Stork Raving Mad: A Meg Langslow Mystery (A Meg Lanslow Mystery)

gun lifted, but only to the level of my belly.
    A wave of rage surged through me and I suddenly knew the answer to one of those philosophical questions the students were so fond of debating. Was I capable of killing another human being? Yes, in a heartbeat. At least this particular excuse for a human being. Maybe I wouldn’t have felt that way if he’d kept that gun aimed at my head. But there it was, pointing at my twins, and if the sheer force of my anger had any power to touch him, he’d already be lying in small bloody pieces on the ground.
    Just wishing him dead wasn’t going to work, though. I’d have to figure out a way to make it happen.
    “Move!” he said.
    “Move where?”
    “None of your business. You’ll find out when you drive me there.”
    Like hell was I driving him anywhere. I looked around for a weapon. Nothing but the chair farm and the forest of coatracks and coat trees, all of them draped with wraps. Could I throw a coat over him and smother him to death? Or at least immobilize him long enough to get my hands around his throat?
    “My coat’s upstairs,” I said. “I should—”
    “Just borrow someone’s,” he said.
    “If I can find one to fit me,” I said, grumbling. I pretended to consider and discard a couple of coats on one of the racks. “Maybe Rose Noire’s cape.”
    I moved on to a large, ornate Victorian coat tree, as if expecting to find the cape there. As my hand touched the sturdy oak upright portion of the tree, I faked another contraction. I figured I knew what the real thing was like now and could do a better job of faking. I grabbed the coat tree as if for support, and as I pretended to hunch over in agony, I turned so I was facing Blanco. I could see through my not-quite-closed eyes that he was flinching a bit. Maybe he was reconsidering the wisdom of taking a hostage who was about to turn into three hostages.
    Another wave of laughter from the barn. His eyes flicked toward it, distracted for just a second.
    I grabbed the coat tree by the shaft, heaved its base into the air, and lunged at Blanco, holding it under one arm like a lance.
    “Take that!” I shouted, as it slammed into his solar plexus.
    He doubled over and fell back, landing so hard in one of Michael’s exiled office chairs that it skidded across the polished floor and hit the wall with a thud. No use trying to run away, as slow as I was, so I charged after him, dropping the coat tree on the way.
    He tried to stand up and failed, of course. No one had yet succeeded in escaping the comfy chairs without a strong pushwith both arms, and he was still holding the gun in one hand and his precious envelope in the other.
    By the time he fell back in surprise, I had grabbed his gun arm and was twisting it, as hard as I could, trying to take the gun away. I slipped, landing hard on his lap, knocking the breath out of him.
    “No!” he wheezed. He began pulling the trigger over and over, but I had a good grip on his arm, and the shots fired harmlessly away from us.
    Well, not quite harmlessly. A couple of the students’ coats would probably have holes in them, and one bullet knocked down a big chunk of the plaster we’d recently paid good money for the Shiffleys to repair and paint.
    As soon as I heard the gun click empty, I heaved myself up again.
    Blanco was still struggling to rise, and having trouble because he was still holding the gun. If he dropped it and used both arms, or worse, reloaded, I could be in trouble. Surely someone would have heard the shots by now.
    I fumbled in my pocket. Aha! My flashlight. I grabbed his hand with one of mine and beat on it with the flashlight until his fingers opened and the gun fell out.
    I snagged the gun and stood up, holding it in my right hand and the flashlight in my left. I began backing away, trying to decide if I should run for it. Probably better to find a way to keep him in the chair, since in my current condition I’d have trouble outrunning an elderly snail.
    “Meg? Are you all right?”
    Help was on the way. Deputy Sammy. I could hear his footsteps running up the front walk.
    I pointed the gun at Blanco.
    “That’s stupid,” he said, still a little breathless. “I emptied it while you were attacking me.”
    “Are you sure?” I said.
    I pulled the trigger.
    He flinched as the gun clicked uselessly.
    “Ah, well,” I said.
    Just then the front door burst open, and Sammy strode in, holding his gun at the ready.
    “Stand back, Meg,” he said.