Bronx Requiem(132)

“You left him there in the street?”

“Yes.”

“And the twenty-two?”

She stared at Amelia, defiantly. “Yes.”

“Why? Why did you drop the gun?”

“I see the car coming. Not a regular police car. From nowhere suddenly the flashing lights. He must have followed Paco, too. Heard me shoot him.”

“The police?”

Lorena’s voice lowered, remembering it.

“Yes. A policeman. No uniform. I was scared. I drop the gun and ran.” She looked at Amelia. “Same policeman come here next morning. I thought to arrest me. But he didn’t. I think maybe he never saw me. He left. And then I think he changed his mind and come back to take me to jail. I was going to shoot him, too. But it wasn’t him.”

Amelia felt like she couldn’t breathe. The moment Beck had described the Phoenix twenty-two, she knew it was Lorena’s gun. She knew Lorena must have shot her father, but she hadn’t fully believed it until now. And now she would do what she had come to do. She would make sure what Lorena had done would never be known, would never hurt Beck or the others. And she would make sure the person who really murdered her father would pay for her crime.

Lorena saw the murderous look in Amelia’s eyes. She raised the thirty-eight, pointing it now at Amelia’s chest, her hand shaking.

Amelia grabbed the barrel of the Colt, determined to twist it out of Lorena’s hand, but the old woman lunged at Amelia, fighting back with desperate strength, grabbing Amelia’s wrist.

Amelia fell back off the couch, Lorena on top of her, both fighting for the gun. Lorena pulled the trigger.

*

Demarco had been waiting for Amelia’s return, growing increasingly anxious thinking about Amelia dealing with the volatile old woman. And then he heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. A sound exactly like the one he had heard when Beck had come to Lorena’s apartment.

He burst out of the car and ran into the courtyard, but he had no idea which door led to Lorena’s apartment. He raced toward what he thought was the right door, a heavy metal-clad door. He kicked it, doing nothing more than denting it. He kicked it again, and again, helpless, choking with dread.

*

The gunshot sent a surge of fear and strength through Amelia. Still holding the hot barrel, she grabbed the flailing Lorena by the throat, pushed her off, turned and forced her down onto the dirty green carpet. She straddled Lorena, a violent rage coming over her. She ripped the Colt out of the old woman’s hand and tightened her grip on Lorena’s throat. She wanted to choke her to death. She wanted to shoot her. Amelia pointed the gun at Lorena’s face.

Lorena stopped moving. Staring at Amelia with hate. Lying still beneath her. Waiting for her granddaughter to pull the trigger and end her miserable life.

Amelia held her down and pressed the muzzle of the Colt into the middle of Lorena’s forehead. She tightened her finger on the trigger.

And then Amelia heard Demarco Jones yelling her name over and over.

“Amelia. Amelia. Amelia!”

She froze. The sound of her name cut into her, bringing her back from the brink. She felt her heart pounding, her ragged breaths coming in gasps.

What was she doing? How could she let this bitter, hateful woman make her kill her own flesh and blood, commit a murder that would bring more death, more misery, more police and danger into Beck’s life and the lives of the men who had saved her? How could she let Lorena prove once and for all that she really was worthless?

No. No. She tore herself away from the old woman, turned toward the heavy coffee table, and smashed the gun down on it, over and over. Slamming it against the hard wood. The cylinder popped open. Bullets flew. The barrel bent and the handle split.

Amelia threw the ruined gun away from her and stood up, backing away from Lorena. She was breathless, crying, everything pouring out of her—the loss, the pain, her fear, anger, confusion. Her shame. Letting it all out. Leaving it all behind. Turning her back on the life Lorena Leon represented once and for all.

*

Demarco was just about to run around to the front entrance when he saw Amelia emerge into the courtyard, wiping her face with her sleeve, replacing her glasses, blinking back the remains of her tears.

He stopped, his heart still pounding from exertion and fear, fear that she had been shot by that crazy, unstable old woman. But no. There was no blood. No look of pain. Amelia walked toward him without expression. He had no idea what had happened in Lorena’s apartment, but it didn’t matter. Amelia was alive. She was safe.

He went toward Amelia and took her hand. Before he could ask her anything, she shook her head and grabbed his arm. Demarco walked her out of the courtyard, neither of them saying anything.

When they reached the car, Amelia walked to the passenger side. Demarco looked at her over the roof.

She said, “I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have come here.”

“What did she do? Did she try to shoot you?”

“Worse. She tried to make me as bad as she is. But I’m not. I’m done with her, Demarco. I’m done with all of it. It’s over. It’s finally over.”