the rock band mystery (part eleven)

This story started here.

We re-entered the other room, and things appeared to be pretty much the same except that Somerset and Mac looked more tired and disgruntled than they had before, and someone new had been added. He was a bit better dressed than the musicians, with dark curly hair and a nearly-trimmed beard.

"I'm Foster," he said, rising as we came in, "I manage the band. I just..." His voice trailed off as it became obvious that my employer was paying no attention to him. Instead, she went to the center of the room and stood in front of starling, who had apparently not moved since I'd left the room.

"Please let Marshall check your guns," my employer said.


"Katherine, I am trying to figure out a way to get through this without anybody dying. And I think that's what you want, too."

I went up to starling and said, "Point your gun at my head." She did, the muzzle about an inch from my forehead. "Now hand me the other gun and let me check it."

She nodded. Never taking her eyes off of me, she pulled out the automatic from her shoulder holster, reversed it, and handed it to me. I pulled the clip and checked. "Full." I announced as I handed it back to her. "Now let me see the revolver."

Somerset chose that moment to twitch again, so she swung the automatic around and fired at his foot. He jumped, but I think she missed him, or at least just grazed his sneaker, because he stayed silent.

She pointed the automatic at my head and handed me the revolver. I spun the cylinder. "One shot fired," I said. I handed it back to her. "Do you carry any other guns?" I asked.

She nodded, swinging the revolver back into line and holstering the automatic. "Two," she said. "Pete, would you get them, please?"

Pete came over and reached into the back of her waistband and pulled out another gun, and then squatted and pulled up her jeans, taking a very small gun from an ankle holster. I checked them also, and handed them back to Pete. "Fully loaded," I said.

"I need to search you," my employer said to starling.

She frowned, the revolver still pointed at my forehead. "Why?" she asked.

"To make sure you're not carrying any other guns, or any ammunition."

"What difference does it make if she has bullets?" Somerset demanded. "He got killed with–"

"You don't get your questions answered," my employer snapped at him. "You're an imbecile and your questions are puerile. Marshall, if he tries to say anything else, please stop him." She turned to starling. "May I search you? You may continue to hold your gun on my husband."

starling nodded. "Okay."

previous || about || home || next

Print Friendly, PDF & Email

About Anthony Lee Collins

I write.
This entry was posted in stories. Bookmark the permalink.

Comments are closed.