Insurgents

19

We set up a schedule for who was going to watch Gretchen over the next few days. John watched her that first night, and then it was Jessie's turn on Monday morning. I rode out with her early. Gretchen Salle lived in a house on Wilbur Avenue, just outside a new subdivision adjacent to the Shoreston Mall and it's immense parking lot. Her closest neighbor was a boat repair place across the street that looked like it was in need of some repair itself. Her place was a colonial two-story house, painted light blue with white trim. A neat garden grew around the lawn and there were two old bicycles on her porch. John's car was next to the boat repair place, and we pulled up behind him. He got out and walked back to Jessie's open window. "She got in a little after eleven." He told us. "I think she's still asleep. The Honda's hers. If she goes anywhere near Lakeview or Everett, or anywhere you think Junior Pierson might be, call me."

"Jesus Pap, you look terrible." Jessie said.

"Thanks."

"You shouldn't stay up all night. It's not healthy."

"I used to do it all the time when I was on the force," he said, "and for long periods of time. One night's not gonna kill me."

I said goodbye to Jess and got out of the car. John gave me his keys and told me to drive his car. We went to a Bob's Big Boy near his place and ordered breakfast. I had coffee, he had juice. He told me the gun place opened at eleven and gave me four hundred dollars cash. "That should be enough to get you a decent piece." He said. "The owner is named Dennis Reston, and you should ask for him. Don't pump the guy for information, just mention that you were a friend of Freddie's and see how he reacts. You're there to buy a handgun, that's all. If we get nothing else out of it, at least you'll have the gun. Consider it a gift from me." I thanked him and wondered why he seemed nervous. We ate our food and talked about people in Lakeview and the employees at the Guardian Security Agency.

National Custom Gunsmith looked pretty run down. The gray paint was peeling, and the G in the sign was crooked. The glass door had iron bars on the inside, and there was a sign that said that the store was under twenty-four-hour surveillance. A loud electronic ping sounded as I opened the door. The place smelled like oil. There were racks of rifles along the wall and display cases showing off a huge variety of handguns. One case held knives, brass knuckles, pepper spray and Tasers. There was a radio on, tuned to a classic rock station, and the wall behind the cash register was crowded with political bumper stickers, all right-wing.

I'd been in the store a few minutes before an old guy came from the back room and asked if he could help me. He was stooped-over and gray, and looked like a heavy smoker. "Is Dennis here?" I asked.

"Who're you?"

"I'm Ben." I said. "A friend of a friend."

"What Friend?" He asked.

"Freddie Divos told me about this place. He said Dennis would set me up with a handgun."

"Shame what happened to Freddie." The guy said, shaking his head.

"Yeah." I said.

"Wait here." He told me. He turned and slouched into the back room. I looked at some handguns and then at some pictures taped to the inside of the glass counter near the cash register. They were of an older, tough-looking guy posing with dead animals in various locales. He didn't just hunt dear, there were pictures of him holding birds, kneeling next to a moose carcass, and on a boat next to a shark. In one picture he was holding a long snake that didn't look dead, it was twisting up, trying to bite him, and the background looked like jungle. The picture that stood out from the rest was him in desert camo, standing with his arms crossed over a black plastic body bag. It looked like he was on a runway, you could see part of a plane and some mountains in the background. This had to be Dennis Reston.