At 9:40 I went to bed, alarm set for 3:30. At 11:58, the brass knob turned. Through my lashes I watched her shadow kneel by the luggage rack. The main zipper, slow, one tooth at a time. Then the smaller zipper of the inner pocket. Something heavy went in.
She stood in the doorway, phone to her ear. “It is in her carry-on. Tip off airport security at six — not before. She has to be through security first.”
The door closed. My clock said 12:09.
At 12:50 I sat up, bent my reading lamp toward the rug, and put on my gloves. Inside the inner pocket: a gray work sock, “G E” in black marker on the cuff — my own handwriting. Inside it: a two-shot pocket pistol, walnut grip, made around 1866. Where a white painted number should have been, somebody had sanded the wood bare.
I tilted the lamp. Inside the trigger guard, three tiny characters in red ink: 44.2. My handwriting, from 1988. This was the small curved shape from drawer fourteen.
I did not touch it. I set a ruler beside it and took six photographs, the first stamped 12:58 a.m. Christa needed me caught at an airport with a museum pistol. I did what I had done for thirty-five years: record it, and hand it in person to the people whose job it is. I zipped the pocket closed and watched the ceiling until 3:30.
4:41 A.M.
At four I drove to the sheriff’s office. At 4:41 a.m. I leaned into the lobby speaker. The young deputy — name tag Garrison — came around with gloves on. “It is not loaded,” he said. “You found this when, ma’am?” “Twelve-fifty.” “I did not touch it. I would like that written down.”
I showed him my six photographs. “One more thing,” I said. “Someone is going to call the airport at six.” “How would you know that?” “Because I heard her say it.”