Flashpoint (11 page)

The one who had shouted at her, Bronze Neck, ripped into a carton of cigarettes and extracted two cellophane-wrapped packets. His fingers were thick, oil-stained. He nudged the guy next to him—overalls and a red neckerchief tied around the top of his head.

The third one had a crew cut and a space between his front teeth. He stuck the tip of his tongue through the gap. “
My
, oh,
my
.”

Sonora moved away, thinking she would not be sorry to see these three handcuffed to their pickup and set on fire. She found an aisle that looked promising, passed Apple Jacks, pancake syrup—Aunt Jemima, juice boxes. She heard laughter, saw the men huddled at the end of the aisle. They headed toward her, balancing potato chips, snack cakes, beer, and cigarettes.

The diet alone would kill them, Sonora thought. Just not soon enough.

Neckerchief walked close, jeans almost but not quite grazing her legs.

Sonora stayed put. Wondered what they'd do next. Her heart was pounding, which annoyed her. She did not give ground. They turned and went by again, shark passes.

Boys will be boys
. Sonora paid for the cake mix, hands unsteady while she dug for change.

They were out front when Sonora left the store—short attention spans focused on a fresh victim.

She supposed that to certain Neanderthal-thinking juries, the girl could be dismissed as looking for trouble. She was anywhere from fourteen to twenty-four. Makeup was like that.

Hers had been put on with a heavy hand, black eyeliner making the face look pale and harsh. The line of blemishes across the forehead and clustered on the chin were caked with foundation and pressed powder. Her hips were slim, jeans tiny, fashionably torn at the knee. The hair was carefully volumized with scoops of gel, and the small pointed breasts were loose under the T-shirt.

The girl was smiling, but it was an embarrassed smile, ingratiating, please-just-leave-me-alone.

One of the men had her arm.

“Come on, jailbait.”

Sonora winced. It was a term that always put a bad taste in her mouth.

“… not safe for a girl looks like you do.” It was Neckerchief talking. “Hop on in the truck, honey, and we'll take you home.” The girl pulled away. “No thanks. My mom's coming.”

“Your mom?” Crew Cut swished a toothpick to the other side of his mouth with a tobacco-stained tongue. “Let's ride around a while 'fore she gets here. How 'bout that? That sound good?”

“Please,” the girl said. Neckerchief still had her arm, and she tried to pull away. Her laugh was nervous but polite. “Really, don't.”

“
Don't, stop, don't, stop
.” Bronze Neck talking. The men laughed, circled in closer.

“I got to go now,” the girl said softly.

Sonora wondered if her mom was really coming, if there was a mom, what this kid was doing out so late on a school night, how old she really was.

Neckerchief's grip tightened, and the girl winced. “Where you want to go, now, honey? We'll see you get home right and tight.”

This last brought the laughter out from all of them, and Neckerchief pulled the girl toward the truck.

Sonora unzipped her purse, hand resting on the Baretta with a light but joyous touch. The threat was tangible, and she gave herself permission to get involved.

“I really don't like you guys.” It was the first thing that came to mind. The girl looked up, startled, still smiling. Sonora was not smiling.

Bronze Neck laughed, but Crew Cut was frowning. Something about her seemed to disturb him. One mark for intelligence.

“I think I want an apology.” Sounded good, Sonora thought, wondering what she should do with these guys. Arresting them would be incredibly time-consuming, and on what charge? Menacing? They'd be back on the streets before the paperwork was done. And this wasn't her town.

“What you give me if I do?”

Sonora looked over her shoulder. It was late. That was always the way—nobody around.

“Looking for help, honey?”

Sonora took the gun out of her purse, took careful aim.

Crew Cut took a step backward. “Aw, shit. We were just fooling around.”

“Say you're sorry,” Sonora said.

“No way.”

“Okay, fine. But get in your truck, and get out of my face. You too, Neckerchief Head.”

“Bitch.”

Later, when she went over the incident in her mind, she could not remember making the conscious decision to shoot. But the gun went off in her hand, and the man's face went dead white, and Sonora was sure for a minute that she'd hit him.

