Dowd’s face was that of a feral dog and he was strong. So strong that he was close to gaining control. We sweated, grunted, and cursed. His face turned dark red. My attempt to knee him in the groin failed. So did his try at head-butting me, but he succeeded in rolling me onto my back and getting astride me. Every muscle in my arms and hands screamed as I watched the gun twist toward me.
That’s when I released my left hand and grabbed the last-option knife.
“Ooof.” He expelled bad breath in my face as I drove the sure little blade into his abdomen. Blood trickled onto my fingers. He still fought but his strength left him. The revolver came loose in my hands and I fired one shot point blank into his chest.
After an eternity that was probably five seconds, I pushed him off with difficulty. Cartwright just watched.
Grabbing Dowd’s shoulders, I shook him hard.
“Where’s the baby, you son of a bitch?”
A trickle of blood rolled out the side of his mouth.
“I tried to warn you…”
His eyes flickered and closed. He didn’t deserve to die with his eyes shut. I shook and cursed him, but I was just yelling at a cadaver.
Cartwright waited a long time to speak. I realized that I must have had a wild look on my face. I patted down Dowd’s body out of habit and forced my breathing down.
“Where’d you get that Airlite, kid?”
I told him: at a gun show.
He held out his hand. I gave it to him.
“You got Speedloaders?”
Digging them from my pocket, I put them in his other hand.
“And the knife.”
I rose unsteadily and gave him the knife and sheath.
“Now pay attention,” he said. “I did the shooting here, not you. Right?”
I slowly nodded, feeling my senses return to human. The room smelled of discharged ammunition and vaporized blood.
“The Indian’s here,” he said, “and the cavalry are on the way. So you best be gone.”
“Peralta’s in there.” I indicated the panic room.
“I’ll take care of him. It won’t be the first time. You go.”
His voice stopped me at the door.
“You did okay, kid.”
I nodded, then walked back through the house and slipped out into the darkness.
38
In the ensuing days, the FBI made a dozen more arrests and confiscated more weapons and explosives. It was being called the biggest domestic terror conspiracy in modern American history. Peralta gained major cred with the bureau, which promised it would lead to business for us.
The house on Cypress was back to something resembling normal. Did I dare trust it? Lindsey was reclaiming the gardens, fighting against the rising heat. I was cooking and reading. At the moment, we were both naked in the bedroom and sipping martinis. Coleman Hawkins was on the stereo with perfect synchronicity, Cocktails for Two. Among the things Lindsey had purchased on her shopping trip were two sets of garter belts and sheer stockings: bad-girl black and virginal white. She was wearing the black and draping one leg over me.
“Are you going to stay?” I asked the question that had been metastasizing inside me, fearful of the answer.
She held out her glass. “If you’ll take me back, History Shamus.”