B009XDDVN8 EBOK (22 page)

Maybe there was some document somewhere in the University of Wisconsin’s admission files linking Moretti and Willing. Or maybe they had compared all the names leaving Phoenix at around the time of my flight from Vegas with names arriving in Philly within the next week, the parked car coming back to haunt me. Or maybe someone had ID’d the photograph. But how he had done it didn’t matter. I had hoped to create some barrier with the name change, yet really, how could I have thought it would stay a secret for long once the bastards started looking?

And now not only did they have my name, but they also had my development. Our address was seriously unlisted, but how many seconds would that hold them up?

I needed to run, we all needed to run. But how could I get my family to flee with me? A fake vacation? A cruise, maybe? Yeah, that was the ticket. A cruise to nowhere. A cruise that would last for weeks, months. Some big heavy liner sitting all portly and grand in a Mexican harbor. All I had to do was get Caitlin and the kids to go along. And why wouldn’t they? Everyone loves a cruise: the shows, the pools, the midnight buffet. We could all run to Miami and hitch on to a boat. Maybe we would like Mexico enough to stay. And I could pay for it with cash—how convenient.

It was all so perfect, except that the exigencies of our lives made it flatly impossible. Shelby and Eric had school. And Caitlin had a couple of open houses scheduled as her portfolio started its slow recovery along with the economy. There was no way I could get them to go with me short of kidnapping. And even if I did, who would cut the lawn? Who would keep up the house? And how could we run from Patriots Landing while maintaining the crucial appearance of still belonging?

I discarded the cruise idea—what kind of delusional fool was I becoming?—and came up with something a lot more sane.

I would get myself a gun.

I
HAD BOUGHT
a gun once, years ago, shortly after we moved into Patriots Landing, a sweet Smith & Wesson nine millimeter. I didn’t take it to the range or spend hours cleaning the thing, I didn’t want to be conspicuous in my gun ownership even in a conspicuously gun-owning state, but I liked having it in my closet. With all my secrets and concerns, I felt like it was a prudent part of my precautions. Until Caitlin stepped into our room one afternoon and found Shelby on the floor with a doll and my Smith & Wesson, playing spin the pistol.

When I came home from work Caitlin was sitting in the kitchen, waiting for me. Her mouth was tight, her hands shook with anger. The gun sat before her on the granite countertop, its barrel pointed at me like an accusation. As she told me what had happened, she stared at me as if I was as incomprehensible as a piece of liver.

“I bought it for protection,” I said. “For the family.”

“From what?”

“I don’t know. It’s crazy out there.”

“It’s crazy somewhere, that’s for sure. And do you even know how to shoot it?”

“It’s a gun. It’s not rocket science. There’s a trigger. You pull it. Bam.”

“Bam. That’s good, Jon. That’s comforting. Bam. And you didn’t think to discuss it with me?”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Well, I’m worried. I’m worried that my daughter is going to shoot herself in the face with your fucking gun.”

“It wasn’t even loaded.”

“I’m worried that a cat is going to knock over a garbage can and you’re going to start blasting anything that moves. Don’t you know the statistics?”

“Yes, and I have to say, there are inaccuracies in the numbers that—”

“I’m not having it in my house.”

“I’ll put it somewhere safer.”

“There is no safe place for this in my house.”

“I can find one, I’m sure.”

“Are you listening?”

“I’m trying, but you’re not being reasonable.”

“About my child playing with a gun? Who are you? I don’t know you anymore.”

I had wanted to continue arguing, but that final statement shut me up.
Anymore?
How presumptuous was that? Did she ever know me? Did she ever want to know me, the real truth about me, about what I had done in Pitchford, and what I had done since to protect what I had done? About how she had been able to afford the wonderful house, the wonderful cars, the wonderful hair salon and sparkling tennis club? It was a moment when a real dialogue suddenly loomed, when full disclosure, and all its effects, both putrid and pure, trembled in the gap between us. What would happen to our relationship, to our marriage, if finally I bared it all? The question was its own answer, wasn’t it?

