It was even the truth. I didn’t take time to bring Speedloaders with extra ammunition or a backup piece after the phone call woke me at nine minutes after midnight Saturday morning. I was sleepy and in a hurry and on the drive up into the High Country, I thought this had been a rash move. Now, I was glad to have only one firearm to explain.
The flashlight clicked off.
“Please step out of the car.” Now her voice had lost its lilt. Or maybe I was being nervous. One thing was sure; I was wide-awake.
I opened the door and slid out, dropping my feet onto the hard-packed dirt and getting my first look at the DPS cop.
She was more than a head shorter than me, dressed in the standard uniform: tan slacks, tan long-sleeved shirt, shoulder patch in the shape of the state and colors of the state flag, seven-point gold star above her left pocket.
Thanks to the casino’s neon, I could see that her hair was strawberry blond, tied back in a bun. Her features seemed attractive, even the slightly weak chin. Her expression was camouflaged by shadows. Age? Around thirty.
“Walk to the back of the car and put your hands on the trunk, please, palms down.”
I did as she asked. The cold made me shiver. We were three thousand feet higher than Phoenix, where it was resort weather and the wrecking ball of summer only a bad memory. That was why Lindsey had given me my leather jacket. But it was in the back seat and I only had on a T-shirt, jeans, and athletic shoes.
The metal of the trunk conducted the cold through my hands, adding to the discomfort. It must have been a quiet night for her to take this much time. Or she recognized Sharon’s last name. That might be problematic. I wished she would write the ticket, give me the lecture, and send me away with a “drive safely, sir.”
Instead, I heard a discomfiting snap and she told me to turn around.
Her gun was out, aimed at me.
It was pointed at my face.
In the academy, they call this aiming at “the lethal T” or the “fatal T.” The T consisted of the eyes and nose, a shot guaranteed to kill instantly.
Officers are usually trained to shoot at a suspect’s “body of mass,” the torso. That is an easier, surer target. But more criminals are wearing body armor.
She was not in a combat shooting stance, with both hands on the weapon for stability. Instead, she held it confidently in one hand, her right. That was unusual.
Seeing her finger on the trigger heightened my concern.
This was something definitely not taught at the academy.
Officers learn to keep the trigger finger aligned with the side of the gun’s lower receiver and slide—“ready to engage,” as the instructors put it. This prevents an accidental discharge.
But there it was, the pistol staring me in the eyes, the officer’s finger on the trigger.
This situation left me one cough or involuntary nerve spasm away from being shot and I wouldn’t live more than a few seconds. No time for last words. Words like, “Tell my wife I love her.” Or, “Why did you shoot me? I was unarmed.”
It is impossible to speak after your face has been torn apart and a bullet acts out the laws of physics inside your skull. Impossible, when you are already dead.
This is your brain, Mapstone. This is your brain blown out of the back of your head all over the bumper of Sharon’s fancy convertible.
“I’m not armed,” I said, forcing my voice to remain calm, its cadence slow, as I raised my hands. “I am not posing any threat to you. Please take your finger off the trigger.”
She didn’t do as I suggested.
I studied the gun. It was a semi-automatic, black with intimidating lines. I couldn’t identify the maker. It wasn’t the Glock that was standard with police.
A tractor-trailer rig approached on the Interstate, grinding uphill toward Flagstaff. If only the truck driver needed to pull off and came down the cut and somehow broke the spell that had this officer in its grasp. But then the semi was gone and the world around us was quiet. Not a single gambler came or went from the casino.
The nation’s sixth-largest city was only ninety miles south but it might as well have been on a different planet.
I had the tactical solutions of a can of cat food.
When I went through the academy too many years ago, I had learned how to disarm a shooter without having a gun myself. This involved stepping close inside her reach and doing a hard, straight-arm bar to dislodge the weapon. But she was too far away and I had never tried this desperate move in real life.
She seemed to read this thought and took one more step back, then crooked her arm close to her side, the gun still perfectly aimed. If the barrel were an eye, it could have winked at me. I raised my empty hands higher, feeling the slick between the T-shirt and my skin.