Lenny Caster was quite the artist with the Canon.
Stahl pulled on latex gloves, unloaded the weapon, locked it open and then read the serial number to Gillespie, who typed into her phone.
A moment later: “Sir, you’re in possession of a stolen firearm.”
“No, no! I bought legally. Private sale. I know about Second Amendment.”
“So you admit you purchased the gun.”
Maybe he was thinking he should have said “found.” He licked his lips.
“Apart from the gun’s status, do you have a valid hunting permit or sports participation certificate?”
Silence again.
“Well, sir, then you don’t meet the requirements of 27 Code of Federal Regulations Section 178.97, regarding nonimmigrant aliens possessing firearms.” She read him his Miranda rights.
“I want lawyer.”
And his Coca-Cola, Shaw couldn’t help but think.
“You’ll have one.” Stahl placed the Russian’s possessions in evidence bags.
They led him toward the door, each gripping one arm.
He called over his shoulder, “You like boxing? I like boxing. You never know how end. Seem all wonderful, round one and round two. Then, bang, and there’s knockout.
“So. One and two to you. But don’t pat back too fast, Mr. Colter Shaw. More rounds to come. More rounds to come...”
39
Allison Parker let the hot shower stream course over her body.
The Sunny Acres motel was a dive but offered two advantages. One, the clerk was willing to forgo ID when an attractive businesswoman, accompanied by her daughter, explained with chagrin—and a handful of cash—that she’d left her billfold at a restaurant on 55, presently closed.
And, two, the water heater was top notch.
She rested her head against the blue tile.
Blue as the wall of the shower rinse-off by the pool, the wall on which the comical or eerie or sensuous white plaster seahorse reared in profile.
It’s November of last year, the fifteenth.
Parker is sitting with coffee, in the kitchen, staring out at the snow, the covered pool. The flakes descend in bright flares through the spotlight that shines over the pool. She stares at the tiny white fireworks. It’s a placid scene and she usually thinks how the blanket of snow covering the backyard is “heartwarming.” She laughs sometimes when she has those contradictory thoughts. Tonight she is only anxious.
Hannah has abandoned the history class project she and Jonwere working on earlier, before he rose abruptly and drove off into the night. The girl has gone to bed. It’s eleven. On the glass-topped table, behind Parker, are pieces of metal and plastic, soldering iron and glue gun. She doesn’t know what the project is supposed to be; it was a dad-daughter thing.
Was...
Parker will have to write a note for Ms. Talbott about an extension.
A sip of coffee. Zero taste for it.
Her heart pounds as she hears a thunk from outside, faint but man-made—not the sound of the occasional branch surrendering to the weight of the wet snow.
Walking to a front window, she draws aside the curtain and peers out. Yes, Jon’s truck has overrun the driveway and decked the big blue recycling bin.
She hoped, and yes, prayed, that he simply went for a head-clearing drive.