the head. A cheap .22 had been found at the crime scene. The only real witness to the shooting was a hysterical teenager named Deecie Styles. Her account of the shooting had been brief—a lone, masked gunman who said nothing and took no notice of the terrified clerk. And now Deecie Styles had vanished.
What else did I have? Questions. A long list of questions and doubts and damn few answers. Looking down at my notes, I was forced to admit maybe the police brass were justified for having their own doubts about Bucky.
What really had happened at the Budget Bottle Shop last night? Only twenty-four hours had passed, but the details didn’t seem to hang together. I tried to make a sketch of the store layout, but the only thing I drew was a blank. Every time I tried to summon up a vision of the store, it came out in fragments, the green linoleum floor, the smashed beer bottles, thePlexiglas-enclosed cashier cage, the glimpse of winking red and blue lights outside in the parking lot.
I had to go back. I had to see the store again and make it real.
I was in the bedroom getting dressed when I heard the back door open.
I stiffened, looking around for some kind of weapon. My 9-mm Smith & Wesson was in the pantry, of course, locked away in a box on a high shelf where Maura’s prying fingers couldn’t reach it.
“Callahan? You home?” I relaxed. It was all right. The intruder was Mac. Only Mac.
“Be out in a minute,” I called, pulling a heavy cable-knit sweater over my head.
I met him in the living room, put my arms around his waist, tilted my head back, and took a good long look.
“What?” He was amused. Gave me a nice long kiss. “Have I got spinach in my teeth? Spaghetti sauce in my beard?”
“Nope,” I said. “I missed you. That’s all. Just want to make sure you’re still the same.”
He was. I’ve always been glad Andrew MacAuliffe came into my life when he was already in his mid-forties, ten years older than I. I’d grown tired of men who were fixer-uppers, or worse, merely boys—big immature babies wearing grown-up clothes.
Mac was no handyman’s special. I liked him the minute we met. I liked his bushy silver beard and wavy gray hair, the blue-gray eyes with deep laugh crinkles at the corners. I liked his chapped, weather-beaten hands and the way he looked in a good dark business suit, and the way he looked, even better, bare-chested, wrapped in a towel just coming out of the shower.
“I missed you too,” he said, kissing me again, as if to prove it. “Didn’t Edna tell you I called last night? I waited up till midnight, thinking you might call back.”
“Last night? Oh, God. You didn’t hear about Bucky?”
“I saw it this morning in the
Constitution. I
picked up thepaper at the airport when I got in. I’m so sorry, babe. It’s bad, isn’t it?”
My eyes brimmed with tears. I nodded. “The doctor, this one know-it-all, he says it’s really bad. That Bucky won’t make it. There’s a lot of brain damage, they say. But Mac, last night, right after it happened, Bucky opened his eyes. He looked right at me. And he talked. He knew it was me. He asked me, ‘What’s happening?’ So it can’t be as bad as they say, can it?”
Mac knew what I wanted to hear, but unlike me, he’s a terrible liar.
“I don’t know, Callahan,” he said slowly. “Two bullets lodged in the brain? And I heard somewhere that the smaller bullets do more damage than bigger ones. But maybe you’re right. Weirder things have happened.”
For the first time he noticed the heavy sweater. “You going out?”
“Back to the liquor store,” I said. “The Budget Bottle Shop. Last night, everything was a blur. It all happened so fast. I can’t make sense of anything. So I need to go back, try to process it all.”
He frowned. “Why? It’s a police investigation, Callahan. Let them work it. They’ve got the equipment, the manpower, everything. You told me before, if a cop gets hurt or killed in the line
What else did I have? Questions. A long list of questions and doubts and damn few answers. Looking down at my notes, I was forced to admit maybe the police brass were justified for having their own doubts about Bucky.
What really had happened at the Budget Bottle Shop last night? Only twenty-four hours had passed, but the details didn’t seem to hang together. I tried to make a sketch of the store layout, but the only thing I drew was a blank. Every time I tried to summon up a vision of the store, it came out in fragments, the green linoleum floor, the smashed beer bottles, thePlexiglas-enclosed cashier cage, the glimpse of winking red and blue lights outside in the parking lot.
I had to go back. I had to see the store again and make it real.
I was in the bedroom getting dressed when I heard the back door open.
I stiffened, looking around for some kind of weapon. My 9-mm Smith & Wesson was in the pantry, of course, locked away in a box on a high shelf where Maura’s prying fingers couldn’t reach it.
“Callahan? You home?” I relaxed. It was all right. The intruder was Mac. Only Mac.
“Be out in a minute,” I called, pulling a heavy cable-knit sweater over my head.
I met him in the living room, put my arms around his waist, tilted my head back, and took a good long look.
“What?” He was amused. Gave me a nice long kiss. “Have I got spinach in my teeth? Spaghetti sauce in my beard?”
“Nope,” I said. “I missed you. That’s all. Just want to make sure you’re still the same.”
He was. I’ve always been glad Andrew MacAuliffe came into my life when he was already in his mid-forties, ten years older than I. I’d grown tired of men who were fixer-uppers, or worse, merely boys—big immature babies wearing grown-up clothes.
Mac was no handyman’s special. I liked him the minute we met. I liked his bushy silver beard and wavy gray hair, the blue-gray eyes with deep laugh crinkles at the corners. I liked his chapped, weather-beaten hands and the way he looked in a good dark business suit, and the way he looked, even better, bare-chested, wrapped in a towel just coming out of the shower.
“I missed you too,” he said, kissing me again, as if to prove it. “Didn’t Edna tell you I called last night? I waited up till midnight, thinking you might call back.”
“Last night? Oh, God. You didn’t hear about Bucky?”
“I saw it this morning in the
Constitution. I
picked up thepaper at the airport when I got in. I’m so sorry, babe. It’s bad, isn’t it?”
My eyes brimmed with tears. I nodded. “The doctor, this one know-it-all, he says it’s really bad. That Bucky won’t make it. There’s a lot of brain damage, they say. But Mac, last night, right after it happened, Bucky opened his eyes. He looked right at me. And he talked. He knew it was me. He asked me, ‘What’s happening?’ So it can’t be as bad as they say, can it?”
Mac knew what I wanted to hear, but unlike me, he’s a terrible liar.
“I don’t know, Callahan,” he said slowly. “Two bullets lodged in the brain? And I heard somewhere that the smaller bullets do more damage than bigger ones. But maybe you’re right. Weirder things have happened.”
For the first time he noticed the heavy sweater. “You going out?”
“Back to the liquor store,” I said. “The Budget Bottle Shop. Last night, everything was a blur. It all happened so fast. I can’t make sense of anything. So I need to go back, try to process it all.”
He frowned. “Why? It’s a police investigation, Callahan. Let them work it. They’ve got the equipment, the manpower, everything. You told me before, if a cop gets hurt or killed in the line
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