The decision to rebel was the hardest he’d ever been forced to make.
He felt hollow inside.
Desolate.
But he knew this-a man forced to sacrifice so much must do his damnedest to get the job done.
He sucked in a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and turned away from a display of various trinkets emblazoned with NRA-approved slogans. The morbidly obese man in red suspenders behind the register at the checkout counter eyed him with obvious suspicion. Raymond forced his mouth to form something that may have resembled a smile. And he stood there. Still not moving. The big man still watching him, slowly moving a green toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other. The store was nearly empty this time of day. Raymond had actually been counting on that. But now he was wishing he had come at a busier time. Now he wanted nothing more than to blend in with a crowd. To be anonymous. What if this man was in cahoots with Lamia?
Was he paranoid?
Maybe.
But that didn’t mean it wasn’t true.
Raymond approached the counter and coughed. “I would like to purchase a firearm.”
The man behind the register smirked around his toothpick. “Didn’t figure you were here for milk and cookies,” the man said in a slow redneck drawl. He removed the toothpick and noisily sucked moisture from the corners of his mouth. “Whatcha lookin’ for?”
“Excuse me?”
The man made a sound that might have been a laugh or a grunt of contempt. “What I mean is, do you need something for protection or…” He hesitated, smirked. “Or something to hunt with?”
Raymond cleared his throat and stepped closer to the counter. “Hunting.”
“No shit.”
Raymond leaned over the counter, dropped his voice an octave. “I would like to buy a handgun and some type of shotgun, something with serious stopping power. The best you’ve got. Price is not an issue.”
“Mister, have you ever fired a gun in your life? Because, no offense, but-”
Raymond’s face reddened as he bristled at the man’s questions. “Is this not a place of business? Do you regularly interrogate potential customers? Because if you don’t want my money, I’m sure-”
“Now hold on, don’t get yourself all riled up.” The big man grinned. “I don’t mind takin’ your money. Was just curious, is all. Let me show you some stuff.”
The big man showed him an array of handguns and shotguns. He spent a lot of time extolling the relative virtues of each piece. Most of the finer points went over Raymond’s head. There was something else he’d been thinking about and while he listened to the man talk he tried to work up the nerve to broach the subject.
To his relief, the man went there for him. “’Course, you know there’s a waiting period. Federal law.”
Raymond struggled to keep his face blank as he said, “I’ve, uh, heard…”
The man grinned, showing him a lot of yellow, uneven teeth. “This here’s the South, son. Federal laws are made to be broken, you know that. We can negotiate. I get the feeling you’re wanting these here hunting weapons sooner rather than later. Am I right?”
Raymond swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“Thought so.” The clerk grinned again. “I’ll have to sell you something that ain’t from official stock. And you’ll have to pay cash. A lot of it. That a problem?”
This was a point Raymond had anticipated. He’d fattened his wallet with a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills prior to coming here. “Not at all.”
“Good.” The man put his fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly. “Roscoe! Cover the register while I talk to this man in back.”
A big, bearded behemoth of a man emerged from an aisle and approached the register. He looked like a younger version of the the clerk. Father and son, Raymond had no doubt. “Got it, Pa.”
The older man fished a fresh toothpick from his shirt pocket and wedged it in his mouth. “Good boy.” He looked at Raymond. “Now let’s do some business.”
Raymond followed him to the rear of the store, where they stepped through a door, through a room stacked with boxes, and then through another door.
Raymond’s jaw dropped. Then he closed his mouth and let out a low whistle. “My God…”
The clerk chuckled.
Raymond squinted as he moved deeper into the room. “Jesus…is that a…a bazooka?”
The man clapped a hand on his shoulder. “That, son, is a shoulder-mounted AT-7 antitank weapon.”
“I’ll take it.”
Some of the gun seller’s good humor evaporated. “Ain’t for sale. I may skirt the law a lot of ways, but selling heavy artillery’s a good way to wind up in the slam for a long stretch of years. Besides, you could be with Al Qaeda or some other batch of assholes. Nah, that sucker’s just for show. But looky here, I got some good stuff…”
Thirty minutes later Raymond Slater exited GUN CITY USA thousands of dollars poorer and in possession of the first firearms he’d ever owned, a Glock 9mm and a Mossberg pump-action shotgun. He’d also purchased several boxes of ammunition for both weapons. After stowing his booty in the trunk of the Lexus, he sat behind the wheel of the car for several minutes as he considered what to do next.
He was exhausted. It was possible he wasn’t thinking straight. The night before he’d watched his mistress decapitate his wife while his dick was still inside her. It was the sort of thing that would unhinge any man. By all rights, he should be a gibbering, useless mess, but here he was, a man on a mission. A man with murder on his mind.
So now he asked himself: Can I really do this?
But he’d been around the block with that one countless times and knew the answer.
I have to.
I have no choice.
If not me, then who?
Never in his life had Raymond Slater felt so alone. It wasn’t fair. This burden was more than any one human being should have to shoulder.
And yet…
I have no choice.
“Fuck!” He pounded the steering wheel with his fist several times, each blow punctuated with another curse: “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
Then his fist missed the wheel and glanced off the horn pad, producing a single loud squawk. He winced and looked at the storefront. The big man-the older one-was behind the register again. At the sound of the horn he turned away from another customer and stared straight at Raymond. Raymond’s heart skipped a beat. If the man had any doubts about the wisdom of doing business with him, those doubts had likely edged closer to certainty. Raymond didn’t think the man would call the cops. That would mean at least as much trouble for him as it would for Raymond. Still, putting some distance between himself and the man’s suspicious eyes was probably a supremely excellent idea.
He started the Lexus and reached for the gearshift.
A knock at the driver’s-side window startled him.
Raymond let out a little squeak and reached for his chest. “Jesus!”
His heart slamming, he turned and saw Cindy Wells staring down at him through the closed window. She smiled and waved. The smile looked grotesque beneath her bandaged nose. Dark sunglasses obscured her eyes. The shades hid a dark shiner inflicted by the thing pretending to be a teenage girl named Myra Lewis. The thought sent a chill through Raymond. He believed in coincidence, but he did not believe in capital-C Coincidence. This was just too much. The idea that Cindy was now allied with Lamia struck him with sudden force and unassailable certainty. Rockville High’s expelled golden girl wouldn’t just happen to be outside a gun shop at the exact moment he was leaving the place.
She was following him.
Keeping tabs on him.
Raymond’s throat tightened. For a few tense moments, he saw all his grand plans going down in flames. He desperately wanted to bolt. His hand hovered near the gearshift as he debated a quick, rubber-burning departure.