Gundown (13 page)

“A counterfeit ID chip to make it look like it’s been modified. So you can carry it in public. Just don’t let a cop check it with a detector.”

Hank now saw that most of the guns, even the rifles and shotguns, had similar red squares. The assault weapons didn’t. “I need to know more.”

Hatch picked up a 9 mm Glock. “This’s a legal weapon, been converted for use in Oregon. I hated to do it, but I needed a model to work from.” He pointed to the red chip on the legal gun. “State puts these little microchips on legal gunpowder weapons. Stick a police detector next to it, you get a beep for okay. No beep, it’s illegal. Trouble is, nobody’s been able to copy the chip’s circuits.”

He ejected the magazine. Instead of full-sized bullets, it held short, stubby cartridges with a white, plastic-like slug at the front instead of lead. “I got tangle loaded in this one.” He pulled back the slide and showed Hank the gun’s guts.

Part of the chamber was plugged with steel—a normal bullet wouldn’t fit. Hatch said, “Only things’ll go in here are little nap, tangle, and whack rounds. The microchip connects to the chamber; you try to modify it, you destroy the chip.”

Hank shook his head. “Are all guns in Oregon like this?”

“Pretty much. ’Cept for legit hunting weapons, ain’t a real gun that’s legal, not target, not nothin’. Even hunters have to go through the hassle of showing a gun license to buy ammo.” The light of a zealot shone in Hatch’s eyes. “We fought ’em, by God, we fought ’em. What made it so hard was the state sold the idea that they weren’t taking guns away, just making ’em safer. And they paid to change ’em over. And they teamed up with the Alliance to come up with those stinkin’ little stoppers for five bucks a pop. Usin’ my tax dollars!

“With all that safety runnin’ around, guns that killed didn’t have a chance. Hell, we couldn’t even argue they were takin’ away our Second Amendment rights ’cause we could carry those little popguns for self-defense. We got shafted and couldn’t do a thing about it.”

Hank sympathized; no way did he want to live without the weight of a pistol against his ribs. He looked at the guns on the racks. “I don’t see red chips on the assault weapons.”

“Well, since they don’t have any legitimate civilian use, not hunting or nothing, they’re just flat banned. I gotta admit, they are weapons of war—if you’re a hunter, the real thing is sure better than an assault rifle. You want something heavy, too?”

“No.” He hefted the pistol. “I need a shoulder holster and a box of shells. How much?”

“A thousand.”

Hank lifted his eyebrows.

Hatch answered. “It’s the risk. You get caught with just one lethal firearm, let alone a whole roomful, you go to the Keep. Automatic. No appeal, no nothin’. I get caught with this many, I’m doomed for sure.”

Hank dug cash from his jeans and peeled off a thousand. “The Keep?”

“Hell on earth.” Hatch handed Hank a holster and cartridges and led him out of the gun “shop.”

Back in the living room, Hatch settled on a chair and said, “Earl, tell him about the Keep.”

Earl’s sunny disposition went behind a cloud. “It’s where they send you for a violent crime if you don’t let ’em brainwash you.”

Next to being without a weapon, Hank hated being caged. It had taken him three months to escape from an Afghan prison, and that was the only time he’d come close to losing it. He still had flashbacks. “I won’t let that happen.”

Earl said, “You go into the Keep, you don’t come out unless you’re pickled.”

“Pickled?”

Earl scowled out the window as if feeling an old hurt and said, “Yeah. They call it deep therapy, but it’s brainwashing.” He turned his gaze on Hank. “We don’t exactly know what they do to you. The guys who’ve had it just smile and say it’s the best thing ever happened to them. They’re robots.” He frowned. “We lost two friends that way.”

Hatch said, “Yeah. They were good guys, believed all the right things, fought for the right to carry. Now they’re a couple of law-abiding pansies. One’s a kindergarten teacher, the other one works for the devil himself.”

“For Stone?”

