Stella, Get Your Gun. Nancy Bartholomew
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No problem,” I reassured myself.
I crept down the stairs, around the corner and stopped at the end of the long hallway. They were in my uncle’s study, working quickly, pulling out drawers and rifling through papers.
Fucking predators, I thought. Must’ve read the obituary, must’ve watched the house waiting for her to leave. Jesus!
I eased down the hallway, stopped at the doorway to my aunt’s bedroom and gently turned the knob. I pushed and the door gave. I scanned the empty room, gun held at arm’s length in front of my chest, saw nothing and moved on. Uncle Benny’s study was on the left side of the hallway. By rights, I should’ve moved along that wall, making myself less vulnerable to being seen, but then I would’ve had less of an angle on the intruders. I took the right wall.
I checked the bathroom, holding my breath, ready. I moved within range of the study and took a quick glance inside. There were two of them and they were oblivious to my presence. Drawers hit the floor; papers flew. They worked with their backs to me, apparently unconcerned with anything but the task at hand.
I felt the anger surge into an adrenaline rush. “Fucking assholes,” I murmured, and started to make my move.
I heard a slight snick of sound behind me, the kind of sound that registers as “Oh, shit!” but comes too late to prevent catastrophe. I felt my body fly forward and into the wall across from where I stood, the impact registering with a resounding shock of pain as my forehead and body slammed full force into the rigid plaster. The gun careened out of my hand and skittered down the hallway.
I ricocheted off the wall, using my free hand to push off and spin toward my attacker. He stood an arm’s length away, a black mask covering his face and an ugly gun pointed directly at my chest.
“Hurry up!” he yelled to the men in Uncle Benny’s office. “We got company.”
I watched his eyes and saw his attention return to me, saw him register the Glock lying on the floor and then take a mental inventory. Was I a potential threat to him, or merely a frightened woman?
I watched him stereotype me, saw the glint in his eyes and decided to use the oldest trick in the book. I began to tremble, feigning fear. I let my bath towel slip, pretending to try to catch it, but missing as it quickly slid to the floor.
“Oh, my God!” I gasped. My eyes widened. I took a step backward and was rewarded with a lecherous sneer. “Oh, no!” I wailed softly. “My towel!”
I made a move to bend over and reach for it, giving both audiences a view of cleavage they would not soon forget, and stretched out my arm to reach for the towel. As I expected, the gunman took a step forward, gun arm extended, legs spread in a ready stance, trying to ensure that I didn’t go for the weapon that lay on the floor between us.
I brought my arms together, outstretched and rigid, as if going for the bath towel. I clasped my fingers together to form a tight hammerhead and brought my fist up in a rocket aimed directly for my attacker’s crotch.
The blow connected and my new friend doubled over with a gasp of pain. I used the heel of my right hand to drive a second blow hard into the narrow band of flesh below his nose. He crumpled, sagging to the floor in a pool of bloody agony. He was making gagging sounds and heaving as I grabbed the gun from his useless hand.
I whirled, prepared to take on the other two intruders, but instead saw the last one struggling to escape through the window in my uncle’s study. I brought the gun in my hand up, aimed and sent a round crashing into the windowsill beside the rapidly retreating burglar.
I missed the target, but maybe my unconscious had been working on new, incoming information, maybe I didn’t want to hit my target just yet. The man diving out of Uncle Benny’s study window wore cowboy boots, black snake-skin boots, the same kind of boots I’d seen Jake Carpenter wearing as he piously conducted my uncle’s funeral.
“Son of a bitch!” I yelled after the escaping intruder. “Your ass is mine, Jake Carpenter!”
I brought the gun up, aimed and pulled the trigger. Nothing! I pulled again. Again, nothing.
“What the fuck?” I looked down at the weapon. It was a Smith and Wesson .38 revolver. I spun the cylinder, not believing what I was seeing. “What kind of idiot robs a house with one bullet in his gun?”
I didn’t have to wait on the answer; the silence in the hallway was answer enough. I turned slowly, still holding his useless revolver, and found the man in the mask holding my Glock.
“Drop the gun,” he said.
I let the weapon fall to the ground in front of me.
“Kick it over here.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Why? We both know it’s empty.”
He didn’t like this. “Shut up and do as I said.”
I reached out and punted the offending gun in his direction. Without taking his eyes off of me, he retrieved it and stuck it in the pocket of his sport coat.
“I’m leaving,” he said, backing up. “I can leave with you breathing, or not breathing. You have a preference?”
Great, a smart-aleck burglar. “Sure.”
“That’s what I thought,” he said. “Then here’s what you have to do to stay alive. Don’t try and follow us.” I saw his eyes rake my naked body and he smiled slightly. “Although that would be a vision, wouldn’t it, you running through Glenn Ford in the altogether?”
A wise-ass with an educated vocabulary—now, there couldn’t be too many of those around town. Might make finding him easier, because I was going to find him. It was my new mission in life.
“Count to a thousand before you start getting all hysterical and calling for help. Anything less than that, I’ll come back and shoot you with your own gun.”
I sighed inwardly and made a mental note to humiliate him publicly as soon as possible.
“The one-bullet thing?” he said. “I do that for a reason. There’s entirely too much violence in the world today. Bullets work on the same principle as money—if you have it, you tend to spend it. I’d rather rely on my wits.”
He’d been backing up as he lectured. A moment later I heard the kitchen door slam. Two moments later I heard a car squeal its tires as it tore out of the alley onto the street that ran in front of the row house.
“Great!” I said to the empty house. “I get my ass kicked naked and lose my gun in the process.”
I shook my head, plucked the towel up off the hallway floor and headed for the phone. Every bone and muscle in my body ached, but nothing hurt as much as my pride. I’d let a group of punks, Jake Carpenter almost certainly one of them, break into the house and run, making a clean getaway. Damn!
I limped into the kitchen, picked up the phone and dialed.
“911 operator,” the voice answered. “Do you have an emergency?”
A few smart-assed responses came to mind before I finally managed to say, “There’s been a break-in at 361 Mary Street.”
“Is anyone injured?” the voice asked in a perfectly unconcerned monotone.
“It’s nothing I won’t live through,” I said, and hung up.
By the time the uniforms arrived, I was dressed and disturbing the crime scene. I was trying to find out what, if anything other than my weapon, was missing. I wanted to know why Jake had taken the risk of breaking into Aunt Lucy’s house in broad daylight, but I thought I already knew. I figured he was looking for the papers I’d found in Uncle Benny’s workroom.
When I’d accused him of owing Uncle Benny money, he must’ve known I’d found the agreement. He was probably trying to remove any sign that Uncle Benny had lent him money. Maybe he planned to deny he owed the family a dime.
“Stupid