He wasn’t unlike his driver’s license had described him, about Ded’s height, with white hair that had maybe receded a little bit further, but was still severely pulled back and not looking like he’d mussed it up by sleeping somehow.
There was more weight on his body than Ded carried, as he had a protruding stomach, and was wearing a knitted burgundy sweater with a white collared shirt underneath, over top of beige pants that looked crinkled, like they’d been worn for a few days, and white socks topped by well-worn burgundy slippers.
His face was cold, and he seemed unfazed by the presence of seven men facing him, four of whom were holding firearms.
As he let go of the door to look at the chain the door fell open naturally and revealed Mrs. Hardwick for the first time as well.
She looked rougher, and was dressed in a white nightgown, tied to a chair, with her hair looking a terrible mess.
The negotiator gave the chain over and Dallas watched as it was run through and over the old fingers for a long time while the face creased and furrowed, at first in thought, then confusion, and finally in a stomach-churning rage.
“Es ist falsch!” he shouted, throwing it across the room before turning, shouting something else Dallas couldn’t understand at Mrs. Hardwick, who looked at him with a grimace that turned to wide-eyed terror.
Dallas suddenly noticed the burgundy-sleeved arm pointing to her had a gun in its hand and before he could react there was a crack of exploding gunpowder, a small flash at the muzzle of the gun, and then blood in the middle of Mrs. Hardwick’s forehead and spattered on the wall behind her.
Another shot rang out, followed by a cry and a clatter. Dallas felt rooted to the floor in utter horror as he watched the aged, angry old man crumple to the floor, clutching at his shoulder, in which Dallas could see a wound only just, owing to the burgundy colour of the material.
It was only as he dropped his gaze with the crumpling figure that Dallas saw his gun was pointed forward, with both of his hands seized about the grip.
Had he fired the shot? He had no idea. His hands shook as they held onto the gun, as if somehow the weapon would keep him upright when it wasn’t fixed to anything.
Slowly, and with hands still trembling, Dallas drew his pistol back to himself and opened the magazine to check and see if a bullet had advanced, yet careful to not drop the others onto the floor despite his shaking.
One bullet was missing. He had fired his gun.
Shoving the magazine back into place, Dallas holstered his gun and looked at the man moaning on the floor, not daring to look up. He wanted to cry, but at the same time he felt completely numb.
He’d come all this way from Saskatchewan on something of a lark, based on the most off-chance supposition, hoping to find clues to Mrs. Hardwick’s disappearance, only to succeed in finding her, but then only to fail in getting her home.
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