G Is for Gumshoe

against the wall. I had grabbed my handbag and was just reaching for my gun when Mark Messinger appeared, his own gun drawn and pointed at me. The suppressor created the illusion of a barrel fourteen inches long.
    This time there was no smile, no aura of sexuality. His blond hair stood out around his head in damp spikes. His blue eyes were as cold and as blank as stone. Patrick had turned, heading toward the front door in haste. Messinger fired at him casually, not even pausing long enough to form an intent, the shooting as simple as pointing a finger. Spwt! The sound of the silenced.45 semiautomatic was almost dainty compared to its effect. The force of the bullet drove Patrick into the wall where he bounced once before he fell. Blood and torn flesh bloomed in his chest like a chrysanthemum, shreds of cotton shirting like the calyx of a flower. I was staring at him mesmerized when Messinger grabbed me by the hair, hauling my face up within an inch of his. He shoved the barrel of his gun under my chin, pressing so hard it hurt. I wanted to protest the pain of it, but I didn't dare move. "Don't shoot me!"
    "Where's Eric?" he breathed.
    "I don't know."
    "You're going to help me get him back.'
    Fear had pierced my chest wall like splinters. All the adrenaline was coursing upward to my brain, driving out thought. I had a brief image of Dietz with Rochelle Messinger. They'd evidently succeeded in plucking the kid from his father's grasp. I could smell chlorine from the swimming pool, mingled with Messinger's breath. He probably couldn't take his gun to the pool without calling attention to himself. I pictured him in the water, Eric on the side just waiting to jump in. If his mother appeared, he'd have run straight to her with a shriek of joy. By now they were probably barreling out to the airport. The plane had been chartered for nine to allow time for the snatch. I willed the thought away. Made my mind blank.
    Messinger slapped me across the face hard, setting up a ringing in my head. I was dead. I wouldn't get out of this one alive. He shoved me toward the back door, kicking a chair out of my path. I caught sight of Ernie, the old guy, shuffling toward the kitchen. His expression was perplexed, especially when he spotted Patrick on the floor with the corsage of blood pinned to the center of his chest. Mark Messinger turned and pointed the gun at the old man.
    "Oh don't!" I burbled. My voice sounded strange, high-pitched and hoarse. I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for the spwt! I looked back. The old fellow had pivoted and was shuffling away in panic. I could hear his howls echo down the hall, as frail and helpless as a child's. Messinger watched him retreat, indecision flickering in his eyes. He lost interest and turned his attention back to me. "Get the car keys."
    I saw the bag where I'd dropped it on the floor near the phone. I pointed, temporarily unable to speak. I longed for my gun.
    "We'll take my car. You drive."
    He grabbed me by the head and buried his grip in my hair again, propelling me with a fury that made me cry out in fear.
    "Shut up," he whispered. His face was close to mine as we descended the back stairs. I stumbled, grabbing at the rail with my right hand for balance. My heel slipped off the stair and I nearly went down. I thought he'd pull all my hair out, effectively scalping me with his closed fist, which held me like a vise. I couldn't look down, couldn't move my head to either side. I could feel the gravel driveway underfoot. I proceeded like a blind woman, hands out, using senses other than sight. The car was parked in the drive near the shed. I wondered briefly if a neighbor would spot our clumsy progress. Nearly dark now. In my mind's eye, I could see Rochelle's face. Please be on the plane, I thought. Please be in the air. Take Dietz with you forever and keep him somewhere safe. I pictured his impatience, his intensity. I willed him into a taxi, drove him away from the danger. I couldn't save him, couldn't even save myself this time around. Messinger yanked open the door on the passenger side and pushed me across the front seat. He was driving a yellow Rolls-Royce: walnut dashboard, leather upholstery.
    "Start the car," he said. He got in after me, crowding close. He placed the barrel of the gun against my temple. He was breathing hard, his tension concentrated in his grip on the gun. If he shot me, I wouldn't feel it. I'd be dead before the pain could travel along my nerve ends and get