Secrets Don't Sink, page 18
Darren studied me. “Audrey, are you alright? Did you eat or drink anything unusual today?”
“What…what makes you ask that?”
“Because your face looks like it did the night at my house when you had your allergic reaction.”
I suspected Darren mentioned my being at his house to get under Holden’s skin, but whether the dig elicited its desired effect, Holden’s mild expression gave nothing away. He had no tells, unlike Darren’s jaw clench. He dragged his fingers seductively across the top of my toes to send me the message he wasn’t intimidated when it came to Darren.
“I’m good,” I squeaked. “It’s just warm in here.” I used the menu to fan my cheeks.
Darren slapped his menu onto the table. “I think I’ll have the crepes.” His declaration rhymed crepes with steps.
“I prefer quiche.” Holden winked at me.
The waitress arrived at the table with a coffee carafe and four mugs. She poured a cup for each of us, took our orders, and dashed off to the next table.
“So, am I to understand the mafia’s operating in Chattertowne?” Viv dropped the question like a bomb.
Darren dropped the spoon he’d been using to stir his coffee and clenched his jaw.
“Nothing official.” Holden gave both Vivienne and me a warning look.
“Unofficially, though…” I returned Holden’s stare with a defiant one of my own. “During my chat with Peter prior to his untimely, albeit necessary, death–”
I paused when I saw Darren’s face pale.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Continue.”
“Peter heavily alluded to organized criminal activity in Chattertowne. Not just back in Jimmy’s day, but ongoing to this day.”
“Was he specific?” Darren’s mouth tightened.
Holden interrupted before I could respond. “I think it’s unwise to speculate about an ongoing investigation, especially considering Darren’s involvement.”
He squeezed my big toe.
“I disagree,” I said. “I believe someone killed George Hart this morning to keep him quiet, maybe even to steal his copy of the Chattertowne book. Obviously, it wasn’t Peter Chatterton. If what Peter told me was true, there must still be either an active syndicate working with a new generation of criminals, or at least remnants who don’t want to spend their sunset years in federal prison.”
Holden laughed. “You think a seventy or eighty-year-old man murdered a hundred-year-old man to steal a book and bury a thirty-year-old secret?”
“No.” I bristled at his condescension. “Britney said the guy looked young. He could’ve been sent on behalf of someone, or someones.”
“Holden’s right,” Darren said.
His statement surprised everyone at the table. Holden choked on his coffee, Viv stared at Darren with wide eyes, and my mouth dropped open.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“This is like your insinuations about Marcus being murdered by bad guys, Audrey.” Darren’s laugh was haughty, and his patronizing tone did not ingratiate him to me any more than Holden’s vise grip on my toe.
I scowled at both men sitting across the table. “Believe whatever you want, but my gut’s telling me it’s all connected. Maybe Peter killed Marcus, or maybe he had someone in his organization do it. We’ll probably never know. With Marcus and Peter dead, Renee missing, and now with George out of the way, there’s no one left to tell the story.”
Holden’s countenance shifted from mockery to one of grave concern. “There is. You. You’re the one who’s been reconstructing the story from the ground up, amassing all the information and putting the pieces of the puzzle back together.”
Silence filled the table at the implication of his statement. If someone believed I possessed the information for which Marcus and George were killed to keep them silent, I was still a threat to them and, therefore, in danger.
“That’s it.” Holden slapped his hands on the table. “I’m taking you to the range, and you’re going to learn how to shoot. Today.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“I’m telling you, this is a bad idea,” I said.
Holden pulled up to the industrial complex where the gun range was located. “And I’m telling you, you’re gonna give me an ulcer. I can’t keep an eye on you twenty-four-seven. I need to know you can protect yourself.”
He opened the back door to retrieve the crutches.
“Don’t you want to know what I found out this morning that had me all hot to trot to Shady Meadows?” I asked.
He shut the door in response. When he opened the passenger door, he failed to fully suppress his smile.
“I do. And it isn’t Shady Meadows; it’s Sunrise Peak. Your version sounds like where has-been gangsters go to die.”
“Probably not too far from the truth,” I said. “That’s basically what an assisted living facility is. People get sent there to die. Did you know I was the first family member to visit George in like twenty years?”
Holden blinked. “You’re not family. You lied about being his niece.” He grabbed a large black bag from the trunk.
“Great, great, great niece. And you know what I mean. Family as far as they know.”
