The Husband

in a pocket of his jeans. He slid the pistol under the driver's seat.
    From the glove box, he retrieved John Knox's wallet. Using the dead man's money pricked his conscience, but he had no choice. His own wallet had been taken from him in Julian Campbell's library. He took the entire $585 and returned the wallet to the glove box.
    He got out into the wind, locked the car, and went into the gun shop. The word shop seemed inadequate for such a large store. There were aisles and aisles of gun-related paraphernalia.
    At the long cashier's counter, he got help from a large man with a walrus mustache. His name tag identified him as ROLAND.
    "A Springfield Champion," Roland said. "That's a stainless-steel version of a Colt Commander, isn't it?"
    Mitch had no clue if it was or not, but he suspected that Roland knew his stuff. "That's right."
    "Beveled magazine well, throated barrel, a lowered and flared ejection port all come standard."
    "It's a sweet gun," Mitch said, hoping people actually talked that way. "I want three extra magazines. For target shooting."
    He added the last three words because it seemed that most people wouldn't have a use for spare magazines unless they were planning to knock over a bank or take potshots at people from a clock tower.
    Roland appeared not in the least suspicious. "Did you go for Springfield's whole Super Tuned package?"
    Remembering the words engraved near the muzzle, Mitch said, "Yes. The whole package."
    "Any further customization?"
    "No," Mitch guessed.
    "You didn't bring the gun? I'd feel better if I could see it."
    Incorrectly, Mitch had thought if he carried a pistol into the store, he'd look like a shoplifter or a stickup artist or something.
    "I've got this." He put the magazine on the counter.
    "I'd rather have the gun, but let's see if we can work with this."
    Five minutes later, Mitch had paid for three magazines and a box of one hundred .45 ACP cartridges.
    Throughout the transaction, he had expected alarm bells to go off. He felt suspected, watched, and known for what he was. Clearly, his nerves didn't have the tensile strength required of a fugitive from the law.
    As he was about to leave the shop, he looked through the glass door and saw a police cruiser in the parking lot, blocking his car. A cop stood at the driver's door, peering into the locked Honda.

Chapter 59

     
    On second look, Mitch realized that the driver's door of the cruiser wasn't emblazoned with the seal of a city but with the name—First Enforcement—and ornate logo of a private-security firm. The uniformed man at the Honda must be a security guard, not a police officer.
    Nevertheless, the Honda would be of interest to him only if he knew an all-points bulletin had been put out for it. Evidently this guy did listen to a police scanner.
    The guard left his car athwart the Honda and approached the gun shop. He appeared purposeful.
    He had most likely stopped to do some personal business and had lucked onto the Honda. Now he was psyched up for a citizen's arrest and a taste of glory.
    A real cop would have called for backup before coming into the store. Mitch supposed he should be grateful for getting even that much of a break.
    The parking lot wrapped two sides of the freestanding building, and there were two entrances. Mitch backed away from this door and headed quickly for the other.
    He left by the side exit and hurried to the front of the store. The security guard had gone inside.
    Mitch was alone in the wind. Not for long. He sprinted to the Honda.
    The First Enforcement car trapped him. The back of the parking space featured a steel-pipe safety barrier atop a six-inch concrete curb because, from the lot, the land sloped steeply down six feet to a sidewalk.
    No good. No way out. He would have to abandon the Honda.
    He unlocked the driver's door and retrieved the Springfield Champion .45 from under the seat.
    As he closed the car door, somebody coming out of the gun shop drew his attention. Not the security guard.
    He popped the trunk and snatched the white plastic trash bag from the wheel well. He put the pistol and the gun-shop purchases with the money, twisted the neck of the bag, closed the trunk, and walked away.
    After passing behind five parked vehicles, he stepped between two SUVs. He peered in each, hoping one of the drivers had left the keys in the ignition, but he wasn't lucky.
    He walked briskly—did not run—diagonally across the blacktop, toward the side of the building from which he