Walter Mosley - All I Did Was Shoot My Man

I was up and armed in under six seconds.

As I moved toward the bedroom door I went back through the litany of every night that I came home. I checked Twill’s bed because Twill needed keeping track of. He was not there. I didn’t look in on Dimitri because he was gone. And what about Shelly?

There were two of them coming down the hall toward the master bedroom. They had gotten past the front door, with its dead bolts in the wall and floor, more quickly than I could have imagined. They were hurrying one behind the other, moving low like predators, like twin brother cheetahs on the hunt.

I shot the first one as he sensed my presence and was raising his own pistol. A tenth of a second later his rising gun hand hit mine, knocking the long-barreled.44 from my grip. This was a posthumous act because he was already dead from the bullet entering his skull.

The second killer, trying to move around the still-falling corpse, was twisting his pistol to point at my chest, but I moved, with Gordo’s boxer training, grabbing the wrist of the hand holding the gun with my left and his throat with my right. He was at least four inches taller than I but still I lifted him up off the floor.

The fever returned, momentarily fueling my rage like the furnace of a hot-air balloon.

“Urk!” he yelped. One high note not unlike the feline predator he brought to mind.

Three shots fired from his pistol, his windpipe collapsed under my grip. He died almost as quickly as his comrade had.

I dropped him to the floor. My heart was beating as it had been in the dream. I stood there, naked, triumphant, and trembling. I would have been scared if it wasn’t for the blood screaming through my veins.

“They knew exactly what system you had and the tools to get around it,” Carson Kitteridge was saying.

We were in the dining room. Katrina was wrapped in a plush yellow bathrobe, sitting at our hickory dining table. I was standing next to her, wearing only my blue suit trousers.

When the cops arrived I was still naked. After killing the second failed assassin I saw that his three shots had gone through the wall to Shelly’s bedroom. I rushed in. Two of the bullets hit her bed but she wasn’t in it. After that I called 911—the idea of getting dressed never occurred to me.

One of the uniforms answering the call told me to put on some pants. If it wasn’t for her, I might have still been naked.

“They didn’t know, exactly,” I said. “I had a separate contractor put in the second alarm system — just bein’ careful.”

“Smart,” Kit said, his eyes, the color of a pale afternoon, staring into mine. “Looks like they used a souped-up magnet on the electronic lock and perfectly beveled crowbars on the bolts. Real pros.”

Katrina put her left elbow on the table, leaning her forehead against three extended fingers. She shook her head ever so slightly, mouthing something over and over.

“Bullets went through Shelly’s wall,” I said. “Two of ’em hit her bed.”

“Why don’t we go down to your den, LT?” Kit suggested. “Officer Palmer can stay with your wife.”

Palmer was the lady cop that told me to get dressed. Her skin was milk with freckles. Even frowning, she seemed friendly.

In the hallway there were five more cops, a coroner, and four paramedics.

Kit led me to my office, ushered me in, and closed the door. He said that we should sit. I didn’t answer. I didn’t sit either. I was a soldier right then; my squad had just fought off one attack and was anticipating the next.

Kit stood with me, watching closely.

While aware of the scrutiny of the insightful cop I was concentrated on the daybed where Katrina had been. I was thinking that no one had ever tried to kill me in my home before. The antithesis of that realization made me snicker.

They’d tried to kill me in a dozen other places, but that was business — nothing personal.

“You think this has to do with Zella Grisham and the heist?” Kit asked.

“If it does, I can’t imagine how.”

That was a grievous understatement of my imagination. Stumpy Brown had given my name to his torturers. When he saw that there was no way out he threw the dice, hoping they were telling the truth when they said that they’d let him live for just a name.

I wondered if his corpse had been recovered.

“You’re the one who called me, LT,” Carson said.

“I called nine-one-one. They called you.”

“I represent the police, when it comes to you. I will protect you just as well as any innocent citizen. But you have to let me in.”

A thought came to my mind, a very disturbing notion.

“Look,” I said, “if this attack has anything to do with Zella or the heist, I don’t know how. I mean, if I expected armed assassins in my home, do you think I’d let my wife be here?”

Among other things, Kitteridge was a human lie detector. He could quantify any emotion in his mind. That’s why, even though I felt pressed to act, I chose my words carefully. In his own way the police captain was as dangerous as the hit man Hush.

“I’m going to have to take you down for a statement,” he said.

“Come on, man. You’ve seen my wife. I can’t just leave her.”

“You killed two men,” he said. “They’d bust my ass down to desk clerk if I didn’t follow the numbers on this.”

There was no way out of a trip to the police station. Most other times it wouldn’t have bothered me. Part of the dance is getting close to the fire without being burned.

“Okay,” I said. “All right. But give me a few minutes alone with Katrina. Let me talk to her a minute before you take me away.”

Kit heard something in my tone. He knew there was more to it than what I said. But he also knew that I could be very uncooperative when feeling pressed.

“And then you come with me and give what you got?” he asked.

I nodded.

He walked me back down to the dining room and asked kind-faced Officer Palmer to come outside with him.

Alone in the room with my wife was almost a solitary experience. She was in the same position, mouthing what might well have been the same words. I was concerned about her, but there were other, more urgent things to worry about.

I called Breland Lewis on his home phone.

“Hello,” he said, sleep still in his voice.

“Two men broke in my house and tried to kill me.”

“How’s Katrina and the kids?”

“Fine. It has to be the Rutgers thing. You are a possible target. Get your wife and the kids and go somewhere where no one will be able to track you.”

“Okay.”

“You still got that phone Bug sent?”

“Yes.”

“Bring it with you.”

My next call was to Twill.

“Hey, Pops,” he said on the first ring.

He was wide awake, getting into mischief no doubt, but I didn’t have time to question him. Instead I told him what had happened and that I wanted him to gather up his mother and take her down to Mr. Arnold’s — where she would be safe.

Twill promised to call his brother and sister on the way up from wherever he was.

That settled, I pulled a chair up to Katrina’s side.

“Katrina.”

To my surprise she sat upright and turned toward me.

“I am not leaving my house,” she said with conviction.

“But, baby, these men were pros. You need protection.”

“I will not leave. This is my home and I intend to stay.”

“Twill’s coming to get you.”

“He is welcome here but I will not go.”

I had come up against this blockade before. There was no moving Katrina once her mind was made up.

So I went out into the hallway to meet my official nemesis.

“Katrina won’t leave,” I told him. “The kids will all be here in an hour or so. Can you put a cop on watch at least until tomorrow tonight?”