Leaning on my crutches, I took in the front of the range. Two large windows and a glass door were fortified with bars like a pawn shop in a seedy strip mall.
“This is it?”
I’d anticipated a more clandestine vibe, but instead, the lobby had the bright sterility of a shopping mall dental office. The man behind the counter looked like every Eagle Scout I’d ever known. He wore the beigest of beige pants with a blue checkered shirt reminiscent of a picnic tablecloth.
He greeted Holden with a salute. “Well, hello, sir. Good to see you again, Mr. Mayor.”
“Cliff, man, I keep telling you I’m the city manager, not the mayor.”
Cliff gave a conspiratorial wink. “We all know who’s the brains of that operation, who’s really in charge over there.”
It was an open secret in town that Holden spent his days trying to do damage control for his mercurial boss Mayor Quincy. He’d once told me he didn’t mind doing the heavy lifting and was grateful the mayor was more interested in being the facade of the operation because it allowed Holden to do his job without interference, but he would never admit that publicly.
“My girl Audrey here needs to practice shooting.”
“Are you wanting her to have lessons? Or just a pass?” Cliff asked.
Holden pulled his membership card from his wallet and placed it on the counter. “Just a pass. I’ll work with her.”
Cliff scrutinized me. “Do you think it’s a good idea for her to shoot in her condition?”
Holden must’ve sensed I was about to bail because he placed a firm hand on my back. “Yeah, she’s good. I’ll hold her steady.”
Cliff eyeballed me up and down. “Lucky you.” He raised his eyebrows twice. “She’ll need to watch the training video.”
Something wasn’t quite right about Cliff’s eyes. They were sort of…cross-eyed, but not exactly. Was that…was that a glass eye? I jerked to look at Holden. He cocked his head and leaned in so I could whisper into his ear.
“I think he has a glass eye.”
Holden’s brows and forehead furrowed. “What?” He hadn’t even tried to keep his voice down.
I glared at him and spoke through gritted teeth, “He has a glass eye!”
Cliff turned to stare at me, and I was horrified I might’ve said it loud enough to be heard. Judging by the confused look on Holden’s face, Cliff would’ve had to have above-average hearing if he’d heard what I’d said since the man right next to me hadn’t. Although, it was said when one sense was diminished, the others increased.
“Does she need to use the bathroom?”
He directed the question to Holden.
Like I was incapable of answering for myself.
“No, she’s fine. Let’s get her set up on the video.”
Cliff directed me to an area where several vending machines lined the walls, and six pub tables were positioned in the middle with stools tucked underneath. A faded poster showed a camouflaged Sarah Palin holding a rifle to advertise her (at the time) upcoming show with the phrase, “She’s coming with a full heart and a full magazine.”
Hanging above the poster was an old TV with a VCR mounted below it. Cliff pulled a remote from his pocket and aimed it at the player. The machine hummed as it rewound. I glanced back toward the lobby and made an exaggerated face of concern at Holden. He chuckled and returned to filling out paperwork.
For the next eight and a half minutes of warped, garbled video, Firearm Fred, Safety Expert, explained why I should never point a gun—loaded or unloaded—at anyone, to always assume it was loaded, to stay behind the firing line (to avoid getting shot), to keep the safety on when not shooting, to keep my finger off the trigger until ready to shoot, and to be aware of my surroundings so I didn’t trip and accidentally set off the weapon. That last one was of greatest concern to me.
When the video finished, I returned to the lobby, where Holden had donned clear plastic safety glasses and ear protection. He handed me the equipment, and I struggled to position them properly.
“These earmuffs don’t feel right.” I shifted them back and forth, trying to get them to sit comfortably on my head.
Cliff snickered. “They’re sound blockers, not earmuffs. Earmuffs are for building a snowman.” His voice sounded muffled and far away, but the condescension came through crystal clear.
Holden leaned close, pulled the padded cover off my ear, and whispered, “They’re earmuffs. Ignore him; he’s always heckling me about things he thinks he’s an expert on. He’s not.”
“I hope one of you is an expert. My life’s in your hands.”
Holden adjusted my ear protection device, whatever it was called, and straightened my safety glasses. “You’re cute.” He mouthed the words emphatically before grabbing the bag containing his gear off the counter.
Cliff buzzed us through the first of two sets of doors, momentarily trapping us in the middle.
“We’re alone,” Holden yelled, raising his eyebrows suggestively. His grin was mischievous.