The gun went. And, a decade or so later, the marriage followed.

But this was no time to dwell on lost possibilities. This was a time, instead, to look cold-eyed at my options. I had panicked in
Vegas and lost the gun, but the time for panic was over, the time to buy a gun was nigh. For a new and very real threat. It wasn’t anymore just a nameless crazy with some fearsome mask, it was death itself with a voice and a name: Clevenger.

Fortunately we lived in Virginia, where the only impediment to gun ownership is forgetting your wallet.

There was a shop in Yorktown, a little family-owned joint on Highway 17 that I had passed dozens of times as I avoided crowded Route 64 on the way to Norfolk. I took one more look outside to make sure the road was clear and then headed out, locking the door tight behind me.

I checked my rearview as I left the driveway and drove to the development’s exit and kept checking as I made my way toward Yorktown. A white van held my interest for a bit, then a black SUV, then a green sedan, then another black SUV. Or was that the first? I barely missed ramming the car in front of me as I looked closer. The driver of the SUV was a woman with Jackie O. sunglasses and the full Chez Rochelle haircut. You could drive around Williamsburg and see hundreds of the same woman in the same black SUV with the very same sunglasses and haircut. Like Caitlin, for instance. A sight for sure, but not a threat. I breathed easier as I charged down Highway 17.

The store was a standalone mom-and-pop thing, with the family name on the roof flanked by two words, C
IGARETTES
and G
UNS
. A neon sign in the window advertised Budweiser, promising the whole Southern trifecta. A little bell rang when I entered the front door.

Ding-a-ling.

“Can I help you?” said an old man, all bones and sagging flesh, sitting in a rocking chair behind the gun counter. He wore overalls and a plaid shirt, he spoke as slow as poured molasses.

I tapped on the counter with my fingertips. “I need a gun,” I said.

“You came to the right place for that, mister,” he said without getting up. “What kind you looking for?”

“Something big enough to stop a bear in his tracks.”

“You’ll be wanting a shotgun for that.”

“But not that big. It’s hard to hide a shotgun in your belt.”

“Oh, I see,” he said, rocking back and forth as if in deep thought. “A handgun, then. You got yourself one of them permits to carry a concealed weapon?”

“No.”

“Are you an American?”

“Yes.”

“Are you an unlawful user of a controlled substance or a habitual drunkard?”

“
Habitual
is a tricky word, don’t you think?”

“I always thought so. There was never nothing habitual about my drinking, it was just an everyday thing. If you get yourself a permit, it’ll make things easier.”

“I might eventually, but I need something now.”

“Until you get your permit you can carry but you can’t conceal. A holster on the side, like, is okay.”

“How about at home?”

“At home you can hide it up your butt hole, all they care. We’re talking out and about, like in church. You don’t want to be taking concealed guns to church without a permit. You go to church much?”

“Not really.”

He winked. “Well, then, it should be all right.” He pushed himself off the chair, leaned over the counter, and looked down at the handguns on display beneath the glass. “Revolver or automatic?”

“Automatic,” I said, “with an extra clip.”

He looked up at me and squinted a bit. “Any experience?”

“With guns?”

“I’m not asking about women.”

“Not enough with either, I’m afraid, though I’ve been married for fifteen years.”

He looked down at the display as he considered. “Something simple, then, not too heavy, not too flashy. What about price?”

“I’m more concerned about it going off when I need it.”

“That’s what we like to hear. Makes things more civilized. No one bargains over taking out an appendix, but when it comes to guns, some all they think about is price. Try this,” he said as he reached down to unlock the display case and pulled out a medium-sized olive-and-black handgun. “One of our most popular models. Nine millimeter, steady as a hearse, used all over the world.”

“What is it?” I said.

“A Glock. Made in Austria. They know their guns in Austria. Their schnitzel, too, but you can’t kill a buzzard at forty paces with a schnitzel. And the magazine holds enough to kill you a sloth of bears.”

