Maybe he was doing one now. He moved past the desk to the glass-fronted gun cabinet. It was unlocked, as it always had been: No one in this house had ever been careless around guns, there’d been no need for locks or safety devices.
After a hesitation more mental than physical, Runyan opened the cabinet and reached in and took out a leather case. He carried it over to the desk, unzipped it, and almost ritualistically brought out the two halves of a broken-down 12-gauge double-barrelled shotgun. Someone had crudely sawed off the barrels to make them several inches shorter than legal length.
That removed the last doubt, although he’d already been morally certain. Who else still alive and free had known about his Bush Street address where the second shotgun attack had taken place?
He snapped the two halves of the shotgun together, then broke it at the breech to expose the chambers, laid it down on the desk, and went back to the cabinet to bring back a box of 12-gauge double-oh shells. About half the shells were missing. He took out two of them. Stood with them in his hand, thoughts, memories, and emotions running through his head.
The sound of raised voices from downstairs dimly penetrated the thick floor of the room. He started slightly, dragged back from his reverie.
“Goddammit, Art, let go of me!”
She had tried to leave, but he had grabbed her from behind and spun her around. He started kissing her, smearing his face against hers, seeking her tongue with his. His mouth smelled of the cigars he smoked.
“C’mon, baby, one last go for old times’ sake...”
She twisted and raged and broke free, face flushed with anger and effort. “Jesus,” she exclaimed, “to think I ever—”
Art backhanded her across the face, a full-arm vicious swipe that knocked her right to her knees. She stayed there a moment, as a fighter who has been knocked down will stay there for the mandatory eight-count.
Then she picked herself up, warily — frightened more of his thoughts than of anything else. He believed Runyan had gotten the diamonds and that she had gotten part of the action. If he tried to extract her nonexistent share from her... But as he bulked over her threateningly, there was only sarcasm in her voice.
“Terrific! Hold that pose! This is just the way I want to remember you!”
Art said in a low enraged voice, “Sure, you’ll fuck my brother any time he’ll have you, but since I don’t have a stash of diamonds to hold you...” He burst out, “You were there because I sent you, for Chrissake! You never heard of the diamonds until...”
He stopped because she had started to laugh: genuine, delighted peals of laughter.
“Everybody has been after the diamonds ever since Runyan got out of prison,” she said. “But someone built a subdivision over them. The diamonds don’t exist any more.”
Even as she said it, she regretted it. No telling what sort of rage that would arouse in him. Art had never been long on ironies. But to her amazement, he started to guffaw, his heavy laughter so delighted there could almost have been an edge of hysteria in it.
“You’re taking it well,” she said flatly.
“No, the joke... the joke’s on you. And on Runyan.” He laughed again. “The fucker’s dead.”
Louise felt herself stagger, almost fall, as if he had struck her again so swiftly and unexpectedly that she did not feel the blow, only its aftereffects.
“What are you telling me?” she exclaimed. “Goddamn you, what are you saying to me?”
“That he killed me,” said Runyan’s voice. “With this shotgun.”
They whirled toward him. He was standing at the foot of the stairs, cradling the cocked and ready sawed-off shotgun in the crook of his left arm.
Art, ashen-faced, began backing away, hands raised to shoulder-height. He tried a sickly smile.
“Hey, Runyan, look, I can explain...”
Louise felt dead, frozen inside. Now Runyan knew it alclass="underline" about her and Art. That it was his brother who had schemed to take the diamonds from him. She had let Moyers drive her away for nothing. She should have stayed, let him do his worst. Now it was too late. Now there was too much that was bitter between them to ever...
But she didn’t understand, either, what Runyan had said. That Art was the shotgunner who had tried to murder him?
“Twice,” said Runyan. “The first time was straight economics — he thought I was dumb enough to be running around with the diamonds on me. He called you off so you wouldn’t know. But he missed, so he had to send you back in.” He turned to Art with a sardonic smile. “The second time you shot the wrong guy.”
Art had backed slowly away across the room until he touched the credenza against the far wall.
“He... he knew the Bush Street address,” said Louise haltingly. “That’s where he sent me the second time...”
“He sent me money there.” He turned back to Art. “But why the second time, Art?” He asked it as if he really wanted to know. “Why, when you thought I’d already recovered the diamonds and they were out of your reach anyway? Was it just simple frustration? Doesn’t seem much of a reason to kill someone.”
“He needed the money to stay out of jail,” said Louise.
Even as she spoke, she knew there was more to it than that. So did Runyan. He advanced on Art as if stirred to anger by his own recital of the facts.
“Or was it because of Louise?”
In his own way, she knew, Art had loved her. To lose her to his younger brother after a lifetime of...
Runyan slightly raised the cocked shotgun, then the tension seemed to go out of him. He set it down on the dining table without even bothering to uncock it.
“To hell with it.” To Louise, he said, “I just came back hoping to find you here anyway. And maybe to say goodbye to the old place. I’ve said it. So let’s go.”
The final weight of guilt lifted from her spirit. They knew everything about each other now — and neither of them cared. It was just what he had said: The world had started turning when the two of them had come together.
He put his arm around her shoulder and turned her toward the front door. Behind them, ignored, Art started to inch toward the forgotten shotgun.
“I want to go to Vegas and be an exotic dancer,” Runyan said. “Ostrich feathers and mesh stockings and bare boobs...”
They both started to laugh, almost to the front door. Behind them, Art leaped forward and snatched up the already cocked shotgun. Runyan turned, half-laughing.
“You aren’t going to do anything with that, Art. It’s over. We’ve all lost out on the diamonds. It’s all over.”
But Art panted disjointedly, “You broke in... shot her... I struggled with you... got the gun away... shot you...”
“Don’t be a fool, Art,” he said. “You saved my life when you shot Moyers. You didn’t mean to, but you did. So you go your way, we’ll go ours—”
Louise thrust herself forward. “Art, for God’s sake—”
“In the back, through the window shade, that’s your style,” said Runyan. “You don’t have the balls for this, Art.”
For answer, Art jerked both triggers of the shotgun at pointblank range. As Louise cringed back with a shriek, eyes squeezed tight shut, the hammers fell on empty chambers. She opened her eyes, stunned. Runyan was standing there just looking at Art almost sadly.
“I didn’t think you really would do it, Art,” he said. “Not face-to-face like this. For no reason at all.” He turned away. “But just in case, I didn’t put any shells in it.”
Runyan slid in behind the wheel of the Toyota. Louise was rummaging in her purse for the keys, her actions almost frenzied.
“You don’t understand,” she exclaimed, “he hates you, he’s always hated you.”
She handed him the keys. Runyan inserted one into the ignition with maddening deliberation. “He just used up all his hate. Even if they do indict him, his lawyers’ll—”