Randy White - Haunted

Put the gun in the camera bag? I thought about it for a moment, but only a moment.

No… I didn’t need a gun to confront a woman even if she was a ghost. I had my cell phone. If the woman didn’t make her presence known when I entered, I would press the issue-but only after getting the pictures I needed.

I was losing my light. It is a phrase that photographers use.

THEO HAD BEEN inside the house… and maybe still was. The lingering odor of marijuana and freshly burned resin hung at nose level when I entered. A broken cookie on the floor told me Lucia and the witches had been here, too.

I stopped in my tracks and listened. Theo, the nonstop talker, couldn’t bear silence. But that’s what I heard, silence: the slap of wind against roof, the creak of old wood. A full minute I stood there.

The fire, although smoldering, was nearly out, but that was no guarantee the house was empty. The realization spooked me. If there was a woman upstairs, ghost or not, she was welcome to leave or stay. That was up to her. I wasn’t going to risk confronting a man who had dodged a rape charge. Another concern was that, after only a few minutes inside, smoke that hazed the windows had already moved into my bloodstream. I could feel it. The chemical it contained sparked a glowing clarity that soon teetered between giddiness and despondence.

Maybe I spoke my thoughts aloud. I’ve got to get out of here.

I did. I retraced my steps, padlocked the door, and was dialing 911 when I remembered why I’d come. Pictures… I needed pictures. Photographing the archaeological dig site required me to break federal law. I couldn’t call the police. Not yet.

Damn it.

It made me angry to be in such a position-caught between the law and my fear of a man I had disliked at first sniff. Which is why, when I opened the back of my SUV, I made a decision that was unlike me. I pulled the blanket back and removed the pistol from its clever carrying case. And it was clever: a leather box the size of Webster’s Third . It looked like a book, too, NEGOTIATORS embossed in gold on the cover. I had no idea what the title meant-another ruse, I assumed.

My Uncle Jake, in life, had been wise and sweet and bighearted as a retriever. But, in death, by leaving me this gun, he’d become a man of mystery. The gun was silver steel, smooth as glass in my hand, and a mystery in itself. Even finding it on the Internet had been a chore. Thirty-some years ago, a master gunsmith had produced a concealment weapon for a government agency. The name of the agency was still classified, although it was known that fewer than two hundred of the special weapons had been produced. The pistol was a shortened Smith & Wesson with a hooked trigger guard, a sleek fluted barrel, plus other tweaks for fast and lethal shooting. My gun expert friend, Birdy, had pronounced it “Beautiful; perfectly balanced.”

Odd… Until this instant, I had thought the pistol ugly, even brutal, in appearance. There was a reason. I had used it to shoot a killer. The thump of bullet taking flesh, the man’s screams, still troubled me during moments when I lacked confidence or doubted my own virtue. Even touching the barrel could spark a response similar to what I’d felt that day: body shakes, labored breathing. It was humiliating what fear had done to me. And that was the problem. I felt no guilt about shooting the man. Quite the opposite. Bunny Tupplemeyer had guessed correctly about me first aiming at his genitals but losing my nerve. What haunted me was the memory of how helpless I had felt… and the knowledge that the frightened girl inside me could not be trusted to overcome life’s inevitable dark surprises.

The gun reminded me of the truth. That’s why I avoided the very sight of it. Perhaps I was feeling the effects of the smoke and whatever drug it contained because the truth was vividly clear now. And the truth was this: fear was my enemy, not the gun. Fear-and weakness-both separated me from the woman I pretend to be. Why hadn’t I realized this before?

Suddenly, the decision was easy. I was alone in a lonely place. Theo Ivanhoff was somewhere nearby. I had a right to defend myself… And yes, by god, I would.

A magazine loaded with seven bullets was also in the box. Federal Power-Shoks. Birdy had said they were best man-stoppers made and had given me a box. I inserted the magazine with care, then held the pistol away to catch the sunlight. On the handgrips, in red, an archaic Scottish word was stamped: DEVEL . That had taken some time to research, too. The word meant to smite or knock asunder . It could be pronounced DEAH-vil , but I preferred dah-VEL , which was acceptable according to the Oxford English Dictionary .

As I studied the pistol, I realized I should have also taken it to the gun range and practiced. Birdy had invited me often enough. Three times I’d joined her, wearing safety glasses and earplugs. We had taken turns firing her Glock, which was lighter and, in appearance, as utilitarian as a cookie punch. There’s nothing elegant about plastic. But the Glock held eighteen bullets, not seven like mine. And it was foolproof enough that I had outscored Birdy on our first trip to the range-a mistake on my part because it put her in such a foul mood. After that, missing the center ring had taken more effort than hitting it. But I’d managed.

The fact was, my Uncle Jake hadn’t just taught me to shoot, he had made me practice until my hands and eyes automatically knew what to do. Hundreds of rounds through a little.22 caliber revolver, then hundreds more with a variety of guns. Same with using a fly rod and an axe-an approach that worked equally well with the clarinet. Jake had been very proud when I was named first chair as a junior.

“Women learn faster than men because they have to,” he had said. Which, to a girl of twelve, had seemed a frivolous compliment, but now, standing outside the gate to the Cadence mansion, assumed an unsettling new meaning.

I did a quick review of the pistol’s mechanics: on the left, beneath my thumb, was a de-cocking lever. The weapon had no safety or other frills. The front sight was iridescent red. Shuck the slide, point, and pull. Simple enough. Unless that red sight was centered on an attacker’s chest-or his genitals, as I knew too well.

Enough! Let it go.

I did.

I stowed the pistol in my camera bag and said aloud, “You’re a fool if you try.” A warning that was also a plea, both of them directed at Theo as if he were listening.

Had Birdy’s words about fortune-tellers and electronics come to mind, I might have realized Maybe he is .

I was done with photos, putting gear away, when I heard a shriek that had an animal quality. Not human-or so I believed. I figured a hawk had snatched something warm and furry that, in its death throes, was alerting its kindred to hide. Rabbits can rival operatic sopranos in volume. I had heard them often enough with Jake, who liked hunting in the Everglades.

I looked up, thinking I might find the hawk. No… only vultures adrift on a molten sunset. The lighting feathered trees with lace while the sky descended, joining clouds with mist and smoke from distant fires. Daytime vanished in a gray haze. My eyes were still in photographer mode. Had I looked an instant later, I would have missed the abrupt transition from daylight to dusk. I also wouldn’t have seen dust from a vehicle that was leaving or approaching the house. Driving fast, too, on the gravel road.