Gundown (11 page)

Looking into a Gun Barrel

Noah slowed his car as he neared the turnoff for the Alliance campus, now seeing its openness filtered through his new paranoia about people stalking him with guns. Anyone could walk right in.

It had been a mistake to take a look at the Mackinac Militia website. There had been three articles by Colonel Martha Hanson about Noah Stone, each one railing about the “enemy of freedom” and the traitorous damage he was doing to the fundamental rights of Americans. Oh, she hadn’t said anything directly about shooting him, but after telling her minions that Noah Stone was coming to take away their guns, she had asked, “What are you going to do about it? Are you going to stand and fight?”

And then there’d been a photo of a hunting-rifle cartridge with his name written on it.

That night the colonel’s soulless eyes had invaded his dreams, and he still hadn’t shaken the fear that had awaited him when he woke up. Militias were networked; in southern Oregon, even here in Ashland, Noah knew that the Rogue Valley had its own troop.

Just ahead, three cars and a pickup were parked alongside the road, and a dozen or so men and women blocked the driveway to the campus. Two held signs that said, “
Give back our guns.
” He’d seen those before. A stocky man held a revolver across his chest as if he were a soldier of some kind. Noah tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

When he stopped in front of them, he recognized about half of the protesters, including Sam Gleason, whose hardware store accounted for a lot of Noah’s credit card debt. Sam had his ten-year-old son with him. Sam started a chant. “Free-dom. Free-dom. Free-dom.”

Noah unbuckled his seat belt, checked to see that his stopper was holstered, then opened the door and got out. He raised his hands and said, “Can we talk?”

The chant went on for a few more
freedoms,
and then Sam signaled for quiet. When the chant petered out, he said, “The Supreme Court says we have a right to carry guns.”

“You mean like that guy who wanted to shoot me in Chicago?”

Sam glanced down as if embarrassed, and then looked Noah in the eye. “We want ’em for self-defense against guys like that.”

“You’ve just expressed the paradox,” Noah said. “The only reason to carry a lethal firearm is other lethal firearms. If they weren’t there, then we wouldn’t have a need for them.” He patted his stopper. “And stoppers would be plenty of self-defense.”

Sam said, “That’s no defense against somebody armed with automatic weapons. We aren’t safe.” He pulled his son closer to him. “Our schools aren’t safe.”

“You want his teachers armed with guns?”

The woman spoke up. “There’s a school district in Texas did that.”

Noah said to her, “Do you have a child in school?” When she shook her head, he turned back to Sam. “So, do you want your son’s teacher carrying a gun?”

Sam nodded. “Crazy people see signs that say ‘Gun-Free Zone’ and attack schools, and we need to defend them. It wouldn’t happen if everybody knew teachers were packing.”

After a chorus of “Yeah” and “Damn straight” died down, Noah said, “But what if your son’s teacher is the one who goes crazy?”

“Oh, she wouldn’t—”

“She could. What if a bad day in class pushes her over the top and she takes the lethal weapon that you want her to carry and shoots your son dead?”

“She wouldn’t—”

“She could. Some other teacher could. What do you do then? Shoot her? And then go to your son’s funeral?” Sam’s son’s eyes widened, and he looked up at his dad. Noah hated talking this way in front of the boy, but there wasn’t really much choice, was there?

He unholstered his stopper and held it up for all to see. “Now, what if that teacher has a stopper instead? If a crazy guy with a lethal weapon attacks, she has a chance to stop him. If the teacher goes nuts, it’ll be darned hard for her to wipe out a classroom full of kids with a stopper . . . or a knife . . . or just about any weapon other than a gun.”

Noah scanned each face. “I know many of you, and you’re good citizens, good people. I also know that if you step back and really think about it, you’ll get it.”

He was getting louder, but this was important. Still, yelling never convinced anybody, so he softened his voice. “This isn’t about the right to bear arms—in our society, we shouldn’t even need to carry any kind of gun. It’s not like the British are invading and we have to fight them off with our muskets.”

