Makeovers Can Be Murder

Chapter 37

Fish kept vigil on my couch into the wee hours of Thursday morning, just to make sure I was safe. I think he was secretly hoping my intruder would return, just so he could kick some intruder ass.

In addition to appointing himself my personal watchdog, Fish had promised to follow up with the medical examiner′s office to find out who had illegally sold Jana′s heart valve.

″I know a guy who knows a guy over in the ME′s office,″ Fish said. ″And my guy owes me money. I′ll call in a favor.″

″That′s fabulous,″ I said.

Then I mentioned my weird encounter with Chaz Putnam to Fish.

″There was something wrong in the way he freaked out about Jana′s purse,″ I told him. ″I know the kid′s a dopehead and he didn′t want the cops coming over, but his response was way over the top. He practically broke my wrist. Can you check him out?″

″Sure thing. He sounds like a punk.″

Fish had left by the time a package arrived on the porch for me Thursday morning. Carefully wrapped in brown paper and twine, the box was small but surprisingly heavy, as if it contained metal ball bearings. Or maybe electronics. It was from my dad.

A neon red label on the outside said:

CAUTION

DANGER OF ELECTRICAL SHOCK IF PACKAGE IS

OPENED BY UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL

HANDLE WITH EXTREME CARE

CONTAINS EMD TECHNOLOGY COMPONENTS

Next to that sobering warning, another sticker depicted a jagged bolt of electricity.

What in the world? I wondered as I carried the box inside and set it on the kitchen counter.

I dug through my memory, trying to recall what my dad had said earlier this week about what he was sending to me. Something about a radio, I seemed to recall. Or maybe some kind of solar appliance. An earthquake kit-that was it.

Using my pocketknife, I cut through the cord.

Inside the box, a note lay on top of a layer of Styrofoam peanuts:

Kate,

The enclosed device is legal in your state, so don′t worry. It′s not lethal, but you′ll find that it is a very effective defense against any assailant. You′ll need to practice a bit to get the hang of this type of weapon. I′ve sent you the model that′s used by police and the military. Please be sure to carry it with you at all times.

And be careful out there!

Love, Dad

Underneath the peanuts was a smaller box with the label ELECTRO-MUSCULAR DISRUPTION DEVICE. Inside was a strange, futuristic-looking gun. Not a firearm-it was a Taser weapon, better known as a stun gun.

It was covered in a black-and-white zebra-striped pattern.

Obviously this must be the women′s model, I thought, turning it over gingerly in my hands. Unless maybe the stripes were supposed to confuse predators in tall savannah grass.

The gun came with an instructional DVD. I popped it into my laptop and watched it intently.

Instead of a long barrel, the firing end of the stun gun was a bulky black box. When you wanted to fire the weapon, you released a safety latch. Then a laser beam enabled you to aim exactly where you wanted to fire a pair of electric probes. The probes delivered a jolt of fifteen joules of electricity-enough to incapacitate an attacker and leave him dazed but cause no permanent damage.

The optimal range for firing was seven feet. The probes-barblike metal prongs attached to wires-would deliver a stunning jolt to an assailant. The electric charge was supposed to work through clothing. The police version that my dad had sent me was stronger than the typical consumer version-supposedly it would work even through body armor. My dad had thoughtfully included two leather holsters-one for wearing underclothing, the other for attaching inside a purse.

Wow.

Never before had I been willing to carry any kind of gun. The idea of toting a firearm had always been anathema to me. My father and I had spent endless family meals arguing over the subject.

But times changed. The encounter with the intruder the night before had just succeeded where years of arguments from my dad had failed.

Standing now in front of my bathroom mirror, I assumed a shooting stance.

″You talkin′ to me?″ I did my best Travis Bickle pose from Taxi Driver, taking aim at an imaginary assailant.

Then I lowered it. The idea of toting around a Tom-Swiftian electric popgun for personal protection seemed bizarre in the extreme. Especially when the gun in question looked like a zebra-striped water pistol. Any assailant worth his bad-guy chops would probably bust out laughing at sight of the thing.

That would lower an assailant′s guard and give you an advantage in a fight, the little voice in my head said.

I shoved the stun gun in the leather holster and snapped it onto my purse.

It slid right in.