The bar door opened and closed. Sam. His look of bewilderment hardened as he turned from her to the men.

They were already scrambling into the truck. Sonora saw no blood, no sign anybody was hurt. Her luck had held, she was still a terrible shot.

The pickup's engine caught on the second crank. Tires screeched as the truck pulled away.

“We'll be back, bitch.”

“Yeah, and this time there'll be two of us,” Sam yelled.

Sonora looked for the girl, saw she was gone. Ten points for brains, if not manners.

Sam opened the passenger door of the Taurus. Gave Sonora a look. “Accidental discharge tomorrow morning while you're getting ready for work. Get
in
.”

She got in. He started the car, slammed the gears into reverse, pulled out of the parking lot.

“When the hell did you decide you were Clint-fucking-Eastwood?”

Sonora looked at her feet. “Why don't you calm down and hear my side of it?”

He wasn't listening. “Those are probably the only three rednecks in Kentucky without a gun in their truck. You're lucky one of them didn't come up shooting. What would you have done then?”

Sonora shrugged.

“What
is
it with you these days, girl?”

“What is it with
me?
What is it with them? I got no patience for this stuff anymore, Sam.”

“No patience for what, Sonora, real life?”

“Hey, it was a rape in progress. Didn't you see the kid? They were trying to force her into the pickup.”

“Oh, well, then just blow their heads off, you got cause.”

“I think so, and you would've too, if you'd been there.”

“Maybe. And maybe we're feeling a little bit pissy these days, how about that?”

“Sam, you know me—”

“Your point?”

“I've seen you do worse.”

“You have not.”

“Fine, just shut up about it.”

“
Sonora
—”

“
Drop
it, okay?”

“What you going to do if I don't? Shoot me? What's so funny, girl, nothing here funny.”

Sonora closed her eyes and folded her arms. “Interesting, isn't it, Sam? Women live with the implied threat of violence from men, and that's all right. Turn the tables and you don't like it much.”

“That's got nothing to do with this, Sonora. Don't put me in that pig category just because I'm male. You're a police officer and you're on duty, and you've got procedures.”

“It felt good, Sam. For a minute or so, it felt really good.”

“Let me know when you get fantasies about handcuffing men and setting them on fire.”

“If you think you're funny, you're not.”

14

It was 3:30
A.M
. when Sonora and Sam parted company in the parking lot on Broadway. The downtown streetlights cast a blurred yellow glow on the rain-slick pavement. Some of the office buildings were lit, all of them empty.

Sonora got into her car and rolled the window down.

Sam leaned an elbow on the open sill. “Going home, Sonora? Not strapping on a six-shooter and ridding the city of vermin?”

“Home to
bake
, how's that for innocent?”

“I'm going to grab a few hours' sleep, then go in early. You don't make it in on time, I'll give out the informant story.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

It was usually the other way around. His daughter's illness did not always coordinate with the murder rate. Sonora worked double time and lied liberally to cover for him when Annie was having a bad spell.

Sonora grabbed Sam's sleeve before he could get away.

He looked at her. “What?”

“I didn't tell you this 'cause I was mad. I had a weird message on my answering machine. The office machine.”

“I get weird messages all the time, Sonora. Usually it's my wife.”

“This was a woman—”

“So's my wife.”

“Quit playing and pay attention. She didn't say much, but she did say ‘you'uns.'”

That caught him. He leaned into the window. “You think it was her?”

“Yeah.”

“What'd she say?”

“Just hello, you don't know who this is, but I'll call back.”

He thought for a minute. “I wonder why she's calling you.”

Sonora shrugged.

“If it is her, Sonora, then she likes the chase. She may be one of those nutcases looking for a police playmate.”

“It's not like we thought she was normal.”

“Good point. Watch your back, kiddo.”

Sonora watched him get into the car, turn, and wave. She glanced up to the fifth floor of the dingy brick building, looking at the lit offices of Homicide. Fluorescent light poured through bent, yellowed Venetian blinds. In spite of the chill, someone had opened a window.