Earl nodded, then looked a question at Hatch.

Hatch told him, “Go ahead. Parsons says he’s a good guy.”

Earl stared into Hank’s eyes. “We’re going to take Stone out so things can go back to the way they ought to be.”

“Who’s we?”

“The Rogue Valley Militia.” He glanced at Hatch. “Me.”

“You think killing Stone will do what you want?”

Earl said, “It started with him, it’ll end with him.”

Hank saw a deep hatred in Earl. It was personal. “When?”

Hatch shrugged.

Eyes wide, Earl said, “It’s gotta be at some event so the faithful see their hero’s nothing but a sack of meat like everybody else.”

This guy was not rowing with both oars. But he wasn’t Hank’s problem.

Hatch gazed at Hank for a long moment. “Parsons said you’re on our side. You want to help us out?”

Earl frowned. “We don’t need any outside help, Rick.”

Hatch looked to Hank, the question still on the table.

“No thanks.” He turned his gaze on Earl. “I’m on the side of the law. But I won’t rat on you, either.”

Earl shrugged.

Hank checked his watch. There were a couple of hours before sunset, and his ribs ached. He wanted some time off and a leisurely supper. Noah Stone could wait.

Maybe he should ask these guys for a good place to eat. He glanced at the dogs-playing-poker painting. “Thanks,” he said to Hatch, and left.

Hell Comes to Georgetown

Marion slipped into baggy sweats as soon as she got home from the office, poured a glass of wine, and then sank into the deep cushions of the leather easy chair that had been her dad’s. She could still smell his scent, a blend of pipe tobacco and the faint mustiness of the law libraries in which he’d spent so much of his life. She missed him. And she missed the legal mind of a premier defense attorney. She needed his wise perspective on what to do about the Alliance.

She sipped her wine, enjoying the smooth, husky taste of a California chardonnay. Gazing into the wine’s golden depths, she thought of the Northern California valley from which it came, a valley now coming under the influence of the Alliance. She didn’t like what was happening.

The doorbell sounded low chimes, and she wished whoever it was would go away. But no, they rang again. She pushed out of the chair and pressed the intercom button by her door. She made no effort to conceal her irritation. “Yes?”

Suzanne said, “It’s me.”

Marion regretted the edge in her voice. “Oh.”

“Did I get it wrong? Didn’t you say seven o’clock?”

Oh, shit, she and Suzanne had agreed to a quiet dinner at her place. Guilty because she’d let her petulance spill over onto Suzanne, she hurried to say, “Oh, I’m just tired. I’m glad you’re here.”

“I brought Chinese, so— HEY! What’re you— Oh God, oh no—”

A scream shrieked from the intercom, then cut off.

Marion slammed out her door and raced down the stairs. Through the glass foyer door she saw Suzanne slumped against a wall, a sack of take-out cartons spilled at her feet. She clutched her neck; blood ran from under her hand. A man looked up at Marion, Suzanne’s purse in one hand, a knife in the other.

He wore grubby gray overalls like mechanics wear, but his had a spray of red across the chest. A Washington Nationals cap shadowed a face that could have been normal, even nice—except his showed a mix of anger, lust, and fear.

He pushed the foyer’s outer door open just as Marion burst through the inside door. She lunged, shoved him in the back with both hands, and propelled him out. He hurtled through the air, hit hard on his belly, tumbled down a half dozen concrete steps, and lay still on the sidewalk.

She spun and saw Suzanne sliding down the wall. Heart thudding, Marion caught her and eased her to a sitting position. Suzanne’s eyes were wide. Blood spread red on her white shirt. Marion tried to pull Suzanne’s hand
away to see
the wound in her neck, but Suzanne held tight. Yet the blood flowed.

Marion sobbed. “Suzanne. Suzanne, love.”

Suzanne’s gaze darted helter-skelter. Marion tried to keep the fright out of her voice. “I’ll call an ambulance, you’ll be okay.” She started to rise, but Suzanne gripped her arm.

