'What are you talking about?' Brown said.
'You know what I'm talking about. If you even so much as talk to her, I'll kill you. Do you understand?'
'Mersiha, listen to me. What happened between your mother and me, it didn't mean anything. It doesn't mean that she doesn't love you.' Brown could see that she wasn't listening, he wasn't getting through to her. He looked across at the telephone. If she really had spoken to 911, it wouldn't take more than fifteen minutes for the ambulance to arrive, and the police would be sure to come, too. Gunshot, she'd said. Brown tried to calculate how long they'd been talking. Two minutes. Three, maybe.
'This isn't about Katherine,' Mersiha said. 'It's about my father. I don't want him hurt. If he ever found out…'
'He won't!' Brown interrupted. 'I swear. I swear on my own mother's life. But please, don't shoot.'
'I have to,' she said quietly. 'Don't you see, Dr Brown? I have to demonstrate to you that I'm serious, otherwise you'll think I'm just acting like a child.'
'I don't think you're acting like a child, Mersiha. But if you really want to behave like an adult, you should put the gun down and talk this over with me. Will you do that?' His voice was shaking and he could feel that his whole body was bathed in sweat.
Mersiha shook her head. 'Listen to me, and listen good. If you ever see Katherine again, I'll kill you. If you call our house again, I'll kill you. If my father ever finds out that you slept with her, I'll kill you. Do you understand?'
Brown nodded, unable to speak.
'No one will believe that a fifteen-year-old girl did this to you.
But if you tell anyone what I did, I'll come back and kill you. Do you understand?'
Brown nodded again. He stared at the gun barrel protruding from the towel, praying that she'd left the safety on, that she didn't know how a gun worked, that she was only trying to scare him. How long? Four minutes? Five? Oh God, they wouldn't get here in time.
Mersiha wound a flap of towel over the front of the gun barrel so that the whole weapon was now hidden from his view. Brown suddenly realised why she was covering the gun: to deaden the sound when she fired. 'Mersiha… please…' he whispered.
He felt his bowels relax and a warm glow spread between his legs. He'd soiled himself.
Mersiha aimed the gun at his left leg and fired. Brown's leg jerked and he felt as if he'd been whacked with a baseball bat. A hole the size of a quarter spouted blood a couple of inches below his left knee. He was surprised at the pain. It felt more like a dull throb than what he thought a gunshot wound should feel like, but gradually the ache was replaced by a bolt of searing heat, like a red-hot poker being twisted in the wound. The rest of his body felt as if it had been chilled in comparison, and he began to shake violently. He could smell his own mess and he felt sick.
'Use the towel,' Mersiha said.
Brown looked up as if he'd forgotten that she was there.
'The towel,' she repeated. 'Use it to stop the bleeding.'
Mersiha turned and walked out of the room. She didn't look back.
She walked to the car, resisting the urge to run. If she were unlucky enough to be seen leaving the house any witnesses would be more likely to remember someone running. She kept her head down so that the peak of the cap hid her face. She'd tucked the gun into the waistband of her trousers and pulled the sweater down over it. The towel she carried, swinging it as if she didn't have a care in the world. The expended cartridge had caught in the cotton material and she'd been careful not to drop it. Now it nestled in her back pocket.
The car engine was still cooling, clicking like an insect, and it roared into life as soon as she turned the key. She kept the lights off until she'd got to the end of the road, then switched them on. She headed towards 83 South, the gun pressing against her stomach like an erection.
She heard the ambulance before she saw its flashing lights, then it rushed by her, heading for Dr Brown's house. She didn't see any police cars but she was sure that one would be sent to investigate the shooting. She smiled as she wondered what Dr Brown would tell them. She knew she was taking a risk: if the psychiatrist told them that she'd shot him, they'd be able to get to her house long before she got home. They'd be waiting for her, standing at her doorway with the handcuffs ready, her adoptive parents wringing their hands and wondering where they'd gone wrong. She snorted quietly. It would never happen, not in a million years. Dr Brown had too much to lose. It would all come out, the fact that he'd been sleeping with the mother of a patient, and the tabloids would love that. But it wasn't just the fear of being exposed that would keep the psychiatrist's lips sealed. He'd looked into her eyes as she'd pulled the trigger, and she knew what he'd seen there. He'd seen the eyes of a killer, someone who'd killed before and who would have no compunction about killing again. She was just as capable of putting a bullet into his brain as she was of shooting him in the leg. It was ironic. He'd tried for almost three years to get some understanding of what went on in her mind, yet he'd learned more about her in the few minutes she'd spent in his bedroom, too late for him to use the knowledge.
