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Hemlock handed her the gun, which she took holding it between two fingers like it would bite her. Then he handed her the spent bullet casings. “Put those in the bedroom. In my top dresser drawer there’s a gun that looks just like this one. It has a red line painted on the side. Bring it to me, please. Quickly.”

Charlie didn’t ask questions; she just ran inside doing what Hemlock asked of her. She came out and handed him the new gun just as blue lights were seen making the corner.

“Go inside and stay there. If I get arrested call Truck. His number’s in my phone.” Hemlock nudged her back inside and closed the door. Walking over to his car, he set the gun on the hood and walked away, putting distance between him and it.

When the police drove up, Hemlock waved them down and made sure to stay clear of the gun. He watched as the police car parked at the end of his driveway. As the cop stepped out of the car he pointed his flashlight at him momentarily blinding Hemlock.

“Evening,” the officer called out, his voice steady but sharp.“You live here, son?”

Son. Damn, the only person who called him that was Truck. Mostly people called him a son of a bitch. “Yes, sir. I’m Emile Durand.”

The cop shined his flashlight over Hemlock. “You’re bleeding.”

“Yes, I am. Stepped on a large piece of glass in the street.” He saw when the cop noticed the gun.

When his flashlight landed on a gun close to the young man, the officer unsnapped the strap holding his gun in his holster. “You got a permit for that gun, son?” he asked, keeping his eyes on Mr. Durand.

Hemlock answered with his normal casual ease, “Yes, and it’s a pellet gun.”

“I need to see some I.D. and the license for the gun.”

“It’s inside.”

“I’ll wait.”

“One second.” Hemlock limped over to the front door and opened it. “Honey, can you grab my wallet from the counter for me?”

Charlie was standing right inside the door when Hemlock opened it. She had pressed herself against the wall trying not to get hit. “Sure, babe,” she said sarcastically. Walking over, she grabbed the wallet and handed it to him. “Is everything okay?” she asked, batting her eyelashes.

Hemlock took the wallet and rolled his eyes at her. Closing the door, he limped back over to the cop. Pulling out both licenses, he handed them over and waited for the cop to call his information in. Glancing back at the porch, he saw the window blinds snap shut and chuckled. When the cop finally came back over, he handed Hemlock the cards and asked what was going on earlier.

“My phone woke me up alerting me someone was messing with my vehicles. I came out here with the pellet gun and chased them down the street.”

“Were you aiming to kill them, Mr. Durand?”

“Not at all. If I wanted to hurt them, they would be bleeding not me.”

“You should know better than to run around barefooted,” the cop said offhandedly. “You might want to get that looked at.”

“I’m a nurse practitioner.” He saw the smirk spread across the cop’s face and wanted to slap him. Instead, Hemlock kept his hands tucked in his front pockets.

“Did you get a look at the perpetrator?”

“No. They were in all black with a hoodie covering their face. A car pulled up around the corner and that’s when I lost them.”

“If they come back, call us instead of running around with a pellet gun. There are people in the world, nurse Durand, who have real guns, and they will kill you.”

“You’re absolutely right, officer.” Hemlock clinched his teeth, thinking if only the cop knew who he was talking to. Waving, he watched the police car roll away. He stood there alone in the middle of the lawn, thinking about who would be lurking around his place.

Shaking his head, he walked over to the car and picked up the pellet gun. Looking down at his right foot, which was now throbbing, he saw it was still bleeding freely. “Fuck.” If he had to get a tetanus shot, he would be pissed. Those bitches hurt.

Limping back to the house, he swore with every step. Sitting on the little bench on his porch, he looked at his foot, which now was covered in grass and blood. Knocking on the door, he waited for Charlie to open it. “Can you look over the dryer and grab me an old towel? Please,” he asked when she popped her head out.

“Of course.”

Charlie came back out handing him the towel. “What happened to your foot?” she asked, looking down at where he was wiping away grass and blood.

“I stepped on glass.”