I shook my head and laughed. “You’re incorrigible.”
He held up his hands in mock surrender. “I kid, I kid.”
The second buzz unlocked the forward doors, and I followed him into the shooting range.
“For a place where it’s important to see what you’re doing, it’s awfully dark in here,” I said.
“There are lights at each station and on the targets.”
He led me to a bay with a small shelf that separated us from the abyss into which we’d be shooting.
I craned my neck to look downrange, but everything appeared tar black.
“What’s back there?”
Holden squatted and pulled a rifle from the bag in sections. “There’s a rubber berm trap. It absorbs the bullets, so they don’t ricochet all over the range.” He stood and faced me. “We’ll begin with the rifle. I think it’ll be easiest for you to start. It has less kickback, a smaller muzzle flash, and is easier to control. Have you ever played the duck hunting video game?”
“I think so, a long time ago.”
“How about target games at the carnival?”
“Not really. Oh, wait! I did try the one where you shoot water into the mouth of a clown until his balloon pops. Does that count?”
“Not really. So, you’re a true beginner. I can work with this.” He inhaled an exaggerated breath.
“Such a martyr.”
“I don’t want to assume you know things you don’t or forget to tell you something important.” He assembled the weapon and loaded what appeared to be enormous bullets, checked the safety, and placed it on the counter facing away from us. Pulling out a target sheet with concentric circles, he attached it to the clips. A button to the left of the cubicle sent the target out into the dark. “I’m going to have you start here, at about thirty feet.”
“Seems far.”
“It shouldn’t be for this type of weapon. If it’s too far, we can pull it in. Do you think you can stand on your boot, or do you need your crutches? It’ll fit in the crook of your arm better if you don’t have them.”
“I’m a little worried about losing my balance and shooting you in the face.”
“I’m not going to let that happen. Here, I’ll stand right behind you and keep my hands on your hips to hold you steady. I’ll be too close for you to shoot me in the face. First, I need you to look and make sure the safety’s on. When the safety’s on, it’s pushed in here.” He pointed to the mechanism. “Is it on?”
“Yes, it’s on.”
“Okay, lift the rifle to your shoulder and hold the barrel here with your left hand. You want the butt to nestle right in here. You don’t want it too high, and you don’t want it loose. This is called your shoulder pocket. It needs to be pressed tight against it.” He touched me just above my armpit, below my right shoulder, to indicate where to place it. “Good. Do you feel how that sits in there?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Now, rest your right cheek here and look through the scope. It might be easier to close your left eye.”
“Is that why Cliff only needs one eye?”
I sensed Holden freeze behind me, and then his entire body began shaking with laughter.
“What? It’s a reasonable question. The man works at a gun range with only one functional eyeball.” I placed the rifle back on the counter and turned around to look at him. “That doesn’t give me a whole lot of confidence in this operation.”
“Jeez, you kill me.” He wheezed with laughter, and a tear formed in the corner of his eye.
“I’m trying to figure out how not to kill you.”
Holden took a shuddered breath. “Okay. Where were we?”
He wiped the stray tear before turning me around and pressing into my back. He placed his hands on my waist. It felt very intimate, despite the weaponry.
I picked up the rifle and positioned it against my shoulder. I rested my cheek on the stock and closed my left eye. “I can see the target.”
“Do you see how there’s a cross in the scope?”
“Yes.”
“You want the center of that cross to line up with the center of the target. Can you do that?”
“Yeah.” Squinting to see it, I closed my right eye, switched to my left, and then my right again. “It’s hard to focus. This is heavier than I expected and hard to hold in place.”
“You’ll get used to it. Okay, make sure your index finger’s straight and not on the trigger before you release the safety. You want your fingertip to pull the trigger.”
I tried to hold the rifle steady despite my shaking arms. “I don’t know if I can do this. I’m scared. There’s a real bullet in here.”
Holden’s breath warmed the back of my neck, and his voice rumbled, “Breathe. Shooting’s as much about breathing as anything. Spread your legs shoulder-width apart, maybe a little less, and lean forward. There you go. Now, release the safety. Take a deep breath, about three-fourths full, hold for a respiratory pause, then pull the trigger.”
The trigger required more pressure than I’d anticipated. The gun fired, and I yelped. I re-set the safety and placed it down with trembling hands. A hole had appeared in the white space to the right of the center target.
“You did it! How did it feel?”
