James Burke - Light of the World

She pulled open her tote bag and rested her hand on the checkered grips of the fourteen-round Beretta. The truck passed, its high beams bouncing off the trunks of the trees, lighting the bottom of the canopy. At the end of the block, it made a wide U-turn and headed toward her again, its headlights almost blinding her.

She released her safety belt and slipped the Beretta from her bag and lowered the window all the way. Though the driver’s window in the truck was down, she could not make out his face. Then she saw him lift a nickel-plated snub-nosed revolver into full view and point it at her. The first round shattered the outside mirror, and the second one pocked a hole in the windshield and blew glass on her skin. She had already thrown herself sideways on the seat and popped the door handle on the passenger side. She slid off the edge of the seat onto the swale and pushed the door shut, which turned off the interior light. She positioned herself on one knee, the Beretta in her right hand, and waited. On the far side of the Caddy, she heard the truck turn around and head toward her again.

She stood up and walked into the middle of the street and extended the Beretta in front of her with both arms, her feet fifteen inches apart. The driver hesitated, windshield wipers beating furiously, milky vapor rising from the hood’s surface. The passenger was attempting to work himself partway out the window to get a clear shot. She clicked off the butterfly safety and thumbed back the hammer. The driver of the pickup floored the accelerator, and the truck leaped forward and roared straight at her. Gretchen began shooting, each crack of the nine-millimeter like a splinter of glass in her right eardrum. The sleet pelted her head and stung her eyes, but she kept pulling the trigger, both feet anchored to the asphalt, the brass hulls ejecting into the darkness.

She could hear the rounds punching through the radiator and whanging off the hood and toppling through the windshield. She tried to count the rounds but couldn’t keep track. One thing she was certain about: Anyone inside that truck was having a bad night.

The driver ducked down as the truck veered out of control and passed her. For just a second, in the glow of the dashboard, she saw the passenger leaning forward, staring straight at her. His cheekbone was shattered, and he was trying to hold it in place with his left hand; the blood from his wound had welled through his fingers and was running down his wrist.

She turned with the truck and began firing again. At least one round went through the back window; another hit the tailgate. She let off two more rounds, hoping to punch a hole in the gas tank. Instead, one round must have ricocheted off the asphalt and popped the left front tire, bringing it instantly down on the rim, the truck skidding against the curb. Gretchen looked down at her Beretta. The slide was locked open on an empty chamber.

She opened the driver’s door of the Caddy and leaned over the seat and retrieved a backup magazine from her bag. The driver of the pickup shoved the transmission into reverse and backed into the center of the street, burning rubber, smoke rising from the rear tires. She jammed the loaded magazine into the Beretta’s frame and released the slide, chambering a round. The driver of the pickup shifted out of reverse and gave the engine all it had, the fan screeching, the radiator bleeding antifreeze, sparks gushing off the left front wheel rim, the flattened tire slicing into strips.

Gretchen didn’t have a clear shot. The angle could carry it into a yard or porch or housefront. How much time had passed since the driver had fired the first round? Probably under two minutes, long enough for someone to call in a shots-fired. As the pickup wobbled down the middle of the street, Gretchen repositioned herself and lifted the Beretta so the sight was just below the rear window. Then she saw a car turn down the far end of the block, putting itself directly in her line of fire.

She lowered her weapon. Her ears felt like they were stuffed with damp cotton. She swallowed and tried to clear her ear canals with no success.

The driver of the pickup wasn’t finished. Steering with one hand, he opened the passenger door and shoved his friend out on the street. The man was short and compact and dressed in heavy jeans and work boots and a long-sleeved cotton shirt. He landed on his side, hard, then struggled to his feet and lumbered down an embankment toward the river. He was holding his face with one hand, as though he had a toothache, his sleeve sodden with blood. The pickup went through the intersection at the end of the block, the bare rim clanging like a garbage can rolling down a rock road.

How much time had gone by? Three minutes, maybe three and a half, she thought. Response time would be at least ten minutes. That was just a guess. She followed the wounded man down to the water’s edge. The river was blown out and full of leaves and twigs and foam and running dangerously high and fast through boulders that usually lay exposed in dry sand. Plus, the river was making a relentless humming sound, similar to a sewing machine’s.

“Give it up, buddy,” she called out.

For a moment she thought she saw him inside a stand of willows, watching her, maybe sighting on her face or chest. She froze and slowly squatted down behind a beached cottonwood, lowering her face so that light did not shine directly on it.

When the wind blew through the willows, all of the shapes inside it moved except one.

“Your pal screwed you. You want to take his weight?” she said. “Bad deal, if you ask me.”

She walked farther along the embankment, rocks as heavy as petrified dinosaur eggs clacking under her feet. “My name is Gretchen Horowitz. I used to blow heads for a living. That means I’ve got a sheet, and I won’t be a credible witness against you. You can skate and say, ‘ Adios, motherfuckers, I’ll be in Margaritaville.’ ”

There was no answer from the figure. She wiped the rainwater out of her eyes with her sleeve. “Listen to me,” she said. “You were probably trying to clip my old man, Clete Purcel. So you and your friend screwed up twice. Then your friend rat-fucked you on top of it. I can drive you to the ER. This is Montana. Gunfights are a family value here. Think it over.”

“I already did,” said a voice inside the willows. “I never saw a Hebe that didn’t try to work the angle.”

She knew the drill and didn’t want to be there for it. Fear and desperation always took them to a precipice where they gave up hope and pulled the rip cord and leaped into space. There were memories buried in her mind that were like film clips from a documentary no one should ever have to see. But the memories were hers, not someone else’s, and the characters were not from central casting. She saw herself on a boat off Islamorada on a blazing sunlit day, the ocean green and filled with patches of indigo, an Irish button man from the Jersey Shore aiming a harpoon gun at her breast. The scene shifted to Little Havana, where a gumball who’d raped the daughter of a Gambino underboss came out of a whorehouse closet shooting, wearing panties and a bra, his body covered with monkey hair. Odds were that either man would take her off at the neck. Instead, they both died with a look of disbelief she could never forget. Their prey had not only become their executioner; they had died at the hands of someone they’d always thought of as the weaker sex, a receptacle of their seed, to be used and discarded arbitrarily.

Unfortunately for her, all the weed and angel dust in Florida couldn’t change the fact that of her own volition, she had become employed by the worst people in America, including some who may have been involved with the murder of John Fitzgerald Kennedy.