large enclosed oak cabinet. Using another key from the key ring, Sidney
opened the heavy double doors and viewed the contents of the cabinet: An
impressive array of shotguns and pistols loomed in front of her. She
settled on a Winchester 1300 Defender.
The twelve-gauge shotgun was relatively light, weighing in under seven
pounds. It chambered three-inch Magnum shells that would stop anything
on two legs, and, perhaps most important, sported an eight-shot
magazine. She put several boxes of Magnum shells into one of her
brother’s ammo bags she had pulled from a drawer in the cabinet. Next
she looked over the pistols hanging on special hooks mounted into the
wall of the cabinet next to the shotgun collection.
She had little confidence in the stopping force of the .32. She picked
up several of the pistols, testing them for weight and comfort. Then
she smiled as her hand closed around an old familiar: a Smith & Wesson
Slim Nine complete with unblemished grip. She grabbed the pistol and a
box of 9mm ammo, stuffed it in the same bag with the shotgun loads and
locked the cabinet back up. Snagging a pair of binoculars off another
shelf, Sidney left the room.
She ran upstairs to the master bedroom and spent several minutes going
through her sister-in-law’s clothing. Soon Sidney had assembled a
suitcase full of warm clothing and footwear. A thought suddenly struck
her. She switched on the small TV in the bedroom. She channel-surfed
until she found an all-news station. The top story of the day was being
recounted, and though she had been expecting it, her heart sank when her
face appeared on the screen next to a picture of the limo. The news
story was brief but devastating in portraying her inescapable guilt.
Sidney received another shock as the screen split into two and she was
joined by a photo of Jason. He looked tired in the photo, which she
instantly recognized as the one on his Triton security badge. Apparently
the media were finding the husband-wife master criminal angle an
engaging one. Sidney studied her own face on the screen. She too
looked tired, her hair plastered down on either side of her head. She
and Jason looked…
guilty, she concluded. Even if they weren’t. But right now, most of
the country would believe them to be villains, a modern-day Bonnie and
Clyde.
She rose on unsteady legs and on a sudden impulse went into the
bathroom, where she stripped off her clothes and climbed in the shower.
The sight of the limo had reminded her that she still carried vestiges
on her person of those horrible few moments. She had closed and locked
the bathroom door upon entering. Keeping the shower curtain wide open,
she never left her back exposed to the door. The loaded .32 revolver
lay within easy reach. The hot water took the chill off her bones. By
accident she glimpsed her exhausted, gaunt face in the small mirror
affixed to the shower wall and shuddered at the sight. She felt tired
and old. Emotionally and mentally spent, her body was giving way on
her. She could feel the physical decline inch by miserable inch. Then
she gritted her teeth and slapped herself in the face. She couldn’t
give up now. She was an army of one, but a damned determined one. She
had Amy. That was something no one would ever take away from her.
Finished with her shower, she dressed warmly and raced to the mudroom,
where she grabbed a heavy-duty flashlight off a hook. It had suddenly
occurred to her that the police would be checking with all of her family
and friends. She carried everything out to the garage, where she eyed
the dark blue Land Rover Discovery, one of the sturdiest vehicles ever
built. She put her hand under the left fender and pulled out a set of
car keys. Her brother really was something.
She turned off the sophisticated car security system by punching the
tiny button on the car key, slightly wincing at the weird birdlike sound
made by the deactivation. She was careful to place the shotgun on the
floorboard of the backseat with a heavy blanket over it. The pistols