I turned to face him. “Truthfully? Terrifying.”
He leaned toward me before pulling himself back like a puppy who’d reached the end of his leash. “I’m proud of you.”
“That was the scariest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
He placed his hands on my shoulders. “You’re shaking.”
“It’s not like on TV. I could feel the power I held and then the adrenaline rush afterwards.”
“You ready to try again?”
“I don’t know.”
“The best way to get over timidity is to keep practicing.”
Taking a deep breath, I nodded and picked up the rifle again.
“See that circle in the upper left? Aim for the middle.”
“I’ll be lucky if I hit the circle at all.” Releasing the safety, I took a breath and fired three shots in a row. Once again, as soon as the shots were taken, I engaged the safety and put down the gun.
“How was that? You hit the target. A little low and to the right, but you were in the general vicinity.”
“About the same, maybe a little better. I’m not sure how this will help me if someone tries to come after me, though. By the time I got myself into position, they’d have the advantage.”
“I agree. I wanted you to practice with the rifle first to get the feel of shooting. Now we’re going to move on to the pistol. Let me fire off what’s left in here. Move back a little.” Holden picked up the rifle, disengaged the safety, and decimated the bullseye of each target.
“Show-off. Do we need to clean up the shell casings?”
“No, they’re past the line. Remember? Never go past the line.”
He broke the rifle into sections and placed it back into the bag before pulling out a weapon that was tiny in comparison.
“What’s that, a lady gun? Did you bring me a lady gun?”
“This lady gun, as you call it, is a Glock Nineteen. It’s used by Israeli Special Forces, along with many U.S. law enforcement agencies. Its compact size makes it perfect for concealment; it’s lightweight, has good capacity. Shooting a pistol is different than a rifle. For one thing, you’ll have both hands together. With your strong hand, you want to grip it high to give you the best control.”
He wrapped his arms around me from behind, holding the handgun in front of me. He rubbed between my thumb and forefinger, and I felt my neck and chest grow warm. “This webbed part of your hand should fit right in here.” He placed the gun in my hand and positioned it accordingly. “Your trigger finger needs to be pointed straight, and these lower fingers need to be here under the trigger. Your left hand will wrap around them with your right thumb over your left.”
“This is awkward and uncomfortable.”
“What…what makes you ask that?”
“Because your face looks like it did the night at my house when you had your allergic reaction.”
I suspected Darren mentioned my being at his house to get under Holden’s skin, but whether the dig elicited its desired effect, Holden’s mild expression gave nothing away. He had no tells, unlike Darren’s jaw clench. He dragged his fingers seductively across the top of my toes to send me the message he wasn’t intimidated when it came to Darren.
“I’m good,” I squeaked. “It’s just warm in here.” I used the menu to fan my cheeks.
Darren slapped his menu onto the table. “I think I’ll have the crepes.” His declaration rhymed crepes with steps.
“I prefer quiche.” Holden winked at me.
The waitress arrived at the table with a coffee carafe and four mugs. She poured a cup for each of us, took our orders, and dashed off to the next table.
“So, am I to understand the mafia’s operating in Chattertowne?” Viv dropped the question like a bomb.
Darren dropped the spoon he’d been using to stir his coffee and clenched his jaw.
“Nothing official.” Holden gave both Vivienne and me a warning look.
“Unofficially, though…” I returned Holden’s stare with a defiant one of my own. “During my chat with Peter prior to his untimely, albeit necessary, death–”
I paused when I saw Darren’s face pale.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Continue.”
“Peter heavily alluded to organized criminal activity in Chattertowne. Not just back in Jimmy’s day, but ongoing to this day.”
“Was he specific?” Darren’s mouth tightened.
Holden interrupted before I could respond. “I think it’s unwise to speculate about an ongoing investigation, especially considering Darren’s involvement.”
He squeezed my big toe.
“I disagree,” I said. “I believe someone killed George Hart this morning to keep him quiet, maybe even to steal his copy of the Chattertowne book. Obviously, it wasn’t Peter Chatterton. If what Peter told me was true, there must still be either an active syndicate working with a new generation of criminals, or at least remnants who don’t want to spend their sunset years in federal prison.”
Holden laughed. “You think a seventy or eighty-year-old man murdered a hundred-year-old man to steal a book and bury a thirty-year-old secret?”
“No.” I bristled at his condescension. “Britney said the guy looked young. He could’ve been sent on behalf of someone, or someones.”
