“Know what?” she said. “I want you to go get it.”
“Huh?”
“The gun. Go upstairs and get it.” She looked me square in the eye as she said it. No joke. Dead serious.
“The gun?” A mixture of stall tactics and genuine amazement she would trust me to get a gun on my own and bring it downstairs.
Sam turned to the bloodbath in the kitchen. “Where is it, Marge? Still in the nightstand?” When Marjorie didn’t answer she turned back to me. “It’s always in the nightstand.” She folded her arms across her chest, watching me expectantly.
“You want me to go upstairs and get her gun?” I said.
“I know you’re not that stupid so quit stalling and go get it.”
She might as well have said, “Double dare you.” A test. She wanted to see how much I gained beyond an occasional curse word. And she bet it all that I didn’t have much more.
I doubted I did either. It’s a hell of a long way from an f-bomb to pulling a trigger. And I’d have to pull it. I’d have to shoot to injure her (and me at the same time, we both knew). Threats with a gun wouldn’t work. She’d know exactly what threats were real and what weren’t. Neither one of us knew if I’d be able to pull the trigger until the second I did or did not.
I turned for the stairs. Sam leaned back against the counter where I’d stood earlier. Her face read smug and in control. I wanted back the crying glimpse of vulnerability I saw last night.
Barry at least quieted down.
I took the stairs slow, waiting for the yank of my hair to pull me back down. True to her word, she let me go. As I passed to the second floor, she slipped out of sight. No gun in her hand when I left her. She’d have to be really confident in my inability to do anything so completely against my “good” side as shoot a gun, to not have hers drawn when I returned.
The gun was in the nightstand.
The thin walnut box didn’t have a lock on it. With the pearl inlay on top I wondered if maybe she repurposed a jewelry box, but when I opened it the burgundy velvet lining draped over a fitted foam molding cradling the gun in style. That Barry can give a hell of an anniversary gift.
Sam hadn’t asked for them specifically, but I reached deeper into the drawer for the bullets. I drew out a small box, the plastic seal broken at one end. I opened the cardboard flap and slid out the tray. Rows of shiny brass circles shone in the light of bedside lamp. I cracked the barrel on the gun, filled the empty chambers and then shut the box of ammo and held it in my left hand. The gun went in my right. My shooting hand.
I turned, half expecting to see Sam waiting for me in the doorway, her gun drawn. Nothing. I went back to the stairs.
I felt the hot wire burn in my head of her looking in. I didn’t feel it when I loaded the gun so I wasn’t sure if she saw. Could be she reached deeper now, into my decision making. Trying to figure out if I planned on shooting or not.
I thought about other things. I ran down the lyrics to Jumpin’ Jack Flash. Give me a break, it was the first thing that came to me. I hadn’t made up my mind if I would even try to get my muscles to obey, but I didn’t want her to see the choice before I did.
Descending the stairs was agonizing because I knew she could see me before I could see her. I flashed into her eyes for a second and saw my legs on the steps, moving slowly.
I saw Marjorie first. Still on the floor, she looked up at me, a streak of blood on her cheek from Barry’s finger. Her eyes pleaded for help. She knew I’d been the kind one, the one who begged Sam to stop. She knew if she had a chance, I might be it. Her eyes said, “Use the gun. Shoot her. Kill her. Let’s all get out of here.”
Easy for you to say, Marge.
I reached the bottom step, bullets in one hand, fully loaded Smith and Wesson in the other. The gun hung down by my hip, unthreatening. Sam wasn’t holding hers. It still cooled in her waistband behind her back. I’d have the advantage if I decided to draw. If I could.
She held the same arms-crossed self-satisfied pose. Double dog dare you.
I tested my arm, lifted a little. The gun felt a thousand pounds. But it moved. I stepped slowly forward, deliberately walking the way you do in a hostage situation. No sudden moves, no one gets jumpy. No Barry-like torture moves for me.
I brought the gun up even with my stomach, the barrel pointed at Sam. She smiled with lips drawn tight. I stood only five paces away from her. I raised the gun to firing position. The barrel drooped in my hand, a taut rope pulling at my arm, wanting to put the gun back down, get rid of the threat. No aggression. No violence. Not allowed.
Sam shifted in place. “Well?”
I came that far but I hadn’t told my brain to pull the trigger yet. The big decision: shoot to kill or to wound?
Daddy always said if you draw on a man, you draw to put him down. And stay down. A gun is serious business. You want to wound someone, bring a knife. You want to kill a man, bring a gun.
How would he feel if he stood there looking at killing himself?
Blake would have a plan. Sure, so far Blake’s plans sucked, but still, Lucas might have a plan of his own. Sure, he was totally untrained for this type of situation and he’s never fired a gun before and he fights worse than a teenage girl. But they’d have something, right?
Sam stared down the barrel of the gun. This seemed like great fun to her.
“Y’know it’s sad really. To know that you’re a part of me. Well, used to be. And now look at you. Can’t even pull a trigger when you know the person you’re aiming at wants to kill Lucas. Pathetic.”
I wanted to. I really did. There was no goddamn point anymore. Why should I work so hard to stay alive when killing her/us would be the end to all this? And if I survived I’d be spending a lifetime in prison anyway? Even with all the evidence I could turn over, even with Lucas on my side arguing for leniency, I’m still going to prison for a long damn time. And former DEA agents in prison? Not a pretty sight. Don’t think women’s prison is any better than men’s prison either. Haven’t you ever seen Caged Heat?
Every ounce of my focus concentrated on the tiny muscles controlling my index finger. One small contraction and the trigger would pull, this would end. Lucas would live, he’d nail Calder and Rizzo and the next scum bag drug lord would move in Monday morning to start the game all over again.
My head throbbed. With the amount of brain power I laser beamed into one joint in my body I could have moved a semi truck. I could have bent spoons, turned off light switches, moved Ouija boards. The concentrated electricity of a billion synapses firing with one single purpose still couldn’t move one damn finger joint.
Sam reached out and took the gun from my hand. I let it go. Marjorie put her head back on the floor.
I braced myself for a crack across the jaw with the butt of the gun or a fist to the gut. Some sort of acknowledgment of her dominance over me.
Instead she locked eyes with mine and said, “Dad would have liked me a hell of a lot more than you.”