He handed it over. The gun was sharp and solid, and I liked the smell. It smelled efficient. As soon as I took hold of it, something eased in me. Just the way my hand wrapped around the grip gave me a dose of comfort. Like warm apple pie, with a dollop of lead. I waved the Glock around the empty store to get a feel for it.

“Not as heavy as I would expect,” I said.

“They use plastic to keep down the weight—imagine that.” He clicked his tongue as he took the gun from me, checked that that it was unloaded, and then cocked the breech. “But still as deadly as a redhead in yellow heels.”

I looked at the old man as he gave the gun back to me. “I bet you’ve got a story.”

“Nothing I’m telling with my wife in the back. Five fifty, and I’ll throw in the second magazine.”

“Bullets, too?”

“Five seventy-five will get you the gun, two boxes of ammo, and a clip holster. I’ll throw in a case of Marlboros if you want.”

“Oh, I want. And a six of Bud, too.”

“Bottles or cans?”

“Bottles.”

“Go on, give the trigger a squeeze.”

I gripped the gun again, aimed it at a cooler filled with beer, pulled the trigger. The click was as satisfying as a steak dinner.

“Deal,” I said.

“Credit card or check?”

“Cash?”

“That will do,” he said, taking the gun out of my hands.

As he leaned over and placed my gun back into the display case, I felt suddenly underdressed. The old man slapped some papers on the counter along with a pen.

“This is your form 4473,” said the old man. “Background check. Won’t take but a minute. And when you’re done, I’ll need to compare it with your ID.” He looked at me like he was sending a signal. “That okay, son? You’re not wanted or nothing, are you?”

I looked down at the form. Something federal, like a tax form. That first gun I had, the Smith & Wesson, I bought off a guy named Pete I knew at work. No forms on that one, just the cash. I thought about it for a moment. I didn’t like the idea of my name shooting over the computer lines to the feds, didn’t like the possibility of some alarm somewhere being flipped. But did it really matter anymore?

“No, I’m clean,” I said.

“Good. While you fill her out, I’ll go in the back and rustle up your merchandise. Reds okay on the Marlboros?”

As I started in on the form, the door opened. Ding-a-ling. Startled by the sound, I looked up as a man in a ragged black sport coat stepped into the store. He had gray eyes, an unshaven jaw, and a tattoo climbing up the side of his neck. He looked around the place just as I had when I first walked in, as if he were in a diorama at a museum. He caught my gaze for a moment,
smiled, and nodded. I nodded back, like a stranger anywhere would nod, and went back to my form 4473.

N
AME:
I had to think a bit, but the only ID I had on me was for Jonathon J. Willing, so that was it. A
DDRESS
: I had a post office box in Richmond, but that was specifically barred, so I sucked it up and put down the Patriots Landing address that matched the license. P
LACE OF BIRTH
: Philadelphia. H
EIGHT
: Sure. W
EIGHT
: Okay, so I lied. M
ALE
: Yes. B
IRTH DATE
: What the hell. S
OCIAL SECURITY NUMBER
(
OPTIONAL
): Option denied.

“You buying yourself a gun?” The guy in the jacket was now next to me, leaning on the counter, looking not at me but instead down through the glass at the armaments arrayed there like fruit at a greengrocer: handguns, long guns, knives, brass knuckles. His voice was southern Virginia by way of the Bronx. The part of the tattoo that showed on his neck was the tip of a feathered wing.

“Nah,” I said. “Guns they just give away down here, but they make you fill these out to buy the cigarettes.”

His smile widened enough to be almost familiar. “If you got a choice, my advice—go for the cigarettes.”

“Why’s that?”

“First, they don’t mentholate firearms,” said the man. “I like menthol, it’s about the closest I get to a vacation anymore. And then, I’ve found that people who don’t know what they’re doing with a gun, they usually end up shooting themselves in the ass.”