Their expressions were hard and cold. How could he connect with them? “Look, I like guns. I love to shoot targets, and I used to love to hunt.” Until he’d shot a rabbit and it had screamed like a mortally wounded child. “If targets and hunting were all guns were used for, you wouldn’t be hearing from me. But guns kill innocent people every day. You see it on the news, right?”

A couple of the men glanced at each other, then turned back to listening; they seemed interested now, not so hostile.

Will Stevens stepped forward. He carried one of the signs. He was also the county chairman of the president’s party. “There are plenty of laws against crooks and nuts owning guns. All we need to do is enforce ’em.”

“The cops do enforce them, but there are too many loopholes like buying guns at gun shows, and too many millions of guns out there with no way to find them. Guns used in crimes don’t turn up until the crime happens.”

He heard a rustle of clothing and movement beside him. A man’s voice said, “You won’t have any trouble finding this one.”

The speaker was the guy with the pistol, and he aimed it at Noah’s head. The muzzle was no more than two feet away. It was a big gun, maybe a .44 Magnum. Noah had seen the man around town, but had no name for him.

Sam provided it. “Mark, put that down.”

“Why should I? I’m an American with unalienable rights, and I want my gun rights back. I think I’ve got the answer in my sights.”

He wouldn’t really pull the trigger, would he? Right here in front of all these witnesses? But his eyes were wide and staring, and he didn’t blink. Noah’s stomach clenched. One nervous jerk of that trigger . . .

Noah pointed at the gun barrel aimed at him. “Mark, there are two kinds of guns here in Oregon. There’s yours, which will kill or wound me . . .” He held up his stopper. “And this one, which is for defending me . . .”

He put his stopper’s muzzle in the bore of the pistol barrel and pressed the button for tangle. His gun hissed, and white goop oozed from the pistol’s muzzle. If the shooter pulled the trigger, the gun would blow up in his face.

Noah finished, “. . . without hurting anybody.”

Mark lowered his weapon and examined it. “Shit. It’ll take forever to get that crap out of there.”

“Why don’t you have the gunsmith re-chamber your gun for stopper ammo when he works on it? You don’t want to go to the Keep, do you?”

Mark raised the gun high and Noah aimed his stopper at the man’s face. Sam stepped between them. Mark lowered the gun and said, “Screw you.” He stomped to a car. Two others scrambled to get in, and he tore away, his tires spraying the group with gravel.

Noah’s knees wanted to give way, so he leaned against his car for support and turned his gaze back to Sam.

Sam stared after the car for a moment and then turned to Noah. His face had paled, and he didn’t look so determined anymore.

Noah said, “Do I need to say that that’s why we need to get lethal firearms off the streets?”

Sam swallowed hard. “I’d never seen . . . never been that close to . . .” He trailed off and looked down at his son. “C’mon, buddy, we’ve got some thinking to do.”

Sam and his boy headed for the pickup, and the rest of the crowd broke up and went to their cars. Some threw brief glances Noah’s way. Each time he caught one, the person looked away. He thought they were a little afraid.

He didn’t blame them.

He was a lot afraid.

A Safe Haven?

Jewel’s day-long trip from Portland to southern Oregon was a restful cruise through a sea of green. Most everybody she knew would have found miles of emerald fields boring, but she drank them in as if they were a remedy for what ailed her. The highway cut through the broad Willamette Valley, and then it climbed into mountains.

The bus went up mountains, around mountains, down mountains. Jewel loved how small waterfalls tumbled from cliff faces near the road, the clear water a miracle—all she knew about water outdoors was nasty Lake Michigan and the brown, soupy Chicago River. And it delighted her to go through clouds that touched the earth. This land was magic.

At last the highway dropped into a big valley and headed south for Ashland. Chloe curled in the seat beside her, asleep. A growing sense of safety had relaxed Jewel when she and Chloe got off the bus to stretch their legs at stops, a remarkable feeling to have around bus terminals. Oh, men still looked at her as though she were their favorite candy, but now she had a stopper.