Suzanne breathed, “I—”

Marion freed her arm from supporting Suzanne. “I’ve got to call—”

Suzanne’s eyes glazed. Her chest stilled.

Panic flooding through her, Marion gripped Suzanne’s shoulders. “No! You’ve got to hang on! You’ve got to—”

Suzanne’s hand dropped from her neck into her lap. No longer driven by a beating heart, blood oozed from a deep slash across her throat.

Marion crushed Suzanne to her and the empty-sack vacancy of a lifeless body sent a shuddering moan through her.

The man, the man who did it—she twisted and saw him struggling to his feet.

Rage swamped her grief. She lurched up and ran out, plunged down the steps, and crashed her six feet of solid muscle into him. He tumbled into one of the huge maples that lined her street, rebounded, and sprawled on the grass.

Marion hit the sidewalk on her shoulder and rolled to a stop. She sprang to her feet, grabbed his shirt, pulled him up, and slammed him against the tree trunk. She stepped back and kicked him in the testicles with all the leverage that years of martial arts training had taught her.

Screaming, the man fell to the ground, clutching his groin.

Raging, crying, she kicked and kicked wherever she could land her foot until arms wrapped her from behind in a bear hug, lifted her away, and a man said, “Easy now, easy. I’m a cop.”

She fought the grasp, but he was a big man; he held her until she stopped struggling.

A vestige of sanity returned, and she thought of Suzanne. With new strength, she shoved the cop’s arms apart. She said, “Hurry!” and raced up the stoop and into the foyer.

M
arion gathered Suzanne in her arms, and then the cop knelt and checked Suzanne’s pulse. His glance at Marion confirmed what she already knew. He radioed in a homicide and then asked Marion if she was hurt.

She was, but in no place that bled. Even though it was useless, she rode in the ambulance with Suzanne, holding her hand.

At three in the morning, a dream took her once more out her door in answer to Suzanne’s cry. She saw the killer again, the blood on his overalls, the knife in his hand.

Then his face morphed into . . . hers! Her body filled the jumpsuit, her hand held the knife.

She woke to her own scream.

Sleepless hours later, Marion stared at her television while the morning news reported that Suzanne’s killer, a convicted felon named Roy Pennington, had been released early from his sentence for assault and rape because of prison overcrowding. He hadn’t been able to get a job because of his record. He had died of shock and massive hemorrhaging before the ambulance got to the emergency room.

Marion felt no guilt for having killed the man. There was only rage numbed by exhaustion and unrelenting grief. She dressed for work and then put her tear-soaked pillowcase and sweat-drenched sheets in to wash. In the bathroom, not even repeated drenching with Visine could get the red out of her eyes.

When at last she thought she was ready to go to the office and endure the flood of sympathy and questions that would swamp her, she aimed the remote at the television to shut it up. But not soon enough.

The announcement of a commentary titled “Our Failing Justice System” blared at her. Bruce Ball, wearing his most sober face, intoned, “Where are we safe anymore?”

Her instant answer took her by surprise. “Nowhere.” She sank onto the couch. It was true. The proof was the bloodstains in the crime scene that had been her foyer. She wasn’t sure she had the will to walk past the yellow crime tape that blocked off the corner where Suzanne had— Suzanne had—

Bruce Ball said from the television, “What are we coming to? A return to the Old West? Or the heyday of the Capone mob era? Will Attorney General Marion Smith-Taylor, tragically affected by the murder of her assistant yesterday—” He paused, and Marion felt that he was staring at her. “Will she have the muscle to do anything about the violence that rules our streets? Or will it be law enforcement as usual, our courts unable to move against criminals and our police outgunned?”

Marion stabbed the power button to send him to blankness and then threw the remote across the room. Damn him! Damn them all. She did her best. It wasn’t her fault.

It wasn’t.

It was.