“Holden’s right,” Darren said.
His statement surprised everyone at the table. Holden choked on his coffee, Viv stared at Darren with wide eyes, and my mouth dropped open.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“This is like your insinuations about Marcus being murdered by bad guys, Audrey.” Darren’s laugh was haughty, and his patronizing tone did not ingratiate him to me any more than Holden’s vise grip on my toe.
I scowled at both men sitting across the table. “Believe whatever you want, but my gut’s telling me it’s all connected. Maybe Peter killed Marcus, or maybe he had someone in his organization do it. We’ll probably never know. With Marcus and Peter dead, Renee missing, and now with George out of the way, there’s no one left to tell the story.”
Holden’s countenance shifted from mockery to one of grave concern. “There is. You. You’re the one who’s been reconstructing the story from the ground up, amassing all the information and putting the pieces of the puzzle back together.”
Silence filled the table at the implication of his statement. If someone believed I possessed the information for which Marcus and George were killed to keep them silent, I was still a threat to them and, therefore, in danger.
“That’s it.” Holden slapped his hands on the table. “I’m taking you to the range, and you’re going to learn how to shoot. Today.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“I’m telling you, this is a bad idea,” I said.
Holden pulled up to the industrial complex where the gun range was located. “And I’m telling you, you’re gonna give me an ulcer. I can’t keep an eye on you twenty-four-seven. I need to know you can protect yourself.”
He opened the back door to retrieve the crutches.
“Don’t you want to know what I found out this morning that had me all hot to trot to Shady Meadows?” I asked.
He shut the door in response. When he opened the passenger door, he failed to fully suppress his smile.
“I do. And it isn’t Shady Meadows; it’s Sunrise Peak. Your version sounds like where has-been gangsters go to die.”
“Probably not too far from the truth,” I said. “That’s basically what an assisted living facility is. People get sent there to die. Did you know I was the first family member to visit George in like twenty years?”
Holden blinked. “You’re not family. You lied about being his niece.” He grabbed a large black bag from the trunk.
“Great, great, great niece. And you know what I mean. Family as far as they know.”
Leaning on my crutches, I took in the front of the range. Two large windows and a glass door were fortified with bars like a pawn shop in a seedy strip mall.
“This is it?”
I’d anticipated a more clandestine vibe, but instead, the lobby had the bright sterility of a shopping mall dental office. The man behind the counter looked like every Eagle Scout I’d ever known. He wore the beigest of beige pants with a blue checkered shirt reminiscent of a picnic tablecloth.
He greeted Holden with a salute. “Well, hello, sir. Good to see you again, Mr. Mayor.”
“Cliff, man, I keep telling you I’m the city manager, not the mayor.”
Cliff gave a conspiratorial wink. “We all know who’s the brains of that operation, who’s really in charge over there.”
It was an open secret in town that Holden spent his days trying to do damage control for his mercurial boss Mayor Quincy. He’d once told me he didn’t mind doing the heavy lifting and was grateful the mayor was more interested in being the facade of the operation because it allowed Holden to do his job without interference, but he would never admit that publicly.
“My girl Audrey here needs to practice shooting.”
“Are you wanting her to have lessons? Or just a pass?” Cliff asked.
Holden pulled his membership card from his wallet and placed it on the counter. “Just a pass. I’ll work with her.”
Cliff scrutinized me. “Do you think it’s a good idea for her to shoot in her condition?”
Holden must’ve sensed I was about to bail because he placed a firm hand on my back. “Yeah, she’s good. I’ll hold her steady.”
Cliff eyeballed me up and down. “Lucky you.” He raised his eyebrows twice. “She’ll need to watch the training video.”
Something wasn’t quite right about Cliff’s eyes. They were sort of…cross-eyed, but not exactly. Was that…was that a glass eye? I jerked to look at Holden. He cocked his head and leaned in so I could whisper into his ear.
“I think he has a glass eye.”
Holden’s brows and forehead furrowed. “What?” He hadn’t even tried to keep his voice down.
I glared at him and spoke through gritted teeth, “He has a glass eye!”
Cliff turned to stare at me, and I was horrified I might’ve said it loud enough to be heard. Judging by the confused look on Holden’s face, Cliff would’ve had to have above-average hearing if he’d heard what I’d said since the man right next to me hadn’t. Although, it was said when one sense was diminished, the others increased.
