"This time I'll blow your head off," she said.

Gilbert made a savage sound in his throat as he reached down and grabbed Laura by the hair. He hauled her to her feet, pinning her against him while he leaned down and snagged the harness with the other hand.

From the floor, Ray craned his neck, straining to see what was going on. "Ma, don't fire!"

"Pull the trigger and she's dead. I'll snap her neck," Gilbert said. He was clearly in pain, breathing heavily, no longer armed but still out of control. He had his forearm locked up under Laura's chin. She was forced to hang on to him, pulling down to keep from being strangled. Gilbert began backing out of the kitchen and into the dining room. Laura was stumbling backward, half lifted off her feet.

Helen hesitated, no doubt confused by the jumble of sounds and shapes.

Gilbert disappeared into the dining room, plowing backward through the piles of junk furniture. Laura was making a series of chuffing noises, unable to vocalize with her windpipe choked off. I could hear a crash and the sound of glass shattering as he kicked the front door open. Then silence.

I was torn between the desire to chase after Gilbert and the need to help Helen, who was trembling and deadly pale. She lowered the gun barrel and sank weakly into her chair. "What's happening? Where'd he go?"

"He's got Laura. Just be cool. Everything's going to be fine," Ray said. He was still on the floor, lying sideways in the chair, struggling to get free of his bonds. I scrambled over to him, trying to help him right himself, but with the awkwardness of the chair he was too much for me to lift. I grabbed a butcher knife off the counter and cut through the layers of duct tape that bound his hands and feet. With one hand liberated, Ray started tearing off the rest of the tape, his attention still focused on his mother. "Gimme a hand here," he grunted at me.

"What's he going to do to her?"

"Nothing 'til he gets the money. She's his insurance." I grabbed his hand and braced myself as he hauled himself up from the floor. He glanced at me briefly. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," I said. Both of us turned our attention to Helen.

The shotgun was laid across her lap. I crossed to her, took the gun, and set it on the kitchen table. Her shoulders were slumped and her hands were shaking badly, her breathing shallow and ragged. Her hip was probably bruised where the gun stock had kicked into it. She'd used up all her reserves of energy, and I worried she'd go into shock. "I should have killed him. Poor Laura. I couldn't bring myself to do it, but I should have."

Ray reached for a chair and pulled it closer to his mother's. He took her hand, patting it, his tone tender. "How you doing, Hell on Wheels?" he said.

"I'll be fine in a bit. I just need to catch my breath," she said. She patted at her chest, trying to compose herself. "I'm not as feeble-minded as I was acting."

"I couldn't figure out what you were doing," he said. "I can't believe you did that. You started talking to him, I thought it was all bullshit until you pulled out that shotgun. You were terrific. Absolutely fearless."

Helen waved him off, but she seemed pleased with herself and tickled by his praise. "Just because you get old doesn't mean you lose your nerve."

"I thought you had trouble with your eyes," I said. "How'd you know where he was?"

"He was standing up against the kitchen window, so I could make out his shape. I may be near blind, but my ears still work. He shouldn't have talked so much. Freida's got me into lifting weights now, and I can bench-press twenty-five pounds. Did you hear what he said? He thought I couldn't even hold up a seven-pound shotgun. I was insulted. Stereotyping the old. That's your typical macho horseshit," she said. She pressed her fingers to her lips. "I believe I'm about to get sick now. Oh, dear."

18

Ray helped his mother to the bathroom. Soon after that, I heard the toilet flush and his murmured comfort and assurances as he tucked her into bed. While I waited for him to get her settled, I returned the contents of the junk drawer and slid the drawer back into its slot. I righted Ray's chair and then got down on my hands and knees to look for Gilbert's gun. Where had the damn thing gone? I raised up like a prairie dog and surveyed the spot where he'd stood, trying to figure out what the trajectory would have been when the gun flew off across the room. Picking my way carefully through the broken glass, I crawled to the nearest corner and worked my way along the baseboard. I finally spotted the gun, a.45-caliber Colt automatic with walnut stocks, wedged behind the Eastlake cabinet. I fished it out with a fork, trying not to smudge any latent prints. If the Louisville police ran a check on him, it was possible an outstanding warrant might pop up and give them a reason to arrest him – if they could find him, of course. I placed the gun on the kitchen table and tiptoed to the bedroom door. I tapped, and a moment later Ray opened the door a crack. "We need to call the cops," I said. I meant to slip on past, heading for the telephone, but he put his hand on my arm.