I could have stopped following right then and called the plate number into the cops, but that wasn’t the way I wanted to handle it.
I followed them all the way to the Post Mall, where the kid behind the wheel dropped Corey off at the doors near the Macy’s. Corey took all the McDonald’s trash as he got out, waved as his buddy drove off, and shoved the stuff into a nearby garbage bin. He was starting up the steps to the mall when I pulled over, powered down the window, and called out to him.
“Hey, Corey!”
The kid stopped and turned. He looked at me for a good three seconds before he realized who it was. Then he made a “What the fuck?” face and turned to continue on into the mall.
“Hey!” I shouted. “It’s about my window.”
He stopped again, turned more slowly this time. I tried to coax him over with a wave, but he didn’t move. So I said, “We can either have a chat, or I can just call the cops. I got your friend’s license number. Which do you think he’d like you to do?”
He walked over, stood about a foot away from the door. “Get in,” I said.
“What’s your problem?”
“I said get in. You can get in, Corey, or I can call the cops.”
Corey gave it another three seconds, then opened the door. I hit the gas and headed for Route 1.
“Who’s your buddy?” I asked. “What buddy?” he said, looking straight ahead.
“Corey, I can find out who he is. So why don’t you just stop playing dumb and tell me?”
“Rick.”
“Rick who?”
“Rick Stahl.”
“How’d it work the other night? Did Rick drive? And you took the shot?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Okay, hang on, I gotta do a U-turn up here.”
“Why, what?”
“I’m just going to drive you straight to police headquarters. I’ll introduce you to Detective Wedmore. You’ll like her.”
“Okay, okay! What’s your deal?”
I shot him a look. “My deal? Is that what you said? You want to know what my deal is? You clowns shot at my house. You blew the window out in my daughter’s bedroom.” I jabbed a finger at him. “In my daughter’s fucking bedroom! You got that? And she was in the room! That’s what my fucking deal is.”
“Hey, man-”
“I’m as sorry as I can be about what happened to your dad and your brother, and I understand who you believe is responsible, but I don’t care if you think my wife wiped out your entire fucking family tree, you do not shoot into my daughter’s bedroom.” I reached over, took his arm in a vise grip and shook it. “Do you hear what I’m saying to you?”
“Ouch! Yeah,” he mumbled.
“I didn’t hear that.”
“Yeah!”
I held on to him. “Who fired the shot?”
“We didn’t know anyone was in the room,” he said. “We didn’t even know whose room it was. ” I squeezed harder. “It was me. I did it. Rick drove-I don’t have my license yet-and I was in the back seat with the window down and I took the shot as we drove by and I swear to God I just thought I’d hit the house or your car or something like that. I didn’t think I’d actually hit a window. Or that anyone would be inside.”
I gave his arm a painful twist, then let go. We drove the next few miles in silence. Finally, I asked, “Just tell me.”
“Huh?”
“What was the thinking behind this?”
“Thinking?”
I almost laughed. “Okay, I get that there wasn’t very much thinking going on, but what the hell was going on in your head?”
“I just wanted to do something.” He said it quietly. “I mean, my mom, she’s suing you, but I wanted to be able to do something, too.” He glanced over and I could see the tears welling up in his eyes. “It wasn’t just her that lost people. I did, too. My dad and my brother.”
“You wanted to put a scare into us.”
“I guess.”
“Well, you did that. You scared me. You know who else you scared?”
He waited for me to tell him.
“You scared my daughter. She’s eight. Eight. Years. Old. The bullet came in about six feet away from her, through her window. She was screaming her head off. There was glass all over her bed. Do you hear what I’m saying to you?”
“I hear.”
“Do you feel better now? Do you feel better about what happened to your brother and your dad now that you
