Dead Bang by Robert Bailey Page B

me.”
    â€œYou don’t seem to mind hurting him,” I said.
    Wendy looked from Karen to me and said, “What?”
    â€œI poured the teakettle out the window on Manny,” she said.
    â€œYou should have just thrown out the money like you told him,” I said as I pulled my suit coat on over the rifle.
    â€œYou told him you’d hand the money out?” asked Wendy.
    â€œWell, yeah,” said Karen, wringing her hands.
    â€œWhy?” asked Wendy, throwing up her hands, her right hand still grasping her pistol.
    â€œI threw some bundles out,” said Karen, scuffing a foot while she looked at the ground.
    â€œSo they would quit shooting?” asked Wendy.
    Karen rolled her eyes up to Wendy. Chin down and face evil, she said, “So they would come up to the window.”
    â€œJesus Kay-rhyst,” I said, surprised that Karen’s head didn’t spin around and spew green vomit.
    â€œThey wrecked my stuff,” said Karen, her voice squeaking tight in her throat. Her face pinched, and tears welled up in her eyes. “It’s all I had from my mom.” Her knees started to shake.
    Wendy threw her arms around Karen and patted with the pistol-free hand. Karen sobbed and then squeaked out, “I didn’t care if they killed me.”
    â€œWe care,” said Wendy. Looking at me over Karen’s shoulder with an accusing face, she added, “You should give Karen your coat—she’s freezing.”
    I adjusted the sling so that I had enough slack to swing the weapon upto my shoulder. “I have to keep this thing covered,” I said. “I don’t want to start a panic.”
    â€œThe barrel hangs down to your knees, and the magazine makes a big lump in the back,” said Wendy.
    â€œIt’s dark,” I said. I looked down the street. Nobody was coming out after us. On Division Avenue, a marked City of Wyoming police car screamed by with the rollers on.
    â€œI think the panic has already started,” said Wendy.
    â€œWe should keep moving,” I said. “We need to find a safe place while the police sort out Manny and his pals.”
    Wendy rubbed Karen’s back. “C’mon,” she said. “Let’s go before the people who live here get involved in this mess.”
    As we walked west, the houses gave way to an acre of blacktopped parking lot for a church on Division Avenue. Light glowed from the windows in a one-story wing that stretched back from the main church building. Sirens screamed louder and closer. Cars pulled onto the lot. Folks who had already parked stood around their cars and wondered aloud what was going on.
    Another marked police car roared down the street. I stretched my right hand down to cover as much of the rifle as I could. Wendy dropped her pistol into her handbag. The sign on the door announced the Lady’s Altar Club quilt sale.
    A minivan, definitely dark green under the street light, nosed into the lot and stopped just past the apron. The man with the white shirt and the unibrow sat at the wheel, gripping his right shoulder. Manny sat in the passenger seat holding the side of his face with both hands.

6
    â€œW HY DID YOU BRING that weapon to our church?” a man asked from behind me, his voice calm and resonant. I didn’t turn around. I kept my eyes on the van driver, whose glower remained fixed on me and seemed to gather heat as he rubbed his right shoulder with his left hand.
    â€œWho are you?” I asked.
    â€œReverend Douglas Rhinehardt,” he said. “I’m the pastor.”
    â€œHow did the police miss them?” asked Wendy.
    â€œThey should have taken the money and split,” I said. “Take Karen into the building.”
    â€œI’m calling the police,” said Rhinehardt, his voice calm.
    â€œPlease,” I said. “And tell them the people they’re looking for are in that green van right there.”
    Rhinehardt said,