Page 31 of Girl, Remembered

Lindsey let the poor gentleman stew in his embarrassment for a moment, then said, ‘Rather a foot in the mouth than a bullet in the head, right?’

'You could put that on a T-shirt. So, you looking for protection?'

‘Something like that. I suppose you could say it’s insurance.’

Darrell sniffed the air. ‘Is that a southern twang you’ve got? You’re not from around here, are ya?’

If she could have, she would have kicked herself. Never let the twang seep back in. That was rule number one of staying disguised.

‘Kentucky, born and bred,’ she lied. ‘Fell in love with a musician and ended up here, for my sins. Now I’m stuck.’

‘Kentucky, huh? You sound more Louisiana to me, but what do I know?’

He knew too much, Lindsey thought. Cameras could place her here, and then this Darrell guy could say he spoke to a woman with a southern accent.

In that moment, she decided.

She said, ‘Accents blur into one until you reach the Midwest.’

‘Truth. Anyway, these rounds are nine-millimeter Luger. Common as dirt, which is good news for you, because half the pistols in this case will eat them all day long.’ Darrell set the round down and waddled out from behind the register. ‘Now, if you’re new to this, I’d go for something classic. You want something that doesn’t fight you on the recoil, so you can’t go wrong with Smith & Wesson.’

‘Smith & Wesson. I’ve heard the name. Are they simple to use? I don’t want anything too technical.’ Even for an actress of her caliber, Lindsey Doyle could barely keep from laughing. She could pull apart and reassemble every pistol in this room with her eyes shut.

‘Oh yeah. They’re as American as Chinese food.’ Darrell unlocked a cabinet and took out a Smith & Wesson M&P Shield Plus. ‘This beauty is the same caliber as what you brought me, and it’s built for a hand that isn’t the size of a dinner plate. Here, get your palms around this.’

Lindsey took it and tested its weight, as though she’d never held one before. ‘Wow. It’s pretty light.’

‘Or maybe you’re just strong. Steel guns feel like they mean business, but they’ll wear your wrist out by round fifty. Have you never fired before?’

‘Hardly. I went clay target shooting once.’

‘Ha. Big difference. Go on. Dry fire it.’

She pointed it at the mat and let the trigger break under her finger. ‘Oh, wow. Easy as that?’

'Yeah, shooting's the easy part. It's the rest that can get confusing. You want me to teach you how to load?' Darrell went to take the gun back, but Lindsey pulled her hand away.

‘Would you mind if I tried? I learn better with my hands.’

‘Be my guest.’

He turned to reach a box of snap caps off the shelf behind him, and in the four seconds his back was turned, Lindsey thumbed the magazine free, pressed two live rounds down into it from the six she’d laid on the counter, and seated it back into the grip with a click no louder than the one before it.

‘There. That wasn’t so hard.’ She held it up, and Darrell turned back around with the snap caps in hand and found himself staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. She transposed Ella Dark’s face onto the old man in front of her – and aimed right for his heart.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The car park at the Turner Memorial had a barrier arm painted yellow and black, and a sign underneath it that said SECURE FACILITY: AUTHORIZED VEHICLES ONLY. Turner Memorial ran the only secure trauma ward in the district equipped to hold a federal inmate who needed more than a county infirmary could offer. This was for criminals who’d been shot, stabbed, strangled, or, in last night’s case, driven into a nineteenth-century torture device.

Ripley found a parking spot, then turned to her partner.

‘There’s a problem here, Dark. We’re going to interview a man who can’t talk.’

Ella had been waiting for such a comment to rear its head. She’d been hoping that Ripley wouldn’t be fazed by Simon Varro’s disability because she had a creative way of excavating information from a mute. Alas, it seems she did not.

‘Luckily, I came prepared.’

‘What did you bring, a voicebox?’