“Does she need to use the bathroom?”
He directed the question to Holden.
Like I was incapable of answering for myself.
“No, she’s fine. Let’s get her set up on the video.”
Cliff directed me to an area where several vending machines lined the walls, and six pub tables were positioned in the middle with stools tucked underneath. A faded poster showed a camouflaged Sarah Palin holding a rifle to advertise her (at the time) upcoming show with the phrase, “She’s coming with a full heart and a full magazine.”
Hanging above the poster was an old TV with a VCR mounted below it. Cliff pulled a remote from his pocket and aimed it at the player. The machine hummed as it rewound. I glanced back toward the lobby and made an exaggerated face of concern at Holden. He chuckled and returned to filling out paperwork.
For the next eight and a half minutes of warped, garbled video, Firearm Fred, Safety Expert, explained why I should never point a gun—loaded or unloaded—at anyone, to always assume it was loaded, to stay behind the firing line (to avoid getting shot), to keep the safety on when not shooting, to keep my finger off the trigger until ready to shoot, and to be aware of my surroundings so I didn’t trip and accidentally set off the weapon. That last one was of greatest concern to me.
When the video finished, I returned to the lobby, where Holden had donned clear plastic safety glasses and ear protection. He handed me the equipment, and I struggled to position them properly.
“These earmuffs don’t feel right.” I shifted them back and forth, trying to get them to sit comfortably on my head.
Cliff snickered. “They’re sound blockers, not earmuffs. Earmuffs are for building a snowman.” His voice sounded muffled and far away, but the condescension came through crystal clear.
Holden leaned close, pulled the padded cover off my ear, and whispered, “They’re earmuffs. Ignore him; he’s always heckling me about things he thinks he’s an expert on. He’s not.”
“I hope one of you is an expert. My life’s in your hands.”
Holden adjusted my ear protection device, whatever it was called, and straightened my safety glasses. “You’re cute.” He mouthed the words emphatically before grabbing the bag containing his gear off the counter.
Cliff buzzed us through the first of two sets of doors, momentarily trapping us in the middle.
“We’re alone,” Holden yelled, raising his eyebrows suggestively. His grin was mischievous.
I shook my head and laughed. “You’re incorrigible.”
He held up his hands in mock surrender. “I kid, I kid.”
The second buzz unlocked the forward doors, and I followed him into the shooting range.
“For a place where it’s important to see what you’re doing, it’s awfully dark in here,” I said.
“There are lights at each station and on the targets.”
He led me to a bay with a small shelf that separated us from the abyss into which we’d be shooting.
I craned my neck to look downrange, but everything appeared tar black.
“What’s back there?”
Holden squatted and pulled a rifle from the bag in sections. “There’s a rubber berm trap. It absorbs the bullets, so they don’t ricochet all over the range.” He stood and faced me. “We’ll begin with the rifle. I think it’ll be easiest for you to start. It has less kickback, a smaller muzzle flash, and is easier to control. Have you ever played the duck hunting video game?”
“I think so, a long time ago.”
“How about target games at the carnival?”
“Not really. Oh, wait! I did try the one where you shoot water into the mouth of a clown until his balloon pops. Does that count?”
“Not really. So, you’re a true beginner. I can work with this.” He inhaled an exaggerated breath.
“Such a martyr.”
“I don’t want to assume you know things you don’t or forget to tell you something important.” He assembled the weapon and loaded what appeared to be enormous bullets, checked the safety, and placed it on the counter facing away from us. Pulling out a target sheet with concentric circles, he attached it to the clips. A button to the left of the cubicle sent the target out into the dark. “I’m going to have you start here, at about thirty feet.”
“Seems far.”
“It shouldn’t be for this type of weapon. If it’s too far, we can pull it in. Do you think you can stand on your boot, or do you need your crutches? It’ll fit in the crook of your arm better if you don’t have them.”
“I’m a little worried about losing my balance and shooting you in the face.”
“I’m not going to let that happen. Here, I’ll stand right behind you and keep my hands on your hips to hold you steady. I’ll be too close for you to shoot me in the face. First, I need you to look and make sure the safety’s on. When the safety’s on, it’s pushed in here.” He pointed to the mechanism. “Is it on?”
“Yes, it’s on.”
