Death's Door

Herculeah tried to get comfortable in the car. She added, “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I wasn’t aware that spending an evening with your father was considered a punishment,” Chico Jones answered mildly.

“I do not feel like I’m spending an evening with my father. I feel like I’m under police protection.”

Herculeah and her father were on the way to her father’s apartment, where she was to spend the night. She had her own room there and often spent the night, but not like this—under protective custody.

She remembered the last thing Meat had said to her. It was a wistful remark. “I wish I had a father so I could go to his apartment.”

“So what do you think?” She glanced at her father out of the corner of her eyes.

“About what happened. The situation. The shooting. The whole thing.”

“I know it has to do with the hat. You know why? Because when I showed the hat to you and said it belonged to Meat’s uncle, you and mom exchanged glances.”

“Your mom and I frequently exchange glances—particularly when it’s about you.”

“It wasn’t that kind of glance. Believe me, I know all of your glances.” She paused and tried something new.

“Well, at least tell me what the police found in the Beaker Building. Dad, I have a right to know. I was the one who spotted the gun and told you which window it was fired from.”

“They found three gun casings apparently from an M16. They found the imprint of a bag of some kind in the dust on the floor. They found the imprint of shoes, a knee where the gunman apparently knelt to take aim. They found cigarette butts—Winstons.”

“All over the place, though I doubt they belong to the gunman.”

“Yes,” he said, sounding tired. “What do you think, Herculeah?”

“I think there was no reason for anybody to shoot at me and Meat. We haven’t done anything.”

“Well, nothing to get us killed over. So we had to have been mistaken for somebody else. I can’t be mistaken for anybody else because of my hair, so it had to be Meat. It was the hat, wasn’t it?”

“The gunman thought he was shooting at Neiman,” she said with satisfaction.

“The uncle. Named for the store. All the children in the family were named for stores. And guess which store Meat’s mom was named for.”

“I’m not supposed to tell this—I promised I wouldn‘t—but you’re so good at keeping things.”

“If you promised you wouldn’t tell, Herculeah, then—”

“I knew that would make you smile. Oh, Dad, can I borrow your phone?”

“I have to. I have to tell him about the hat and his uncle.”

“Look, I am taking you to my apartment to get you away from what is obviously real danger.”

“But what about Meat? Nobody’s getting him away from danger. The last thing he said to me was he wished he could go to his father’s apartment. But he doesn’t even have a father.” That had moved her, and it should move her father as well. “At least I have to warn him about the hat.”

“Oh, all right. I wish I could have talked to”—another faint smile—“Uncle Neiman. I’ll try again in the morning.”

Herculeah dialed. “You didn’t see him?” Herculeah asked as she dialed. Meat’s mother answered, and Herculeah held up one hand to delay her father’s answer.

“You almost got him killed this afternoon. Isn’t that enough?”

“I didn’t almost get him killed. It was the hat, the hat almost got him killed. That’s what I have to tell him. Whoever was shooting at us thought he was your brother. Meat can’t ever wear that hat again.”

“It’s really important. Look, I’m not kidding about this. And tell your brother about it, too. He shouldn’t wear the hat either. That hat brings out target practice in somebody.”

The phone went dead and Herculeah looked at her father. “So that’s why you didn’t see him. He’s disappeared.”