to be a complicated and beautifully knitted pattern.
The night quiet was broken only by the miserable gagging and groaning
of the two she’d disabled. The confrontation had unfolded so swiftly
in the eight-foot-wide space between the house and the property wall,
and in such relative silence, that they hadn’t even awakened any
neighbors.
Keeping the gun on them, Heather said, “You been here before?”
Two of them couldn’t yet have answered her if they’d wanted to, but the
third was also unresponsive.
“I asked if you’d been here before,” she said sharply, “done this kind
of crap here before.”
“Bitch,” the third kid said.
She realized it was possible to lose control of the situation even when
she was the only one with a gun, especially if the crotch-bashed pair
recovered more easily than she expected. She resorted to a lie that
might convince them she was more than just a cop’s wife with a few
smart moves: “Listen, you little snots–I can kill all of you, go in
the house and get a couple of knives, plant them in your hands before
the first black-and-white gets here.
Maybe they’ll drag me into court and maybe they won’t. But what jury’s
going to put the wife of a hero cop and the mother of a little
eight-year-old boy in prison?”
“You wouldn’t do that,” the third kid said, although he spoke only
after a hesitation. A thread of uncertainty fluttered in his voice.
She continued to surprise herself by speaking with an intensity and
bitterness she didn’t have to fake. “Wouldn’t I, huh? Wouldn’t I? My
Jack, two partners shot down beside him in one year, and him lying in
the hospital since the first of March, going to be in there weeks yet,
months yet, God knows what pain he might have the rest of his life,
whether he’ll ever walk entirely right, and here I am out of work since
October, savings almost gone, can’t sleep for worrying, being harassed
by crud like you. You think I wouldn’t like to see somebody else
hurting for a change, think I wouldn’t actually get a kick out of
hurting you, hurting you real bad? Wouldn’t I? Huh? Huh? Wouldn’t
I, you little snot?”
Jesus. She was shaking. She hadn’t been aware that anything this dark
was in her. She felt her gorge rising in the back of her throat and
had to fight hard to keep it down.
From all appearances, she had scared the three taggers even more than
she had scared herself. Their eyes were wide with fright in the
moonlight.
“We . . . been here . . . before,” gasped the kid whom she’d
kicked.
“How often?”
“T-twice.”
The house had been hit twice before, once in late March, once in the
middle of April.
Glowering down at them, she said, “Where you from?”
“Here,” said the kid she hadn’t hurt.
“Not from this neighborhood, you aren’t.”
“L.A.” he said.
“It’s a big city,” she pressed.
“The Hills.”
“Beverly Hills?”
“Yeah.”
“All three of you?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t screw around with me.”
“It’s true, that’s where we’re from–why wouldn’t it be true?”
The unhurt boy put his hands to his temples as if he’d just been
overcome with remorse, though it was far more likely to be a sudden
headache. Moonlight glinted off his wristwatch and the beveled edges
of the shiny metal band.
“What’s that watch?” she demanded.
“Huh?”
“What make is it?”
“Rolex,” he said.
That was what she’d thought it was, although she couldn’t help but
express astonishment: “Rolex?”
“I’m not lying. I got it for Christmas.”
“Jesus.”
He started to take it off. “Here, you can have it.”
“Leave it on,” she said scornfully.
“No, really.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“My folks. It’s the gold one.” He had taken it off. He held it out,
offering it to her. “No diamonds, but all gold, the watch and the
band.”
“What is that,” she asked incredulously, “fifteen thousand bucks,
twenty thousand?”
“Something like that,” one of the hurt boys said. “It’s not the most
expensive model.”
“You can have it,” the owner of the watch repeated.
Heather said, “How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”