And, if he’d used his trusty Beretta at that range, with his specially chosen ammo, the two headshots would have gone straight through Bruce’s cranium.
And right into Officer Brady’s chest.
The thought was… horrifying. Eric hadn’t killed an innocentyet, and he didn’t intend to start with the delightfully earnest Officer Brady Carnegie. And the horror was extra spicy when he considered that if Brady had shot, he would have pluggedEricin the same place. Neither of them (Eric hoped) would have wanted that result, so the advice had been well-founded.
And he ignored the part of him that whispered that he’d be disappointed,verydisappointed, not to get to know the officer better.
ACE CALLEDhim between Palm Springs and Victoriana, as he munched happily on an In-N-Out Double-Double, having demolished his Animal Style fries in the parking lot.
He clicked Speaker on his phone and set it in what might have once been an ashtray, but was now cluttered with coins and receipts, and obviously used as a catchall.
“Eric Christiansen,” he said, trying to be crisp with a mouthful of cheeseburger.
“In-N-Out?” Ace guessed.
“It’s so good,” he moaned pathetically. “I’m glad it’s forty miles away.”
Ace laughed a little. “Next time, I’ll have you bring back some for Sonny—he’s partial. But that’s not why I’m calling.”
Eric scanned the vast stretch of the horizon, and though there were some high clouds—itwasstill winter, even in the desert—that blocked the sun, he was hoping this wasn’t the precursor of a storm.
“What’s up?” he asked carefully.
“Well, apparently you were at Walmart when there was a dustup?”
“Oh God,” Eric said, his heart sinking. “You want me to leave.”
Ace sounded legitimately surprised. “No, moron. Nothing that drastic. Officer Carnegie just asked that you stay put at the garage for a bit so he could ask you some questions, that’s all. Told me to tell you not to get your panties in a bunch, he wasn’t going to mention you in any reports. He only wanted to know where you got the idea for beaning a gun-toting maniac in the head with cans of olives.”
Oh. “Ernie,” Eric said, feeling a little relieved. “He told me not to forget them. He also told both of us not to shoot. I… it was a judgment call,” he finished with dignity.
He was rewarded with Ace’s dry chuckle. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said. “And by the way, Officer Carnegie wanted you to know, the maniac was not dead, merely unconscious. He’s got a cracked skull, and he may be in physical rehab for a few monthsbefore he goes to prison. Also, the fella that got shot is fine, and super excited about pressing charges. So you don’t have to—in his words—worry about dodging him again, and can feel okay about not running away from my place because he doesn’t do good Samaritans like that.”
Eric grunted and tried not to feel like a giant coward for doing a fade out of Walmart.
“That is a relief,” he said, meaning it.
“And I wanted to add that it was quick thinking. You kept folks from getting hurt, and you didn’t kill anybody. So good for you. In case you were wondering if you could do that, you did it fine, and now we’ve got a police officer on our side, and me and Sonny been here three years and that ain’t happened, so nicely done.”
Eric dared to smile. “Thank you,” he said, staring out over the desolate flatness of the cactus- and boulder-strewn desert. “I’m rather pleased myself.”
“How’d you learn to throw a can of olives like that?” Ace asked, sounding as excited as Officer Carnegie had sounded about that bright yellow car.
“It used to be a baseball when I was in high school,” he said modestly and then rotated his shoulder a little, wincing. “My speed’s the same, but my resilience….”
“Not so much,” Ace said, understanding. “Don’t worry. Ernie’s been prepping ice packs for you since you left.”
Wow. “That psychic thing….” Eric didn’t even know how to finish it.
“Yeah. Never wrong. Never. So good on you for listening. Don’t worry, Mr. Christiansen—I had my doubts when you first got here, but you’re settling in fine.”
Ace hung up, and Eric found an alt-rock station on the car radio. It had been tuned to something that sounded likeRussian NPR before that, and Eric wondered if the antennae was enhanced somehow and then decided he didn’t want to know.
He’d barely exchanged three words with Jai, the man who owned this impressive vehicle, and Jai’s mate, George, the slight, seemingly good-natured nurse who lived with him in the house across the street. There was another nurse there—but not a lover, just a friend, Eric guessed, and he wondered again at this nest of people. Two auto mechanics, two military assassins, two nurses, a psychic, and an ex-Russian mobster.
And a porn model.
Dear God, he’d forgotten about Cotton, the beautiful boy he’d first met on his way into Victoriana. Who would have thoughthewould have taken a back seat to everybody else here. And Eric had been looking for them too—it wasn’t like he hadn’t had an inkling that there was an “outfit down south” that might take him in when he decided he wanted to leave the life and simply retire.
