Double Shot

“Look,” I said to the man, “who are you? What money? Why do you think I’m supposed to give you money?”

But Skeleton Face had had enough. He was trotting back to the sedan.

“Colorado GPG 521, blue Chevy Nova,” I said under my breath. Then I dug into my purse, nabbed a ballpoint and an index card, and wrote it down. Had John Richard gotten himself into debt? Was this guy a creditor?

“Mom, he’s not here. I knocked and knocked. Come on, let’s split.”

I squinted up at the Tudor. I reached for the cell and punched in the numbers for Dr. Hiding-in-the-House. No response, but I didn’t expect there to be, since my caller ID came up as restricted. I left a message, saying that if John Richard wanted to see his son, he’d better get his butt out here. Nothing happened.

As a breeze swirled the dust in the street, I wondered what to do. Go home, and risk an angry call from the Jerk’s lawyer? Or bang on the door myself and run the hazard of a very unpleasant encounter, possibly as bad as, or worse than, the attack that morning?

I glanced at the glove compartment, but just as quickly dismissed the idea of brandishing a firearm. What if he startled me and the thirty-eight again went off accidentally?

I said, “Get your clubs, Arch. Let’s try one more time.”

As Arch trudged around to get his golf bag, I reached under the van seat and took out the Swiss Army knife I kept under there. I opened it, slipped it into the pocket of the caterer’s apron I was still wearing, and climbed up the front steps with Arch. We knocked and yelled for John Richard. I didn’t doubt that he was watching to see if his creditor was truly gone, and not returning.

“Wait here,” I said. “I’ll check the garage and see if the Audi’s inside.” I gripped the knife and hobbled back down the steps. John Richard’s geraniums and delphiniums were lush and full, I noted, no doubt from illegal watering. Still limping slightly, I rounded the house to the three-car garage.

Two bays were closed; the third, nearest to the back door, was partially open. Still holding the knife handle, I ducked down to peer into the open space. I saw myself staring at my reflection in the TT’s chrome. So he was home, the bastard.

My aching back and legs made it difficult to tuck myself underneath the garage door. Plus, I had to come up with a plan. My cell phone was in my other apron pocket, in case I needed it.

The garage smelled of grease, exhaust, and something else…. What? My footsteps gritted over the concrete as I eased around the back of the Audi. As soon as I got to the inside door to the house, I vowed, I’d call Marla. I wouldn’t go in, but I’d tell her I did need her to meet me over here and force the Jerk to open up, just in case he decided to—

I stopped and stared in disbelief. I couldn’t move, couldn’t process what I was seeing. And yet there it was. There he was. John Richard, with his head skewed at a crazy angle, his body sprawled across the front seat of his car. His chest was covered with blood. He was a mess. And he was dead.

5

I had loved him. I had hated him. He had stood beside me, grinning, when Arch was born. Many nights, he had thrust out his chest and thrashed me, until welts rose on my arms and back. I’d been convinced he had a black heart. Now his chest cavity was a gory mass of skin, bone, and blood.

And his heart wasn’t beating.

I couldn’t look at him, or what was left of him. I knew that smell now: cordite, the gas produced when a gun fires. My clammy hand gripped my cell phone. I called 911 and shakily explained that my ex-husband, Dr. John Richard Korman, had been shot. Yes, I thought he was dead. They asked for my location and I blanked.

“Aspen Meadow Country Club.” My voice cracked. “A rental. Tudor house, on a dead end. This is a new place, and he’s lying in the garage. Wait. We’re at 4402 Stoneberry. I can’t remember—”

But there was something I did remember: Arch. Oh my God, Arch. He was at the front door, waiting. Waiting for his father. What if he came looking for me in the garage? I was not going to allow him to see this.

“Ma’am?” The emergency operator’s voice spiraled into my ear. “What do you mean, a new place for him?”

“Look, I have to go. I’ll be out front when the sheriff’s department shows up. My van, Goldilocks’ Catering, is parked there. Please, I have to go. My fifteen-year-old son is here. He doesn’t know his father is dead.”

The operator’s voice droned on. I didn’t know if I was hearing her words or just mentally substituting what I knew she would say. Stay on the scene, stay calm, stay put, do not hang up. I ducked beneath the half-open garage door and closed the cell phone.

A sudden wind whipped the aspens and pines around the houses of the cul-de-sac. A cloud of dust rose into the air and shimmered in the sunlight. Then it blasted against John Richard’s house. I closed my eyes against the grit and fought dizziness.

For he himself knows whereof we are made; he remembers that we are but dust.

What was I going to say to Arch? I simply could not imagine how to announce, “Your father had been shot. He’s dead.”

Riffs of jazz guitar emanated from the van radio. Arch had gotten tired of waiting. The time was ticking down until I told him.

I was having trouble breathing. Inhale, I ordered myself. Exhale. I pulled out the cell and dialed Tom.

“Somebody’s shot John Richard,” I announced to his voice mail. “He’s dead. Oh, Tom, please come up to his house.” The wind rose again and showered me with dust. “We need you. Please.”

I closed the phone. I would have to get rid of the hysterical note in my voice before talking to Arch.

John Richard’s chest had been blown wide open. The image of what I’d seen made me dizzy. John Richard’s pink shirt had been drenched in blood. And his pants…khakis, had been covered with blood, too. Oh, God, I couldn’t think about it.

I dialed Marla’s cell.

“Get over to the Jerk’s new house as quickly as you can,” I said to her voice mail. “I think somebody’s shot him. He’s dead.”

My knees buckled and I sat down in the driveway. The wind picked up another nimbus of shiny dust and whacked it onto the cul-de-sac. John Richard’s lush grass bristled and flattened. The blue delphiniums rimming the house bent and swayed.

Our days are like the grass; we flourish like the flower of the field.

I prayed. Help me. Perhaps God was already sending these verses from the 103rd Psalm, one my Sunday-school class had memorized. We flourish like a flower in the field, and then?

When the wind goes over it, it is gone, and its place shall know it no more.

John Richard was no more. Was it possible, after all these years? Was he really gone, this man who had hurt so many people? I swallowed hard, stood, and steadied myself. It was time to go talk to Arch.

“Hon, something very bad has happened.” I slipped into the van driver’s seat and turned off the radio.

Arch furrowed his brow. “What? Is Dad okay?”

“Arch, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but your dad is not okay.” Arch frowned, his eyes fixed on me. “It’s very bad news, I’m afraid, so prepare yourself. Your dad is dead. I think he’s been shot. The police will be here soon.”

“What are you saying, Mom? Dad’s been involved in a shooting? When? Where is he?”

“He’s in the garage. Something went very wrong. That’s why the sheriff’s department is coming.”

“Where’s your cell?” Arch demanded, his voice loud. Denial, denial, of course. “Call an ambulance, they might be able to revive him!”

“Oh, Arch—”

Dust sprayed on the windshield. There was the distant sound of sirens. The sheriff’s department must have