Gray's Talent, page 1
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
About Roy Chandler
Books by Roy Chandler
Gray's
Talent
A Novel By
Roy F. Chandler
Copyright © 1995 and 2013 by Katherine R. Chandler. All rights reserved.
Publication History
ebook: 2013
Katherine R. Chandler, Publisher
St. Mary's City, Maryland
First Printing: 1995
Iron Brigade Armory
Jacksonville, NC
This is a work of fiction. None of the characters represent any persons living or dead.
All characters and incidents depicted were created by the author.
Chapter 1
He liked coming upon the house from the field. He first saw an ill-defined mottling of brown and reddish roof tiles that blended within the natural tree colors. When the walls appeared, their white stucco stirred his senses. A deep and shadowed porch ran the length of the building, and he knew that a matching porch protected the opposite side.
Such porches were not common above the Yankee River's broad expanse. The plan was more southern Maryland, where sun beat strongly, and wearied farmers could rest in deep shade with their harried and overheated wives bringing outside any work movable.
In Pennsylvania, homes followed centuries-old Georgian stylings or more lately builder's schemes of toney split-levels and stretchy looking ranchers. The few who encountered the tile and stucco home paused for a second look.
Although larger than most, it was not a huge building. Its owner called it a bungalow, although no one else agreed. Three thousand square feet of living space moved the home from a bungalow into at least a small "Wow" class building. An estimator's quick appraisal might figure that at $60 per square foot plus a few grand extra for the fancy roof and the huge porches might bring the house's worth to about $200,000—plus land, of course. The house had actually cost more than one million dollars.
Robert Grayson liked coming onto his house from the field because only from that side could the entire home be seen. On the other sides, a photographer could not back off enough to catch it all. The building was tucked into a wood with oaks, maples, and dogwoods left growing almost against the broad roof eaves.
The field view saw the house from its back, and the long rear porch was heavily screened. The front of the home overlooked the river, which could be seen in winter when leaves were gone.
Looking into woods, the front porch boasted a half dozen well-used country rocking chairs scattered along its fifty foot length. The porch columns supporting the twenty-five or so tons of roofing tiles were square and tapered from top to bottom. Six feet apart, they looked clean and strong, as if they could support anything piled on. They also allowed porch sitters to feel a part of the forest that encroached with an occasional leafy branch entering the porch itself.
The house was nearly new, but without the empty rawness of an undeveloped yard. It appeared to have been in place for decades. Comfortable, might describe the home. A man, a couple, or a family could like living there, but at a million dollars?
Robert Grayson could smile at the expense. The house money and enough more had come easily. He had stolen it.
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Bucky Larson sat motionless, his True Tree camouflage blending well with the forest. The scoped rifle had been daubed brown and green so that only the telescopic sight's objective lens remained clear. Larson sheltered its possible reflection with a taped-on cardboard sunshade made from a toilet paper roll that extended four inches beyond the scope's lens.
Only Larson's eyes moved behind his net-like sniper's veil. Backed against a tree with laurel branches above and around he was hard to see. He had better be. His quarry was one of the best and could not be taken lightly.
Larson saw the man coming, a still distant figure barely caught through intervening forest. Larson swore silently, his finger remaining poised above the rifle's safety. The walker became lost behind trees, but he would probably be following the dim path that wove through the woods. He would appear again only yards across the small clearing Larson faced. Maybe ... Larson sharpened his senses. His mind should not wander. If he got the shot, it would be quick and only momentarily open. Others had tried and failed. Some doubted it could be done, but Larson was doing it right. He had planned long. He had come in before daylight, and there had been no carelessness, nothing left unconsidered. Luck always played a hand, and Larson swore again, eyes searching as he listened for the man's approach.
Something hard pressed the side of Bucky Larson's neck, and he jerked reflexively.
"Bang!" The voice held amusement, and Larson tried to accept that he had been crept up on without even a hint of it happening.
Bucky flipped his face veil aside and tried to grin as the man he had seen walking stepped from behind him. He knew his voice held astonishment, but it had to. He could not believe it.
"How in hell...? I saw you way over there, Mister Grayson, just walking along. Then all of a sudden you're right behind me sticking something in my neck. How'd you see me? How did you get from there to here? I mean, I was watching hard and...."
Grayson extended a lean-fingered hand to help the hunter to his feet. He hauled, and Larson came erect, leaves and forest humus falling from his camos, shaking his knees to loosen joints and muscles stiffened from long sitting.
