Steven Havill - Statute of Limitations

Like an old Mexican fortress, the adobe’s windows were all small and set high-no picture windows that opened the house and its occupants to view from the outside world. Keeping her steps short, Estelle moved across the patio, staying out of the light from the window. She rested against the wall of the house, one hand spread on the rough adobe as if taking its pulse. A loud thump from inside the house jerked her body bowstring tight. She could hear what might have been voices, but the thick walls were effective insulation.

Still holding her breath, she moved closer to the kitchen window, keeping her hand in contact with the wall. Her left foot touched what she hoped was a loosely coiled garden hose, and she hesitated, then felt her way around the tangle. She ducked under the window, turned, and straightened up slowly, staying out of the light.

To the right of the kitchen was a laundry room that Gastner never used, preferring instead to let Kealey’s Kleaners take care of his needs. That door was routinely closed. To the left, the kitchen opened into a large, formal dining room through an open-topped island-the countertop of which was the only table that the old man ever used. The dining-room table, a huge Mexican antique with enormously ornate carvings, could seat a dozen people-and most of the time was covered in a mess of newspapers, magazines, books, and mail, topped off with whatever hat Gastner might have been wearing last.

Beyond the dining room, a sunken six-sided living room and library was insulated with stuffed bookshelves.

Estelle sucked in a sharp breath. By standing on her tiptoes, she could see that half of the books were a mess, some lying open on the shelves, obviously many on the floor. The lampshade of the antique floor lamp hung bent and askew. She heard another loud thump, this time followed by a bellow of rage, and a broad back heaved into view, erupting up from in front of the leather sofa. Arms flailed, and Estelle saw a hand holding a pistol clamped in a grip that covered all but the last inch or two of the weapon’s barrel.

Drawing her own.45, she reached out and touched the knob on the back door. The door was closed, but one of the small panes was broken, the door’s locks unsecured.

The kitchen door opened inward, and she stayed close to the jamb. Another crash and a curse came from the living room. So focused were the two combatants that they took no notice of Estelle’s entrance. She quickly scanned the room and saw no one else.

Bill Gastner’s face was nearly purple from exertion, his teeth clenched as he struggled with a smaller, more slightly built man. They were wedged in the narrow space between the leather sofa and the huge, slate table, and Gastner was using his considerable weight to advantage. Both men were slippery with blood, but despite the flailing limbs, kicks, and punches, Gastner was obviously concentrating on only one thing-control of the weapon.

On his back on the floor, the man had his arm hooked around Gastner’s neck, hand on the older man’s chin as if he could twist the retired sheriff’s head backward. The muscles of Gastner’s shoulders bulged with effort, and the two men lay quiet for a moment, breath coming in rasping gasps.

As Estelle moved across the kitchen, Gastner couldn’t see her, but his assailant could. With a violent wrench, he twisted, driving a sharp elbow into the side of the retired sheriff’s head. At the same time, he jerked his arms downward, driving Gastner’s wrists into the sharp edge of the table. Jerking free with one hand at the same time that he elbowed Gastner’s face again, he almost flung the gun toward Estelle as he yanked the trigger.

The automatic roared and the heavy slug caught the edge of the countertop, exploding upward in a shower of Formica and chipboard fragments. Stung in a dozen places by the shrapnel, Estelle dodged backward. The man brought the gun down hard on Gastner’s head, rolled sideways, and slithered out from the cover of the table.

Estelle used the corner of the refrigerator to steady her own weapon, and as soon as the man dove out from between the sofa and the table, away from Gastner’s humped form, she squeezed the trigger. Crouched and scrambling for his balance, trying to focus on the new threat, the man was a moving, dodging target. The.45 round took the man in the side of his right knee, buckling it out from under him. He fell with a crash, cursing, twisting toward her.

Just a hundredth part of a second from pulling a second shot, Estelle saw Gastner’s large form materialize from the left. He crabbed the two steps on his hands and knees, reaching the man just as his assailant swung the gun to cover him.

Gastner’s huge paw enveloped the automatic, and for a heartbeat, Estelle expected to hear another shot, even as she hurtled across the kitchen, down the steps, and across the living room.

She saw her opening. Gastner had both hands on the gun, twisting it and the hand that held it down toward the floor, the muzzle down and away, the barrel wrenched back out of battery so the pistol couldn’t fire. The man’s other hand was wrapped around Gastner’s head. Things froze for a moment, and she tore her cuffs off the back of her belt and with a quick stab, slammed them around the man’s right wrist. Using the other half of the cuffs and the chain connector as a wrench, she twisted hard, driving the steel deep into the man’s wrist. At the same time, she dropped her left knee into the hollow of his neck and shoulder.

He bellowed something incomprehensible just before her driving knee crushed off his wind and blood supply. He thrashed, disregarding the bite of the handcuffs on the one wrist, or Gastner’s powerful twisting on the other. One leg lashed out, the boot coming down hard on the floor in punctuation to his cries.

Estelle shoved the stubby barrel of her own.45 into the man’s right eye.

“Drop the gun.” She jabbed the barrel so hard blood welled up from his lacerated eyebrow. “Drop it or I’m going to spread your brains all over the floor.”

Estelle could feel the man’s body freeze, and she twitched the gun barrel again. “I mean it. Drop it.”

“I got it,” Gastner grunted, and the pistol flew across the room.

“Let go of him,” Estelle commanded, and she twisted the cuffs again. The man’s hand opened, and Gastner shook his head free. One of Gastner’s burly arms was wrapped around the man’s elbow, dislocating it forward while the other crushed his thumb backward.

Close as she was, Estelle could smell the liquor, heavy on the man’s breath.

“Give me the other cuffs,” Gastner panted.

“You’re breakin’ my arm,” the man squealed as Estelle backed a little of her weight off his neck, and he tried to writhe away from the pain. With one of Gastner’s legs braced and driving his considerable weight downward, there was nowhere the man could go.

“We’ll break more than that, you son-of-a-bitch,” Gastner panted. With one hand still locked around the man’s thumb, he twisted even harder, then released the elbow long enough to take the cuffs Estelle thrust toward him. He snapped them around the man’s other wrist. “Gimme that.” He pushed himself up a little, reached around with surprising agility, and grabbed the other set of cuffs that secured the man’s right arm. Pulling hard, he brought the man’s wrists together and snapped the open cuff home.

“My eye,” the man whimpered. “My knee.”

“Lucky you still got a head,” Gastner said. “Let’s get me up.” Once more on his feet, drawing deep breaths, he shook his head at Estelle. “You okay?”

“Yes.”

“Got a nylon?” He took the long nylon security tie from her. “Shoot him if he moves,” he said, and he made sure that Estelle had a tight grip on the cuffs being used as a tether.