Part 1 (2/2)
”Are you left-handed?”
”No.”
”Then shut up and listen.”
She stuck her tongue out at him. ”I can do it myself.”
”Not the first time. Okay, now take aim.”
”Got it.”
”Are you sure? Because if you accidentally shoot one of grandpa's cows, we're going to be eating cow patties for dinner.”
”You mean hamburgers?”
”No, I mean cow patties.”
”Yuck.”
He chuckled. ”Well, it's the truth.”
”Grandpa wouldn't be mean to me. He loves me.”
”Well, let's not chance it.”
She squeezed the trigger. When the gun fired, Rebecca was surprised-not so much by the way it felt. She was surprised at how much she liked the way it felt. The sheer power of the weapon excited her.
Rebecca had no idea whether she could ever shoot an animal or a bad guy. But she was instantly addicted to that magnificent feeling of power. Yeah. She liked feeling tough.
-- It was a wonderful memory of her dad and his gun. For her next birthday, he gave her a silver charm bracelet. One of the charms was a pistol. She still wore that bracelet every day.
But the good memories were always followed by the bad: that horrible night when she found him in a pool of blood, on the floor of that abandoned old house.
His gun was still holstered. The drug dealer had caught him by surprise. Three shots to the back. d.a.m.n coward.
But her dad's old revolver was for more than just memories. Rebecca cleaned it regularly, and kept it loaded, as a backup weapon. It gave her the feeling that her dad was there with her. That he always had her back.
She heard a noise from the reception area. Perhaps her young secretary had forgotten something and come back for it. Wouldn't be the first time. ”Wendy?”
No reply.
Her door swung open, and Big Bill Smotherburn stepped into her office, turning sideways to clear the doorway. At 6-foot-3, 350 lbs., he could knock down a door, frame and all, just by b.u.mping into it.
She pointed the revolver at him. ”You son of a b.i.t.c.h. How did you get in here?”
He seemed no more threatened by her gun than if she were holding a lollypop. ”So, this is the office of Rebecca Ranghorn, Private Investigator.” He looked around as though he were actually interested. ”What a dump.” He grinned. ”Mind if I have a seat?”
”Mind if I blow your d.a.m.n head off?”
”Now, now, Rebecca. You're not gonna shoot me, and we both know it.” He walked over to the metal chair sitting in front of her desk.
”Wanna bet?” She released the safety, and aimed the gun at his head.
”Look, I didn't make it this far in life without being a pretty good judge of character.” As he eased himself down onto the chair, it groaned in protest.
”What do you want from me?”
He set two cups on her desk. They were from her coffee bar in the reception area. ”I want you to get your client to back off.”
”I don't know what you're talking about.” Her head was still throbbing.
”Yes, you do. Carly Cinaway.”
She hesitated. ”I don't tell my clients what to do.”
He reached into his suit coat pocket.
She c.o.c.ked the gun. ”Careful.”
He pulled out a flask and unscrewed the lid.
”What the h.e.l.l are you doing?”
”It's tequila. Your favorite brand.”
”I don't have a favorite brand. I don't drink...anymore.”
He poured a few ounces into each cup. ”I'm here to celebrate with you.” He picked up one of the cups.
”Really? What are we celebrating? The fact that you're headed for prison?”
”I'll be happy to tell you as soon as you join me.” He held up his cup and nodded to hers.
Rebecca knew she shouldn't. It could be drugged. And, besides, she was afraid she was becoming an alcoholic. Her mind said No. But her pounding headache said YES, PLEASE. ”You first.”
”You think I've come here to poison you?” He laughed. ”My dear, if I had wanted you dead, your cute little a.s.s would already be in the morgue.” He drank half of the tequila in his cup. ”I don't do business that way.”
Rebecca picked up the cup with her left hand, and took a sip. It didn't taste funny.
”Excellent, huh?”
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