Dead Weight

Chapter Thirty-three

For what seemed like hours, all manner of bizarre thoughts ranged through my mind. None of them were as practical as a simple inner command to duck or dive for cover…to jump down the three steps and cower behind the wafer-thin wall of aluminum that wouldn’t stop a single pellet.

Instead, they were really helpful thoughts, like a review of the FBI’s statistics about how dangerous domestic disturbances were for responding law enforcement officers, or a brief instant when I wondered what Frank Dayan, the Posadas Register’s publisher, would put in the headline if Carla’s finger cramped or slipped.

It wasn’t that I was brave or even foolhardy. I just didn’t have the energy to move, and I couldn’t bring myself to believe that Carla Champlin would really shoot me. Maybe her goal was to force me to shoot her…and if that was the case, she was wasting her time.

“Carla,” I said slowly, searching for just the right words and just the right tone of voice, “what’s that supposed to accomplish?”

“You just get on out of my trailer.”

“Nope.”

She frowned. I looked more closely at the shotgun. She was holding it by the fore-end and by the wrist just behind the trigger guard, her hands clamped around it like a pair of old vises. No finger was near the trigger or even the trigger guard, and the single hammer of the old break-open was down. My heart settled down a bit.

“Carla,” I said, “these tinted windows make it kinda nice. No one outside can see how silly you’re being.”

“It’s not silly.”

“Oh, yes, it is. What’s the old shotgun going to accomplish? Do you think we’re all just going to go away? If you made the mistake of shooting me, what do you think the two deputies outside would do…in the short blink of an eye and long before you could reload that thing?” She frowned again. The blinds were drawn, so she couldn’t see that my two “deputies” were a couple of nervous young gals, neither of whom was armed.

“Look,” I continued, and took a half-step forward so I could lean against the fake wood of the bulkhead. “Here’s the deal. Put that thing down, and you and I will be the only ones who ever know about it. Put it down, crank this buggy up, and go home. Water your plants. Your tenants will be out of the house on Third Street by nightfall. Guaranteed.”

“How can you guarantee that?” she snapped, and the shotgun didn’t waver.

“Because they said they would be. I told ’em they could use my guest room for a while, if it came to that.” I spread my hands.

“Anything to make you happy.”

“What about all the damage?”

I shrugged. “What about it? Hell, I don’t know. Keep their deposit. I assume they paid one. It’s some dead grass and some ruts. That’s not the end of the world.”

“Oh, it’s more than grass and ruts,” she said. “And what about the oil on the floor inside?”

I took a deep breath and glanced at my watch. “I don’t know about the oil on the floor inside,” I said. “I guess you can always take them to small-claims court and settle up there.” I took another step, running a finger along the bottom lip of one of the cabinet doors. “You’ve really got two choices.” I held up the finger. “One, you can refuse to put down that damn gun, and you’ll end up facing a charge of threatening a police officer at the very least, or maybe assault, or reckless endangerment, or a whole bunch of other ugly things. That’s the good news. That’s if the gun doesn’t go off. Of course,” I shrugged, “if it goes off, then I’m going to be pissed, and your problems will be over. You won’t have to worry about tending plants in the state pen.”

I smiled at her without much humor. “How about that, eh? Not much of a choice. The other sounds better. Stash that old piece of junk, go home, be patient, let the kids get their act together. I’m sure that you know that I’ve got better things to be doing just now. So do you.”

I heard a vehicle drive up outside, recognizing both the sound of its exhausts and the manner of its approach. I reached out and tipped the blind to one side. Bob Torrez was out of the car, face grim, and was striding toward Gayle Sedillos, who stood by the open front door of 310.

“Oh, dear,” I said. “You don’t have a whole lot of time left to decide, sweetheart.”

I let the blind fall back and looked at Carla Champlin. Her hands hadn’t moved on the shotgun. The end of the barrel was within a stretch, and I took a quick step and swept it to one side, being just as gentle as I could be while still accomplishing the job. The bead front sight whacked into the door of the cabinet. With my other hand I clamped down on the receiver, my palm over the hammer. I didn’t twist or yank but just held it while Carla decided what she wanted to do.

She didn’t bother to struggle but released the shotgun. I pushed the lever behind the hammer and broke it open. The old 20-gauge wasn’t loaded.

“Whose is this, anyway?” I asked.

“I got it for skunks, years ago,” Carla said, still perky and on the offensive.

“Well, I’m not a skunk,” I said and stepped past her. I tossed the gun on the bed behind the first partition.

“Now what if I refuse to move this?” Carla said. “You can’t force me to drive this away.”

Undersheriff Torrez appeared in the doorway, and by the set of his shoulders I knew that his right hand was on the butt of his service automatic.

“Everything all right?” he asked.

“Fine, Robert, fine,” I said. “You might as well call the wrecker and have them come hook up.” I turned to Carla. “And if you force us to do that, the tow charge is going to be a hundred bucks or so. Guess who’s going to pay that.”

She took a deep breath and made a petulant face. “Oh, all right.” She made sweeping motions with both hands. “Just both of you get out and leave me alone. I’ll be on my way.”

“We’ll help you maneuver out of the judge’s driveway,” I said. “It’s kind of narrow. We don’t want any plants damaged.”

“I’m perfectly capable.”

“I’m sure you are, Miss Champlin.”

She shook an admonishing finger at me. “And remember what you promised. This evening, at the latest.”

“Absolutely,” I said.

Torrez stepped down out of the RV, still eyeing Carla Champlin, who settled into the driver’s seat, muttering to herself.

I stepped down from the RV and felt the blast of hot air. Even with the air conditioning in the RV, I was glad the confrontation was over.

“Gayle said she had a gun,” the undersheriff said quietly when I was a pace or two away from the doorway of the massive vehicle.

“Broomstick,” I said. “She was going to attack me with a broomstick. I talked her out of it.”