F Is for Fugitive

conversationally. "All I have to do is pull the trigger and claim trespass."
    "And then what?"
    "You tell me."
    I hadn't quite worked the whole story out, but I knew enough to make a flying guess. Why you have chats with killers in circumstances like these is because you hope against hope you can (1) talk them out of it, (2) stall until help arrives, or (3) enjoy a few more moments of this precious commodity we call life, which consists (in large part) of breathing in and out. Hard to do with your lungs blown out your back.
    "Well," said I, hoping to make a short story long, "I figure once your daddy dies and you unload this place, you'll take the proceeds, add them to the profits from the forty-two thou you stole, and sail off into the sunset. Possibly with Dwight Shales, or so you hope."
    "And why not?"
    "Why not, indeed? Sounds like a great plan. Does he know about it yet?"
    "He will," she said.
    "What makes you think he'll agree?"
    "Why wouldn't he? He's free now. And I will be, too, as soon as Pop dies."
    "And you think that constitutes a relationship?" I said, astonished.
    "What do you know about relationships?"
    "Hey, I've been married twice. That's more than you can say."
    "You're divorced. You don't know dick."
    I had to shrug at that.
    "I bet Jean was sorry she confided in you."
    "Very. At the end, she put up quite a fight."
    "But you won."
    "I had to. I couldn't have her ruining Dwight's life."
    "Assuming it was his," I said.
    "The babe? Of course it was."
    "Oh great. No problem, then. You're completely justified," I said. "Does he know how much you've done for him?"
    "That's our little secret. Yours and mine."
    "How did you know where Shana would be Wednesday night?"
    "Simple. I followed her."
    "But why kill the woman?"
    "Same reason I'm going to kill you. For screwing Dwight."
    "She was going up there to meet Joe Dunne," I said. "Neither one of us screwed Dwight."
    "Bullshit!"
    "It's not bullshit. He's a nice enough guy, but he's not my type. He told me himself he and Shana were just friends. It was strictly platonic. They hadn't even screwed once!"
    "You liar. You think I don't know what's been going on? You sashay into town and start coming , on to him, riding around in his car, having cozy dinners..."
    "Ann, we were talking. That's all it was."
    "Nobody's going to get in my way, Kinsey. Not after all I've been through. I've worked too hard and waited too long. I've sacrificed my entire adult life, and you're not going to spoil things now that I'm almost free."
    "Well, listen, Ann... if I may say so, you're as crazy as a bug. No offense, but you are looney-tunes, completely cuckoo-nuts." I was just making mouth noises while I thought about my gun. My little Davis was still in the holster tucked up against my left breast. What I wanted to do was take it out and plug her right between the eyes – or someplace fatal. But here's the way I figured it. By the time I reached up under my turtleneck, snatched the gun out, pointed it, and fired, that shotgun of hers would have taken off my face. And how was I going to get the gun, feign a heart attack? I didn't think she'd fall for it. My eyes had adjusted to the dark, and since I could see her perfectly, I had to guess she could see me just as well.
    "Mind if I turn off the penlight? I hate to use up the batteries," I said. The beam was pointed at the ceiling, and my arms were getting tired. Probably hers, too. A shotgun like that weighs a good seven pounds – not easy to hold steady, even if you're used to lifting weights.
    "Just stay where you are and don't move."
    "Wow, that's just what Elva said."
    Ann reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. She looked worse in the light. She had a mean face, I could see that now. The slightly receding chin made her look like a rat. The shotgun was a twelve-gauge, over-and-under, and she seemed to know which end did the hurt.
    Dimly, I became aware of a shuffling sound in the hall. Royce. When had he come upstairs? "Ann? Aw, Annie, I found some pictures of your mother I thought you'd like. Can I come in?"
    I saw her eyes flick toward the door. "I'll be down in a minute, Pop. We can look at them then."
    Too late. He had pushed the door open, peering in. He had a photograph album in his arms, and his face held such innocence. His eyes seemed very blue. His lashes were sparse, still wet from his tears, his nose red. Gone was the gruffness, the arrogance, the dominance. His illness had made him frail, and Ori's death had