“Okay, lift the rifle to your shoulder and hold the barrel here with your left hand. You want the butt to nestle right in here. You don’t want it too high, and you don’t want it loose. This is called your shoulder pocket. It needs to be pressed tight against it.” He touched me just above my armpit, below my right shoulder, to indicate where to place it. “Good. Do you feel how that sits in there?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Now, rest your right cheek here and look through the scope. It might be easier to close your left eye.”
“Is that why Cliff only needs one eye?”
I sensed Holden freeze behind me, and then his entire body began shaking with laughter.
“What? It’s a reasonable question. The man works at a gun range with only one functional eyeball.” I placed the rifle back on the counter and turned around to look at him. “That doesn’t give me a whole lot of confidence in this operation.”
“Jeez, you kill me.” He wheezed with laughter, and a tear formed in the corner of his eye.
“I’m trying to figure out how not to kill you.”
Holden took a shuddered breath. “Okay. Where were we?”
He wiped the stray tear before turning me around and pressing into my back. He placed his hands on my waist. It felt very intimate, despite the weaponry.
I picked up the rifle and positioned it against my shoulder. I rested my cheek on the stock and closed my left eye. “I can see the target.”
“Do you see how there’s a cross in the scope?”
“Yes.”
“You want the center of that cross to line up with the center of the target. Can you do that?”
“Yeah.” Squinting to see it, I closed my right eye, switched to my left, and then my right again. “It’s hard to focus. This is heavier than I expected and hard to hold in place.”
“You’ll get used to it. Okay, make sure your index finger’s straight and not on the trigger before you release the safety. You want your fingertip to pull the trigger.”
I tried to hold the rifle steady despite my shaking arms. “I don’t know if I can do this. I’m scared. There’s a real bullet in here.”
Holden’s breath warmed the back of my neck, and his voice rumbled, “Breathe. Shooting’s as much about breathing as anything. Spread your legs shoulder-width apart, maybe a little less, and lean forward. There you go. Now, release the safety. Take a deep breath, about three-fourths full, hold for a respiratory pause, then pull the trigger.”
The trigger required more pressure than I’d anticipated. The gun fired, and I yelped. I re-set the safety and placed it down with trembling hands. A hole had appeared in the white space to the right of the center target.
“You did it! How did it feel?”
I turned to face him. “Truthfully? Terrifying.”
He leaned toward me before pulling himself back like a puppy who’d reached the end of his leash. “I’m proud of you.”
“That was the scariest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
He placed his hands on my shoulders. “You’re shaking.”
“It’s not like on TV. I could feel the power I held and then the adrenaline rush afterwards.”
“You ready to try again?”
“I don’t know.”
“The best way to get over timidity is to keep practicing.”
Taking a deep breath, I nodded and picked up the rifle again.
“See that circle in the upper left? Aim for the middle.”
“I’ll be lucky if I hit the circle at all.” Releasing the safety, I took a breath and fired three shots in a row. Once again, as soon as the shots were taken, I engaged the safety and put down the gun.
“How was that? You hit the target. A little low and to the right, but you were in the general vicinity.”
“About the same, maybe a little better. I’m not sure how this will help me if someone tries to come after me, though. By the time I got myself into position, they’d have the advantage.”
“I agree. I wanted you to practice with the rifle first to get the feel of shooting. Now we’re going to move on to the pistol. Let me fire off what’s left in here. Move back a little.” Holden picked up the rifle, disengaged the safety, and decimated the bullseye of each target.
“Show-off. Do we need to clean up the shell casings?”
“No, they’re past the line. Remember? Never go past the line.”
He broke the rifle into sections and placed it back into the bag before pulling out a weapon that was tiny in comparison.
“What’s that, a lady gun? Did you bring me a lady gun?”
“This lady gun, as you call it, is a Glock Nineteen. It’s used by Israeli Special Forces, along with many U.S. law enforcement agencies. Its compact size makes it perfect for concealment; it’s lightweight, has good capacity. Shooting a pistol is different than a rifle. For one thing, you’ll have both hands together. With your strong hand, you want to grip it high to give you the best control.”
He wrapped his arms around me from behind, holding the handgun in front of me. He rubbed between my thumb and forefinger, and I felt my neck and chest grow warm. “This webbed part of your hand should fit right in here.” He placed the gun in my hand and positioned it accordingly. “Your trigger finger needs to be pointed straight, and these lower fingers need to be here under the trigger. Your left hand will wrap around them with your right thumb over your left.”
“This is awkward and uncomfortable.”