Mersiha wound down the window, checked in the mirror to see that there was no traffic behind her, and tossed the towel out. It whirled through the air, flapping like a clumsy bird, and then she lost sight of it. She looked at the dashboard clock. She'd been away from the house for less than an hour. Just as she'd planned.
She switched the headlights off as she got within a half-mile of her house, put the car in neutral and switched the engine off as she approached the driveway, coasting the last hundred yards into the garage.
Buffy was out of her basket as soon as she heard the kitchen door creak open. She wagged her tail furiously and barked with delight, but Mersiha clamped her hands around her muzzle.
'Hush!' she hissed. Buffy struggled, trying to get free, but Mersiha tightened her grip. 'Be quiet,' she whispered. Buffy put her tail between her legs, not sure why she was being punished, but Mersiha didn't release her until the dog had calmed down. She pointed to the basket and Buffy obeyed, looking at her mistress with sad eyes, hoping for a sign that her anger was only temporary. Once the dog had curled up and put her nose on her tail, Mersiha stroked her behind the ears. 'Good girl,' she whispered. 'That's a good girl.' Buffy's tail flickered but she kept low in the basket and made no sound.
Mersiha put the car keys back on the hook by the door and tiptoed through the hall to her father's study. She closed the door quietly and then opened the gun cabinet and took out the HK-4's case. Working quickly and quietly, she reassembled the gun in its original configuration and put the barrel, spring and magazine she'd used back in their compartments. She stared at the case, checked that nothing was missing, then closed it and put it back in the cabinet, resetting the combination lock. Then she opened the safe in the floor and put back the unused ammunition. She put the key back in the bottom drawer and crept back upstairs to her bedroom. Ten minutes later she was fast asleep.
Freeman was buttering toast when Mersiha came downstairs, still in her nightdress. 'Hiya, pumpkin,' he said. 'You're up early.'
'So are you,' she said, taking one of the slices of toast.
'Hey, that's mine,' he laughed. She raised her eyebrows and took a big bite, then handed it back to him. 'That's okay, keep it,' he said. He patted his stomach. 'I guess one piece is enough for me. Katherine says I could stand to lose some weight.'
'You look fine,' she said, 'for a dad.'
'What do you mean, for a dad?'
'You know,' she said, sitting down and pouring herself a mug of coffee.
'I'm not sure that I do. Do you want jelly?' Freeman still had difficulty referring to strawberry jam as jelly. To Freeman, jelly conjured up images of the green wobbly stuff with whipped cream on top, served at birthday parties to screaming children.
To Americans, jelly meant jam, and to make it worse they often insisted on eating it with peanut butter.
Mersiha shook her head. 'I mean, you're in great shape – for someone your age. You know what I mean.'
'Thanks, pumpkin.'
'Now you're mad at me. That's what I get for being honest.'
Freeman scraped some of the butter off and put the dirty knife in the sink. That should save at least twenty calories, he thought.
'I'm not mad,' he said.
Mersiha giggled. 'If it makes you feel any better, Allison Dooley said she thought you were kinda cute.'
'Yeah? Which one's she?'
Mersiha popped the last morsel of toast into her mouth. 'The girl I have riding lessons with. Short mousy hair, braces. Acne like you wouldn't believe.'
Freeman grinned. 'Enough. And don't talk with your mouth full,' he said, wagging a finger at her.
'I've finished,' she said, wiping her hands on a piece of kitchen roll. 'So why are you up so early?'
Freeman sat down at the table and stirred a spoonful of sugar into his coffee. 'We've organised a demonstration for a group of overseas buyers over at the Aberdeen Proving Grounds.
I've got to get there early to help set things up. What's your excuse?'
'English test. I need some last-minute cramming.'
'Yeah? What's the subject?'