Free Lay the Favorite by Beth Raymer Page A

looked up from the album. “Charlie,” I said. “Are you
really
in the CIA?”
    “Lemme show you something, Angel,” he said, in a sarcastic tone I’d never before heard him use. He walked away from me. A closet door slammed, and Charlie returned, carrying a long black semiautomatic shotgun with two barrels. Peering through the scope, he pointed the sight at the bronze bald eagle, wings outstretched, on top of his television set.
    From there, Charlie moved the gun swiftly through the air, as though the eagle had taken flight. He followed the bird as it flew from the La-Z-Boy to the ceiling fan to the pile of
TV Guides
, until it landed on the top of my head. Charlie squinted to narrow his aim and his eyeballs shook the way they always did when he had substituted speed for sleep for days on end.
    The blood rushed from my limbs. I blinked and saw black. He was going to shoot me or torture me to prove he was no liar, to show this stupid little whore that he
was
in the CIA. I crossed the backs of my hands over my face and turned away from the gun. I found the courage to ask him to put the thing away.
    “Miscreant shitheads out to fuck with me,” Charlie said in his boisterous Southern drawl. His blinking was outrageous.
    I scooted forward to the edge of the couch. The front door was steps away and my bag, with my car keys in it, lay at my feet. Outside, there were neighbors, air, and sky. Otis would be waiting in the passenger seat. My truck was backed into the driveway, the only precaution I took in case I needed to leave quickly. Black dots danced like mosquitoes in front of my eyes. My instincts screamed,
Go. Now. Before you faint
. I managed to push myself up from the couch and grab my bag.
    It wasn’t until I stood that I realized how light-headed I was. Charlie kept his gun focused on the couch as though I were still sitting there. Thinking that maybe I was overreacting, I second-guessed myself and lost momentum. I considered asking him, again, to put the gun away. Then I imagined the barrel of the gun twisting into my temple and I headed for the door. If he raped me, I’d never tell anyone. It was my fault for being there. The front door wasn’t as close as I thought. If he was going to shoot me, it was going to be now. Now. I told myself to scream.
Do it. Do it
. I couldn’t. I panicked, made a sharp left, ran into the bathroom, and locked myself inside.
    “You’re scaring me!” I shouted. I felt frantically for the light switch.
    “The CIA gives a shit,” Charlie shouted back. “The CIA
cares
about insane delusionoids.”
    Shuffling through my bag, looking for anything that might help me, I imagined my parents at the morgue, collecting my belongings. My sister’s drug addiction had caused them years of worry and heartache. I was considered the good kid. Friends, boyfriends, lovers, and family were all under the impression that I worked for a pet-sitting service. One look through my bag—the pager, the panties, the credit-card swiper—and everyone close to me would feel as though they never even knew me. I stashed my business cards inside the fishing magazines stacked beside the toilet.
    I heard him walk away from the door. A closet opened, closed. The refrigerator opened, closed. The couch squeaked and Dan Rather’s voice filled the room. I heard the sound of Charlie’s feet on the carpet, then on the kitchen linoleum. He returned to the door of the bathroom where, on the other side, I waited, back flat against the adjacent wall in case any bullets shot through.
    “Listen,” he said. He popped open a can of beer loud enough for me to hear. “See? No more guns. Just me and my beer. You can come out whenever you’re ready. I’m gonna be here drinkin’ a beer.”
    Certain that if I opened the door he’d point the gun at my head, mock me for being gullible, and steer me wherever he saw fit, I timidly asked if maybe he could call the cops.
    “Angel, I’m not gonna bring the cops into this. If I