“Ask, and you’re dead.”
“The only fluttering I feel is in my stomach, ” I said.
“I figure that’s normal right now.” I heard a hard snap and a series of
clicks, followed by the same sounds again then the unmistakable creak of
the back door opening.
Bobby blinked at me. “Sasha? ” I went into the candle lit kitchen, saw
Manuel Ramirez in his uniform, and knew the sounds I’d heard had been
from a police lock-release gun.
He was standing at the kitchen table, staring down at my 9-millimeter
Glock, to which he had gone directly, in spite of the dim light.
I had put the pistol on the table when Bobby’s news about Wendy
Dulcinea’s kidnapping had left me shaky.
“That door was locked, ” I said to Manuel, as Bobby entered the kitchen
behind me.
“Yeah, ” Manuel said. He indicated the Glock. “You buy this legally?”
“My dad did.”
“Your dad taught poetry.”
“It’s a dangerous profession.”
“Where’d he buy this? ” Manuel asked, picking up the pistol.
“Thor’s Gun Shop.”
“You have a receipt? ”
“I’ll get it.”
“Never mind.” The door between the kitchen and the downstairs hall swung
inward.
Frank Feeney, one of Manuel’s deputies, hesitated on the threshold.
For an instant, in his eyes, I thought I saw a veil of yellow light
billow like curtains at a pair of windows, but it was gone before I
could be sure that it had been real. “Found a shotgun and a . 38 in
Halloway’s Jeep, ” Feeney said.
“You boys belong to a right-wing militia or something? ” Manuel asked.
“We’re going to sign up for a poetry class, ” Bobby said. “You have a
search warrant? ”
“Tear a paper towel off that roll, ” the chief said.
“I’ll write one out for you.” I Behind Feeney, at the far end of the
hall, in the foyer, backlit by the stained-glass windows, was a second
deputy. I couldn’t see him well enough to know who he was.
“How’d you get in here? ” I asked.
Manuel stared at me long enough to remind me that he was not a friend of
mine anymore.
“What’s going on? ” I demanded.
“A massive violation of your civil rights, ” Manuel said, and his smile
had all the warmth of a stiletto wound in the belly of a corpse.
Frank Feeney had a serpent’s face, one without fangs but with no need of
fangs because he exuded poison from every pore. His eyes had the fixed,
cold focus of a snake’s eyes, and his mouth was a slit from which a
forked tongue could have flicked without causing a start of surprise
even in a stranger who’d just met him. Before the mess at Wyvern, Feeney
had been the rotten apple on the police force, and he was still
sufficiently toxic to cast a thousand Snow Whites into comas with a
glance.
“You want us to search the place for more weapons, Chief ? ” he asked
Manuel.
“Yeah. But don’t trash it too much. Mr. Snow, here, lost his father a
month ago. He’s an orphan now. Let’s show him some pity.” Smiling as if
he had just spied a tender mouse or a bird’s egg that would satisfy his
reptilian hunger, Feeney turned and swaggered down the hallway toward
the other deputy.
“We’ll be confiscating all firearms, ” Manuel told me.
“These are legal weapons. They weren’t used in the commission of any
crime. You don’t have any right to seize them, ” I protested. “I know my
Second Amendment rights.” To Bobby, Manuel said, “You think I’m out of
line, too? ”
“You can do what you want, ” Bobby said.
“Your board head buddy here is smarter than he looks, ” Manuel told me.
Testing Manuel’s self-control, trying to determine if there were any
limits to the lawlessness in which the police were willing to engage,
Bobby said, “An ugly, psychotic asshole with a badge can always do what
he wants.”
“Exactly, ” Manuel said.
Manuel Ramirezneither ugly nor psychoticis three inches shorter, thirty
pounds heavier, twelve years older, and noticeably more Hispanic than I
am, he likes country music, while I’m born for rock-‘n’-roll, he speaks