″There was something wrong in the way he freaked out about Jana′s purse,″ I told him. ″I know the kid′s a dopehead and he didn′t want the cops coming over, but his response was way over the top. He practically broke my wrist. Can you check him out?″
″Sure thing. He sounds like a punk.″
Fish had left by the time a package arrived on the porch for me Thursday morning. Carefully wrapped in brown paper and twine, the box was small but surprisingly heavy, as if it contained metal ball bearings. Or maybe electronics. It was from my dad.
A neon red label on the outside said:
CAUTION
DANGER OF ELECTRICAL SHOCK IF PACKAGE IS
OPENED BY UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL
HANDLE WITH EXTREME CARE
CONTAINS EMD TECHNOLOGY COMPONENTS
Next to that sobering warning, another sticker depicted a jagged bolt of electricity.
What in the world? I wondered as I carried the box inside and set it on the kitchen counter.
I dug through my memory, trying to recall what my dad had said earlier this week about what he was sending to me. Something about a radio, I seemed to recall. Or maybe some kind of solar appliance. An earthquake kit-that was it.
Using my pocketknife, I cut through the cord.
Inside the box, a note lay on top of a layer of Styrofoam peanuts:
Kate,
The enclosed device is legal in your state, so don′t worry. It′s not lethal, but you′ll find that it is a very effective defense against any assailant. You′ll need to practice a bit to get the hang of this type of weapon. I′ve sent you the model that′s used by police and the military. Please be sure to carry it with you at all times.
And be careful out there!
Love, Dad
Underneath the peanuts was a smaller box with the label ELECTRO-MUSCULAR DISRUPTION DEVICE. Inside was a strange, futuristic-looking gun. Not a firearm-it was a Taser weapon, better known as a stun gun.
It was covered in a black-and-white zebra-striped pattern.
Obviously this must be the women′s model, I thought, turning it over gingerly in my hands. Unless maybe the stripes were supposed to confuse predators in tall savannah grass.
The gun came with an instructional DVD. I popped it into my laptop and watched it intently.
Instead of a long barrel, the firing end of the stun gun was a bulky black box. When you wanted to fire the weapon, you released a safety latch. Then a laser beam enabled you to aim exactly where you wanted to fire a pair of electric probes. The probes delivered a jolt of fifteen joules of electricity-enough to incapacitate an attacker and leave him dazed but cause no permanent damage.
The optimal range for firing was seven feet. The probes-barblike metal prongs attached to wires-would deliver a stunning jolt to an assailant. The electric charge was supposed to work through clothing. The police version that my dad had sent me was stronger than the typical consumer version-supposedly it would work even through body armor. My dad had thoughtfully included two leather holsters-one for wearing underclothing, the other for attaching inside a purse.
Wow.
Never before had I been willing to carry any kind of gun. The idea of toting a firearm had always been anathema to me. My father and I had spent endless family meals arguing over the subject.
But times changed. The encounter with the intruder the night before had just succeeded where years of arguments from my dad had failed.
Standing now in front of my bathroom mirror, I assumed a shooting stance.
″You talkin′ to me?″ I did my best Travis Bickle pose from Taxi Driver, taking aim at an imaginary assailant.
Then I lowered it. The idea of toting around a Tom-Swiftian electric popgun for personal protection seemed bizarre in the extreme. Especially when the gun in question looked like a zebra-striped water pistol. Any assailant worth his bad-guy chops would probably bust out laughing at sight of the thing.
That would lower an assailant′s guard and give you an advantage in a fight, the little voice in my head said.
I shoved the stun gun in the leather holster and snapped it onto my purse.
It slid right in.
Chapter 38
Fake Advantage
Here′s a bit of trickery. When you′re applying fake lashes, use black glue for the lashes, not clear. The black glue will blend in and look like eyeliner.
– From The Little Book of Beauty Secrets by Mimi Morgan
″Has anyone ever told you that you′re incredibly beautiful, Kate?″
″Incredibly beautiful? Let′s see. Yes. A guy at a bar said that to me once-right before he passed out.″
″I′m serious.″ Medina smiled at me from the other end of the canoe we were paddling.
″I′m serious, too. The bouncers had to drag him out of the bar by his ankles.″
Medina and I were making our way across Harmony Pond, a charming urban oasis tucked at the edge of Durham. A rattan picnic box rested on the floor of the canoe between us, waiting to be unpacked. This was our first date, and I was so nervous I was ready to jump ship.
″Why does my saying you′re beautiful embarrass you so much?″ Medina continued. ″I′m sure men must tell you that all the time.″
I′m sure they didn′t. But what was more embarrassing at that moment was that I′d just felt my end of the canoe scrape bottom. How unharmonius. If we ran aground and had to portage our way back to the docks, I′d be so humiliated, I′d have to drown myself in the pond scum.
We finally made it to a small man-made island and disembarked. The center of the island featured a set of rounded granite steps. At the top of the steps sat a small-scale replica of a Greek temple.
Medina looked up at the temple, then at me. ″Okay, so maybe the temple′s a little hokey, but what incredible light. Wouldn′t the French Impressionists have loved this spot? And they would have loved to paint you standing in it, I might add.″
″I can see Seurat doing that temple in that wonderful pointillism style of his. A bucolic urban island.″
″All we′d need is a parasol for you and a top hat for me.″
″And Seurat. We′d need him, of course.″
Medina gave me a delighted grin. ″So now that I know you like art, I have to try to trip you up,″ he said. ″Let′s go a little further back in time.″
Pointing up the stairs at the temple, he said, ″Are those Ionic, Corinthian, or Doric columns up there on our Greek temple?″
I studied them for a moment. ″They′re none of the above, Professor Pop Quiz,″ I finally said. ″They′re Chirons-a mixture of those styles. The temple′s architect put a proverbial man′s head on a horse′s body.″
″Where′d you learn all that? In college?″
″Wellesley. There′s still some value in a liberal arts education, no matter what those MIT frat boys say. Where′d you study art?″
″Oh, I′ve been a lifelong appreciator of everything aesthetic,″ he said, letting his gaze linger on my face. ″Especially the human aesthetic. ″
″Is that how you wound up going into plastic surgery?″
″I got my start in middle school,″ he said. ″Helping my older sister do her makeup for dates. I believe my mom thought I was gay until I started hitting on my sister′s girlfriends.″
″How′d you make out with the older-woman crowd, if you don′t mind my asking?″
″I love your asking, in fact. I did fantastic.″
Flexing his fingers he said, ″I developed this insane neck-rub technique. If you don′t mind a professional brag, by age twelve my neck rubs were far superior to anything you can get in some chiroquack′s office. I practiced on our dog until I got it down pat. My sister′s friends loved my neck jobs so much, they used to pay me fifty cents for five minutes. That′s where I first started training the muscles in my surgeon′s fingers, by putting the moves on the girls of Morris Township, New Jersey.″