Contagious

Chelsea felt a shiver ripple across her skin. The doctor. The doctor that always hurt her with needles and stuff. The voice was wrong—she should be afraid of Mommy.

“But I don’t like the doctor,” Chelsea said.

“And I don’t care if you like him or not, young lady, you’re going. You and your father both. He’s itching like crazy, and he’s getting these orange welts on his skin.”

“Daddy has dollies inside of him,” Chelsea said. “My special friend said so.”

“Oh, you have a special friend now? How nice, honey. What’s his name?”

Chelsea thought for a second, but she didn’t know his name. She shrugged. “I dunno.”

“Well, you can’t have a special friend and not give him a name,” Mommy said. She gently pushed Chelsea back down in the bed and started tucking the covers around her. “What would you like to call him?”

“How about . . . Chauncey?” Chelsea asked.

Mommy smiled. “Ahhh, Chauncey, like Uncle Donald’s favorite basketball player?”

Chelsea nodded. “Yeah. And his name sounds like mine. Chelsea and Chauncey.”

“Well, that’s a fine name,” Mommy said. She stroked Chelsea’s hair, and that felt really nice. “You get some more sleep, okay?”

“I’m not that tired anymore,” Chelsea said. “I want to get up.”

“Just lie here for a little bit longer, honey. Then you can get up if you want, but stay here and play with your toys, okay? I don’t want you running around. I’ll check on you later, and we’ll see the doctor tomorrow.”

Mommy leaned down and kissed her forehead, then left the room and shut the door behind her. Chelsea sat in the darkness, wondering if Chauncey would talk to her again.

He did.

You must not go to the doctor. You have to stop her .

Chelsea whispered so Mommy wouldn’t hear her. “How can I stop her, Chauncey? Mommy’s in charge. I have to do what she says.”

She ’s not in charge of you.

“She’s not?”

No. You’re in charge of her.

“I am?”

You are.

“Well . . . she’s still lots bigger than me. What if she makes me go to the doctor’s?”

You can stop her tonight. After she goes to sleep.

A picture flashed in Chelsea’s thoughts.

Yes, she could do that to Mommy.

THE SHOOTER

Dew could only take so much hemming and hawing.

His Colt M1911 .45-caliber pistol lay on the shooter’s table. It was loaded, hammer back, safety engaged. Perry Dawsey stood there, in ear protectors and goggles, staring down at the weapon.

“Look, Dew, this is cool and all, but I just don’t want to shoot, okay?”

“Pick up the gun, kid,” Dew said. “I have a mean p.i.s.s of a hangover thanks to you, and I’m really not in the mood for this. You’re embarra.s.sing me in front of an entire shooting range.”

The range was empty, of course. Dew had rented the whole thing.

Perry stared down at the .45. “But what if I pick it up and . . . you know . . . I get the urge to shoot you.”

Dew pulled up his pant leg and drew his .38. “I’ll stand behind you, with this aimed at your back. If you even turn around funny, I’ll kill you.

Does that make you feel better?”

“A little,” Perry said. Dew would have laughed if the kid hadn’t looked so d.a.m.n serious.

Perry kept staring at the .45.

Dew sighed. “Now what?”

“What if I . . . what if I listen to Bill?”

“What if you kill yourself, you mean?”

Perry nodded.

“Look kid, you gotta grab this thing by the b.a.l.l.s.”

“That’s not funny.”

“s.h.i.t, sorry,” Dew said. “Just a figure of speech. Listen. Ronald Reagan, the greatest president that ever lived, he had a quote that sums this up nicely: If it takes a bloodbath, let’s get it over with. So if you’re going to kill yourself, let’s stop f.u.c.king around and get it done.”

“You’re one of those sensitive hippie types, I see.”

“I have a flower garden at home,” Dew said. “And I’m wicked good with a crochet hook. Seriously, you can’t go through life afraid of this s.h.i.t. Stop being a f.u.c.king p.u.s.s.y and pick up the G.o.dd.a.m.n gun already.”

Perry slowly reached for the .45, then drew his hand back.

“If you shoot yourself in the head, that only hurts for a second,” Dew said. “If I shoot you in the foot, it’s going to hurt for a long time. So pick it up or say good-bye to a little piggy.”

Perry reached out again and picked up the .45. His hand shook violently at first, so badly that Dew wondered if the gun might actually go off. He was playing a dangerous game here. Dew kept the .38 pointed at Perry’s back, just in case.

“Just breath easy,” Dew said. “Point the gun and squeeze the trigger slow. You should be a little surprised when it goes off. And remember, after you shoot, remove the magazine and lock the slide to the rear. That will eject a round, so don’t be surprised by that. Inspect the chamber and magazine, then lay it on the table and move your hands away. Just like you did when we practiced.”

“Yeah, but then the gun wasn’t loaded.”

“Just do it like I told you, and you’ll be safe, okay?”

“Okay,” Perry said.

Dawsey pointed the .45 down the range and let out a breath. The pistol looked like a toy in his big hand. Dew would have given Perry the .38, but he wasn’t sure if the kid’s finger could fit through the trigger guard.

Dew waited, then bang, the gun fired. A little smoke curled up from the barrel as both men looked down the firing range. The target was at thirty feet. Perry had hit the center ring, just to the left of the X.

“Nice shot,” Dew said.

“I thought this thing was supposed to have a kick.”

“Remove the magazine, lock the slide to the rear . . . ,” Dew said, letting his voice trail off.