She picked up his passport and took a picture of the front page.
“Now, Mr. Lemerov, Mr. Shaw swore out an affidavit that he observed you in possession of a firearm. The one right there?”
Shaw nodded.
“He’s lying!”
“There are photos of you with the weapon, attached to the affidavit.”
Lenny Caster was quite the artist with the Canon.
Stahl pulled on latex gloves, unloaded the weapon, locked it open and then read the serial number to Gillespie, who typed into her phone.
A moment later: “Sir, you’re in possession of a stolen firearm.”
“No, no! I bought legally. Private sale. I know about Second Amendment.”
“So you admit you purchased the gun.”
Maybe he was thinking he should have said “found.” He licked his lips.
“Apart from the gun’s status, do you have a valid hunting permit or sports participation certificate?”
Silence again.
“Well, sir, then you don’t meet the requirements of 27 Code of Federal Regulations Section 178.97, regarding nonimmigrant aliens possessing firearms.” She read him his Miranda rights.
“I want lawyer.”
And his Coca-Cola, Shaw couldn’t help but think.
“You’ll have one.” Stahl placed the Russian’s possessions in evidence bags.
They led him toward the door, each gripping one arm.
He called over his shoulder, “You like boxing? I like boxing. You never know how end. Seem all wonderful, round one and round two. Then, bang, and there’s knockout.
“So. One and two to you. But don’t pat back too fast, Mr. Colter Shaw. More rounds to come. More rounds to come...”
39
Allison Parker let the hot shower stream course over her body.
The Sunny Acres motel was a dive but offered two advantages. One, the clerk was willing to forgo ID when an attractive businesswoman, accompanied by her daughter, explained with chagrin — and a handful of cash — that she’d left her billfold at a restaurant on 55, presently closed.
And, two, the water heater was top notch.
She rested her head against the blue tile.
Blue as the wall of the shower rinse-off by the pool, the wall on which the comical or eerie or sensuous white plaster seahorse reared in profile.
It’s November of last year, the fifteenth.
Parker is sitting with coffee, in the kitchen, staring out at the snow, the covered pool. The flakes descend in bright flares through the spotlight that shines over the pool. She stares at the tiny white fireworks. It’s a placid scene and she usually thinks how the blanket of snow covering the backyard is “heartwarming.” She laughs sometimes when she has those contradictory thoughts. Tonight she is only anxious.
Hannah has abandoned the history class project she and Jon were working on earlier, before he rose abruptly and drove off into the night. The girl has gone to bed. It’s eleven. On the glass-topped table, behind Parker, are pieces of metal and plastic, soldering iron and glue gun. She doesn’t know what the project is supposed to be; it was a dad-daughter thing.
Was...
Parker will have to write a note for Ms. Talbott about an extension.
A sip of coffee. Zero taste for it.
Her heart pounds as she hears a thunk from outside, faint but man-made — not the sound of the occasional branch surrendering to the weight of the wet snow.
Walking to a front window, she draws aside the curtain and peers out. Yes, Jon’s truck has overrun the driveway and decked the big blue recycling bin.
She hoped, and yes, prayed, that he simply went for a head-clearing drive.
And now reflects on her searing naivete.
She walks into the living room, stopping to look in on Hannah. Yes, she’s gone to bed but not to sleep. She’s lying back, Beats headset on, staring at her phone, her face illuminated weirdly blue. It’s time for lights out but Parker lets it go. She also thinks it’s a good idea to be deaf to any spousal exchanges this evening, and hopes, contrary to wise parenting, the volume is up nice and fucking high.
Locking the front door, she returns to the kitchen and turns on the light to the side porch. If she’s lucky, he’ll follow the path of least resistance: around the side of the house, through the gate and aim for the kitchen.
Upon intercepting Jon, she will guide him into the bedroom. Maybe a shower, more likely just a fully clothed landing on the bed. Or the floor. It’s carpeted. Once, he collapsed on the driveway and once on the garage concrete, waking with nothing worse than a muscle ache. Apparently in their altered state, drunks often fall soft and limber.
The front doorknob turns, once, then again. He doesn’t pound. She sees his form moving through the snow in the direction she’d hoped, drawn by the lights. A back entrance will get him straight to bed without going past Hannah’s room. Had he come in through the front he might stick his head in to see her and ramble or puke.
Another thud, then a crash. He’s bypassed the garage — the code usually defeats him — and he’s tripped over the garbage.
She moves quickly now. Any more noise and, if Hannah has de-headphoned, she’ll come out to investigate. And that will be difficult — for Parker herself. Hannah tends to be sad about her father and mad at her mother.
Now through the sliding patio doors. The cold stings and she thinks about a sweater, but it’s too late. Jon’s weaving through the pool fence gate and along the patio. He’s fallen somewhere and there’s a gash on his head. The blood is dark and crusted.
She walks to him.
“Don’t start,” he mutters.
“You’re hurt.”
“You don’t care. You never care.”
You can’t counter word for word, thought for thought. It doesn’t work that way.
The best course is to distract and deflect.
His hair is wild, his clothes disheveled. He rages, “Did you call him tonight?”
“Be careful. There’s ice.”
“Oh, be careful,” he mocks. He seems to think of better words to sling, but then they sail away.
The scent of the whisky is powerful. Jon once told her that he could tell how much a driver had had to drink by the scent. He could predict the Breathalyzer result with uncanny accuracy.
They are standing in the drift gathering on the pool deck beside the seahorse relief. She shivers as the flares of snowflakes dot her head. It’s twenty degrees, Alexa has reported.
“Where is she?” He stares through the door at the table, where sit Hannah’s notebook and parts for the history project. “What were you saying to her tonight? Turning her against me. You do that!”
“Jon, please. Just stop.” She says these words instinctively. They will have zero effect. Like always. He doesn’t hear them. So what is the point? But she can’t help herself.
He stumbles to the back of the garage and pukes.
If only it could purge his system. But it never does, of course. That’s not how the physiology works.
He stumbles back. “I know what you do. I know what you’ve told people about me. I’ve heard. You go to those parties and I know what you say. What you really think of me. You think I don’t know?” He frowns. “You think I don’t know what you’ve told her about me? She—” He hesitates, as if he’s forgotten his own daughter’s name. “I’m going to tell her. She deserves—”