Shooting Gallery Read Online Free PDF Page B

willingness to work odd hours.
    Like at nine o’clock on a Friday night. I pulled into a space in front of the stairs, set the brake, grabbed my bag, and slammed the locked driver’s door before noticing that my keys were lying on the passenger’s seat.
    â€œDammit! Dammit, dammit, dammit !”
    Calm down, Annie , I scolded myself. Remember what the yogi taught you. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to picture the ocean with my third eye.
    Apparently it had a cataract.
    I circled my little pickup, searching for an opening. The passenger’s window was rolled down a quarter of an inch, allowing me to insert the tip of my pinkie finger between the glass and the rubber weather stripping. I wiggled it. It made for a cute shadow puppet but otherwise was not helpful.
    I glanced around hoping to spot something I could use to jimmy the lock, but Frank DeBenton kept the parking lot as tidy as he did his office. My black evening bag yielded only a dead cell phone, my driver’s license, a parking ticket, an overextended credit card, and a couple of crumpled dollar bills.
    Rats. If only my assistant, Mary, were here. Mary could break into just about anything, a talent she had developed during her stint as a teenage runaway. I sighed. There was nothing for it but to spend the night on the couch in my studio and have Mary do a little breaking and entering in the morning. Too bad the key to my studio was also on the ring lying on the passenger seat, behind locked doors.
    I knew Mary occasionally used the rear fire escape to enter the studio through the second-story windows. Skirting the outdoor staircase, I followed the picturesque brick walkway to the rear of the building. As I gazed at the rickety metal ladder high above my head, it occurred to me that my assistant was a full head taller, several years younger, and far more athletic than I. How in the world would I reach the release bar?
    Aha! With a flash of inspiration I recalled the paintbrush extension rod in the bed of my truck. It had been there since the Hayes Valley restaurant fiasco, and had been annoying me for days, rolling around at every twist and turn. This is why I never put it away , I thought. It was destiny.
    The rod was just barely long enough. After a good deal of swinging and grunting and a few choice swear words I brought the release bar within reach, yanked on it, and the ladder clacked toward me with a rusty screech. I clambered up to the second floor, cringing as my heels rang against the metal. Digging my fingers beneath the frame of one of the double-hung windows that ran along the back of my studio, I gave a mighty heave and the window inched up a crack. I braced my legs against the fire escape and went through a series of contortions that, considering the length of my skirt, would likely have gotten me arrested in half the states of the Union.
    At last the window slid open; I threw my legs over the sill and landed in my studio with a triumphant little hop. Brushing the grime from my hands, I felt absurdly pleased with myself.
    Until I heard a beeping sound.
    What was that? I glanced around at the packed bookshelves, the storage bins, the cluttered worktables, the large easels. I saw nothing out of the ordinary. It wasn’t the telephone. It wasn’t the computer. I would have noticed a dump truck backing up in the studio.
    The noise was definitely mechanical in nature, and it was growing steadily louder.
    What was that?
    In the dusty recesses of my mind a memory stirred. Something about a memo from my landlord. Something about an alarm system. Something about a security code—
    CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
    Aw, geez ! Swearing at my stupidity, I thrashed through the litter on top of my desk until I unearthed the memo. “Dear tenant: On November 19th the building’s alarm system will be activated . . .” Get to the point, Frank. Get to the point. Skimming frantically, I spotted the alarm