Yeah, being a pistol-packin’ mama wasn’t all bad. Whether the guys with hungry eyes wanted to do anything or not, in this state they knew she could be holding. No wonder they called ’em “stoppers.”

She flashed on Green-Stripe in Chicago jamming a gun under her chin. What if they’d had stoppers in Illinois? He’d be in jail now—or would he even have attacked her?

She shook off that nasty memory and let the valley embrace her. Rolling hills to the east were green with grass and clusters of trees. To the west, forested foothills rose to a mountain standing tall over them, its cap of snow white against clear blue sky. Close by the highway, tidy orchards and vineyards covered much of the valley floor. Cattle grazed in acres of meadows.

Scattered homes thickened among the pines and oaks on the foothills and turned into a narrow little town strung along the slopes. Ashland looked like it ought to be framed and hung on a wall.

They left the highway, and she ran her fingers through Chloe’s hair to wake her. Her head felt hot, like the time she’d spiked a fever and had to go to the hospital. And her cheeks were red. They weren’t just flushed—they looked as though she had been slapped.

Jewel sat her up and discovered a rash on Chloe’s chubby arms. Jewel had seen fevers before, but this was strange. An image of her dead brother popped into her mind. Oh, no, don’t let anything happen to Chloe.

Panic knotting her belly, she scooped Chloe into her arms and rushed to the front of the bus. The driver told her to be seated, and she snapped, “She’s sick. Get us there.”

The instant the bus stopped and the door opened, she bolted out. Inside the station, she ran to the ticket window and pushed her way to the front of the line. The clerk, a tired-looking woman whose face looked like it wore every irritation she’d ever had, said, “You gotta wait your turn.”

Jewel tried to be cool, but Chloe’s cheeks were so red! Her voice shook. “My little girl is sick! Where’s the closest clinic?”

The clerk shook her head. “Next.”

The seventyish man Jewel had cut in front of leaned around her. “Help the lady out. I got time.”

Her face still pinched and sour, the clerk pointed and said, “About a mile that way.”

“Where can I get a cab?”

The clerk glared at her; the old man tapped Jewel on the shoulder and pointed at double glass doors that opened onto the street. “Sometimes one’s out there.”

Jewel ran for the door.

To one side of the bus station was a motel, on the other a convenience store. Across the street a bunch of buildings looked like a college campus. No cabs were in sight. Just her luck to land in a one-horse town.

A van pulled away from the convenience store and revealed a taxicab parked there. The driver, a big soft drink in his hand, was getting into the cab. Holding Chloe close, she ran toward it.

The cab backed out and turned to enter the street. Gripping Chloe to her with one arm, she stepped into its way and waved. The cab veered around her and accelerated.

As it passed, she kicked the rear fender and yelled, “Hey!” The driver slammed on his brakes.

She ran to the cab and jumped into the rear seat. “Take me to the nearest clinic! Please hurry.”

The cabbie, a bulky guy in his twenties with a bushy brown beard and a ponytail held with a rubber band, gazed at her in the rearview mirror. With his plaid flannel shirt, he looked as though he’d just come down off a mountain after trapping beaver. His face was haggard, his eyes droopy with purplish hollows beneath them. The only life in his face was a glare of irritation.

Even his voice sounded tired. “Sorry, lady, I ain’t gonna do it. I’m on my way home, I been drivin’ twenty hours, and the closest clinic is in the wrong direction.”

“But you stopped! You have to take me!”

“I stopped ’cause you kicked my cab. And I don’t have to. Get out.”

“My little girl’s sick. Please.”

“Lady, I’m beat. Out. Unless you want to go home with me.”

He put his cab in gear.

She took out her stopper and pressed the barrels against his neck. “I’ll shoot you.”

“Sure, lady, fire away. Hit me with nap, I’ll go to sleep. Tangle, I’ll sit here locked to the steering wheel. Zap me with whack, I’ll drive in circles with my eyes shut.” He shrugged. “And then you’ll go to jail.”