16.

Kirsten left Bunko’s feeling like a stranger in a group of raucous, unruly friends. She’d had enough for one day, and she couldn’t think of anything of real substance she’d accomplished. She wanted to go back to the Holiday Inn, and be left alone.

With the tall highway sign turned off the parking lot was darker, but there was still the dim streetlight out on the road, and headlights were going on as engines roared to life. Cars and pickups lurched backward, skidded, then spun around and splashed through potholes toward the road. They sprayed up gravel and fishtailed, then squealed as their tires hit wet pavement and caught hold.

Her Celica was where she’d left it, some twenty yards out. But no longer isolated. A Chevy pickup—perched high on oversized tires—was drawn up right in front of it, nose to nose. The truck’s tailgate was dropped, and three guys were sitting on it, feet swinging, facing her across the wet gravel. They chugged from their cans and laughed at each other’s comments, things she couldn’t hear. But she could see they were waiting for her. The one in the middle was the punk she’d kept from following those two girls, and one of the others was the guy who’d pulled him aside.

She was one … and a woman. They were three … and men. Their collective judgment—to the extent they had any at all—was clouded by alcohol and who knew what else. Pretty soon this place would be deserted and they’d have her to themselves. Maybe just to degrade and humiliate her, verbally. But possibly something far beyond that. Whatever they wanted, that was the point. Or at least, she thought, that was the belief they shared.

Facing them, she felt a surprising sense of ease. This was no silent shadow, creeping in close to leave sly, disturbing messages and then melt away. Nor was this an unknown killer stalking men she wasn’t sure she could help … or wanted to. No, this threat was simple, up-front, in-your-face. Of course it wasn’t fair to take advantage of a drunk, or even three of them. But this had been a long, frustrating day, and here was a situation she could actually do something about—if she had to. She stood and stared at them.

Most of the cars were gone by now, but one of them stopped momentarily, its headlights catching both her and the punks on the tailgate. All three were large, maybe high school football players five or ten years ago. They’d put on a lot of soft fat since then, though, and gotten that much uglier—inside and out—and more convinced that somebody owed them something, for reasons they couldn’t quite put their finger on.

The stopped car sped away and left her alone with them. They were still clowning around, screwing their baseball caps this way and that on their heads, until finally the one in the middle called to her. “Check this out, bitch!” Grabbing his crotch. “I know you want it.”

This called forth whoops of laughter from his buddies. She started walking again—slowly, but without hesitation—and as she drew closer they all fell suddenly silent.

She stopped ten feet from them. “Get in your truck,” she said, her voice strong and even, “and drive away.”

They looked at each other and then laughed again, but she knew she was making them nervous. She waited. Finally the crotch grabber tossed his beer can away and eased his butt off the tailgate. “Fuck you, cunt,” he said, as though remembering who was the man here. “We got plans for you.”

That gave a shot of courage to the other two and they jumped down, and one of them, the one to her right as she faced them, made a show of slowly unbuckling his belt. “Yeah,” he said, “we’re gonna have a party.”

“That’s a shame,” she said. She took a step right at them and not one of them could resist the impulse to back up, though there was nowhere to go but against the edge of the tailgate. “Poor babies.”

She took another step, this time as though to go on past to her car. The man with the loosened belt moved in and grabbed at her her … but he was way too slow. In one sweeping motion she pulled the Colt .380 from her shoulder bag and raked the barrel across the side of his head. He howled, and with her forearm she shoved him hard against the crotch grabber. They both stumbled and went to their knees. The third man turned to go.

“Freeze!” she said.

He stopped and turned back to see the .380 pointed at his face. “Hey, c’mon,” he said, “we were just—”

“Flat out on the ground. All of you. On your faces. Now!” They all did what she said without a word, except for some weeping and moaning from the man she’d hit. “Don’t move, not even a twitch.” She went to the truck and with the butt of the gun smashed out the taillights on both sides.

She heard the door to Bunko’s swing open, and turned and saw the bartender she’d spoken to. He didn’t say a word, and she didn’t either. She doubted he was a big fan of these mopes, and a call to the cops about a fight on the premises wouldn’t be a plus for a dive like this. She checked the Celica to make sure it had no flat tires, then went back and stood over the drunks. They hadn’t moved.

“I have your plate number,” she said. “I can identify all of you. You shouldn’t have touched me. That’s sexual assault.”

“Hey, nobody touched you, bitch.” The crotch grabber again, still anxious to be the man.

“Know what?” she said, and crouched beside him. “You moved.” She lifted her hand and slammed the butt of the gun down deep into his flank, below his ribs, into the kidney. When he got his breath back and settled down, she said, “You’re the dumbest, so you get the prize. Sit up and take off your shoes and your jeans.”

“What?”

She tapped him on the head with the gun barrel. “Shoes and jeans.” He sat in the gravel and took them off. “And your shorts.” He did that, too, and rolled his shoes and shorts up inside his jeans when she told him to. She took them and made him lie facedown again. “Evidence,” she yelled across the lot to the bartenders. All three were looking out the door now. “Did you call the cops?”

“Cops?” the guy she’d spoken to called back. “Why? Is there some problem?”

“Not really. But if some creep with no pants comes looking for help,” she called, “you give him Detective Wardell’s number. He’ll have my report, about how one of them stripped down and tried to … well … maybe you saw it.”

“Maybe we didn’t see anything.”

“Maybe not.”

Knowing they weren’t about to call anyone, she turned and fired a shot into the sidewall of one of the pickup’s oversized rear tires, then got into her car and drove away. She could feel the guy’s wallet in his rolled-up jeans, and she tossed the whole bundle out into the weeds along the entrance ramp to I-90.

She might feel differently about it in the light of day, after a good long sleep. But right now? It seemed the most useful thing she’d accomplished in two weeks, and she felt pretty damn pleased with herself.