The gun was a high polish nickel six-shot Colt Python, a little over two pounds.
When Saint took it from the shoebox in the garage it felt like lead. She knew that it carried two bullets, that there was a box containing a dozen more hidden someplace else, and that if her grandmother caught her touching it she would likely execute her.
Saint wore faded overalls, a white vest beneath, and when she aimed the gun out her skinny arms hinted at biceps, her eyes at intent. On the back of her right hand was a skull and crossbones penned in black ink.
She found the address for Eli Aaron printed on the poster.
First light.
Night shining clouds began their scatter. She hooked the satchel over her shoulder and made the winding walk to Main Street. The police station lay in darkness.
The only light came from the church, where the first candles were lit, the service booklets placed on their racks, and the bells readied to sound.
“Where are you going?”
Saint did not break her stride for Jimmy Walters, who stood by the church door, Bible in hand. “To see a photographer named Eli Aaron.”
“Why?” he called to her back.
“To shoot him dead. And bring my friend home.”