The Girl With the Deep Blue Eyes

Twenty-eight

He called Lisa. His call went straight to voicemail, and he said “Call me” and rang off.

He was working away on the computer when the phone rang. “The little automatic,” he said. “With the green grips.”

“Malachite.”

“Whatever. Is it still in the nightstand?”

“It was the last time I looked. Why?”

“I need it.”

“Jesus, are you planning on starting a war? How many guns do you need?”

“Just that one.”

“I’m kind of tied up today,” she said. “When do you need it?”

“As soon as possible, and you don’t have to drive clear to Chiefland to give it to me. You’ll be working at the restaurant tonight? Bring it with you, park in your usual spot. Tuck the gun on the floor under the driver’s seat, and leave the car unlocked. Can you remember that?”

“I’ll write it on the palm of my hand,” she said, “just in case it slips my mind. Yes, of course I can remember. But what if it’s not in the drawer? I’m not home now, I can’t go check.”

“Call me when you know one way or the other.”

“All right.”

“And just leave a message. ‘It’s there’ or ‘It’s not there.’ ”

“One if by land and two if by sea.”

“If it’s there,” he said, “take it with you when you leave the house.”

“And park in my regular space, and put the gun under the seat.”

“And don’t lock the car.”

“You know, that’ll be the hardest part, because locking it is so automatic. But don’t worry, I’ll remember.”

He hadn’t told her about Roberta Ellison.

He thought about the omission, and thought about the incident at the Ellison home, while little Eli had his nap. Thought about it and shook his head, pushing the memory aside.

Time to tell her later. She’d call to tell him about the pistol, whether or not she’d found it in the drawer, and that would be time enough to tell her.

He was at the computer when the phone rang, the Lisa phone. He picked it up and held it in his hand and it rang again, and rang a third time.

And went to voicemail.

Where he picked up the message a few minutes later: “It was there, and now it’s in my purse.”

He played it through again, then erased it.

He timed his drive to the Cattle Baron so that it was just past sunset when he pulled into the lot. He parked, and waited in his car while a party of four made their way to the restaurant entrance. Two men walking together, talking, with the two women a pace or so behind them. Two husbands and their wives, ready to sit down and eat beef.

The Lexus was where he’d expected to find it, and she’d remembered not to lock the door. He reached beneath the left front seat and his hand found the little gun right away. It was a pretty thing, a Baby Browning, and the swirly green grips made it the perfect lady’s weapon.

But he could admire it later.

He returned to his Monte Carlo and drove out of the restaurant lot, then found his way to Stapleton Terrace.

There were two cars at the curb, Ashley’s Hyundai and the neighbor’s minivan. And, in the driveway, a Lincoln Town Car with vanity plates that read GOGO.

He’d seen the car before, parked in a reserved space in front of a three-story red-brick building on Court House Square. George’s car, tagged with George’s doubled initials.

The lights were on in the bedroom window upstairs. He sat in the Chevy, looked at the car, the house, the upstairs window. He took the little gun out of his pocket and held it in both hands, rubbing the ball of one thumb against the cool green stone.

He put the gun away, drove home.

At the computer, he typed:

He read it over, highlighted the last sentence and hit Delete.

In its place he typed:

Rewrote the whole thing:

Two spaces down he wrote:

And on the next line:

He got up, used the bathroom, returned to the computer and read it through again. You could overthink this shit, he thought, and what was the point?

Print it out?

No, might as well do it right. He’d done everything right thus far, and this was no time to stop.

He got a sheet from a legal pad, fastened it to his clipboard. Took a ballpoint pen, and was it the same one he’d used to print out his and Lisa’s lines? It might be, one Bic was rather like another. Whether it was the same pen or another like it, it would do.

He copied the email draft. Once again he used block caps, but was less concerned about making it readable. He was the only one who’d have to read it.