She was glad to be going home.

Her car made the usual straining noises as it ascended the hill. Her engine would not last much longer on the streets of Cincinnati.

The rain had stopped, but the garbage piled up and down the sidewalk was sodden, raindrops glistening on dark plastic under the glare of headlights. A woman leaned out of a two-story window, tattered yellow curtains thrust to one side. In the light from the apartment, Sonora could see that the woman had coarse blond hair and a hard look. She smoked a cigarette, gazing listlessly at the wet, garbage-filled streets.

Cincinnati was depressing after dark. Sonora rolled up the windows and settled in for the drive to the suburbs. She felt out of sync, equally pulled by the squad room and the home fires. Fires, she thought. Home fires. Car fires. Mark Daniels up in flame. Keaton Daniels …

A horn honked and she jerked herself upright. She was in the wrong lane. She swerved to the right, hands trembling on the wheel. Sonora rolled the car window down, breathed chilled air, and leaned forward in her seat, driving slowly.

God, it was so easy. One minute you were driving, the next you were asleep. Was that what it had been like for Zack? Had he woken up before the collision? Felt pain?

There had been no alcohol or drugs in her husband's bloodstream. Sonora hadn't needed the coroner's confirmation. Zack had fallen asleep behind the wheel because he was exhausted. It tired a man out, juggling a wife, two kids, a full-time job, and the blonde of the week.

Sonora turned down her street and pulled to the side of the driveway, careful not to block the black Blazer parked in front of the garage. Clampett met her at the door, eyes bleary, tail wagging. The children, Heather most likely, had brushed out his fur and tied a ribbon around his collar.

Sonora gave Clampett a gentle nudge with her knee to make him move away from his ever ecstatic perusal of the garage. The house had the hushed peacefulness it acquired when the children were finally, deeply asleep. Sonora heard the hazy burr of static coming from the television in the living room. She went through the kitchen, set her purse in a chair, saw that there were dishes in the kitchen sink. Popcorn kernels littered the floor. Smears of chocolate syrup and rings of melted ice cream glazed the table and cabinets. Sonora wondered if they'd eaten the ice cream or spread it around with a brush.

She grabbed a blank pad of stickup notes and scrounged for a pencil in the small tin of odds and ends on the microwave.

I am not the maid
, she wrote in large block letters.
No TV or video games tomorrow to help your memory. Next time clean up your mess. Love, Mom
.

She stuck the note on the refrigerator.

Sonora walked into the living room, where her brother was asleep on the couch. The sports section of the newspaper was fully open and draped over his head and shoulders. His cowboy boots were on the floor.
He
did not have holes in his socks.

Sonora turned the television off. Her brother sat up, shoulders hunched forward, and rubbed a hand across his face. He reached for the round-lensed glasses that sat on the arm of the couch, slid them on his nose, and blinked. He looked very much like Heather, except that his hair was blond.

Sonora sat in the rocking chair and closed her eyes.

“How many drinks of water do you give Heather when she goes to bed?” His lisp was very faint—only noticeable when you listened for it.

“One. How many did you give her?”

“Sixteen.”

Sonora shook her head. “Idiot.”

He yawned and stretched. “About dinner.”

“Yeah?”

“The deal was a home-cooked meal for baby-sitting. Hungry Man TV dinners—”

“You didn't read the fine print. I
owe
you a home-cooked meal.”

“That's six in the hole.”

“You hear about that guy burned up in the car?”

He pushed his glasses back on his nose. “That
yours?
”

Sonora nodded, closed her eyes. “Man, I'm tired, and I still have to bake cupcakes.”

“You don't want to go in the kitchen.”

“Too late. You look exhausted, too. Did you play with the kids all night?”

“Horsey rides and piggyback for Heather. Monopoly with both of them. It's very energetic, the way they play. I can never figure out why you have to run around the table
twice
when you land on a railroad.”

“You could stick them in front of the TV.”

“Always the devoted mother. What time is it?”