Ignoring Larson's question, Grayson asked his own. "I guess you were after Old Bart?"
At Larson's nod, Grayson chuckled. "That has to be the oldest and smartest squirrel in the woods. Men have been after Bart since I got back here."
"You ever see him, Mister Grayson?"
"Well, Old Bart is supposed to be very small and coal black. I've seen a squirrel like that. Of course it might not be the same squirrel each time. He was always way out and moving fast."
"That fits Bart's description. A friend of mine, Mike Thompson, hunts him like I do. Mike says that all you ever get is a moving glimpse."
Grayson's smile was internal. This was his land, and he knew every twig. He knew Mike Thompson's favorite hide, which was a lot closer to Bart's territory than Bucky Larson's spot. Hell, he knew where Old Bart lived, but it had taken a lot of careful stalking to find Bart's tree. Larson would have to find the black squirrel on his own.
Bucky came back to his question. "How did you work in behind me like that, Mister Grayson? I still can't believe you could do that."
Grayson could have said, "Because I have spent my life learning how," but he chose to point out his route.
"I just ducked into a little swale that runs back there and came up walking quiet."
"Yeah, but how did you see me at all?"
"Bucky, I walk through here all the time. I happen to know that this tree does not have a solid blob at its base. I figured it was you hunting, and seeing I had already put any squirrels into cover, I thought I would just give you a start."
The explanation was close enough. He had seen the too-solid "brush" at the tree base, but until he had gotten close he had not guessed the hunter's identity. When he had touched Bucky Larson's neck, his other hand was still returning the pistol to its holster at the small of his back.
Robert Grayson could not take camouflaged riflemen as lightly as many might.
Grayson moved the conversation ahead. "That's an old Sako you are using, Bucky. What's its caliber?"
"It's a .222 Remington Magnum, Mister Grayson. It's an old cartridge, and you don't see it around much."
Larson offered the rifle for examination. "Careful, there's a round in the chamber." Then added, "The scope is even older than the gun. It's a Weaver K-6."
Grayson took the rifle with easy familiarity. "Well, the .222 is old, but it is plenty for this hunting. It would be a miracle to get more than a one hundred yard shot in this woods, so your scope is just right, too."
Shouldering and aiming the rifle, Grayson thought a moment, "I used to load the .222. I was out west then and used it to hunt prairie dogs. Until the .222 came along, I had a Hornet and a .218 Bee. Ever use either of those?"
Bucky liked the gun talk. He barely knew Grayson, but he had used his official car and had been in uniform when he had asked for permission to hunt on Grayson's land. That let Grayson know that he was a highway patrolman and a responsible person.
Grayson had said, "Sure, any time you want. Another officer already hunts here, and I'm out in the woods a lot, so don't be surprised if I ruin your hunting now and then." Bucky had not seen Grayson again, until now.
Grayson was pretty old, in his sixties Bucky suspected, but he was lean and fit looking, and the way Grayson had slipped up from behind was amazing. Bucky gave Grayson closer attention:
—About five feet ten inches tall, maybe one hundred and seventy pounds, graying hair, blue eyes, no glasses, moved light on his feet, dressed in khaki pants, tucked in polo shirt, light sweat shirt, carried a holstered handgun under the sweatshirt.
A pistol? The law officer's eyes squinted. Carrying concealed on yo
Maybe Grayson was a retired police officer, but they usually made the fact known to other cops, and Grayson had made no mention of what he had done for a living.
A law enforcement officer could be made uncomfortable by a friend or an acquaintance flaunting a gun-carrying regulation. What did you do? Ignore it? Warn, arrest your buddy? Remind might be a good idea.
Bucky took his rifle back, unloaded the chambered round, and, gripping the empty rifle between his knees, he shed his too warm head gear. He made his voice casual.
"You a retired Pennsylvania cop, Mister Grayson?"
When he answered, Grayson was facing away, looking through the woods and across the field to where the ridge of his house roof could be seen. His answer was unconcerned and in two parts.
"Retired federal, Bucky. I've got a permanent permit to carry concealed."
Grayson did not offer his permit, and Larson was not about to ask to see it. Bucky felt his face heat at the way Grayson had read his intent. He wondered how Grayson had understood that his question concerned the pistol concealed beneath the sweatshirt. He would like to get a look at a federal permit; he had never seen one. Permanent? He wondered what Grayson's job had been to qualify for that kind of document.
Bucky chose another approach.
"I saw your pistol range. Don't you shoot rifles anymore?"
For the moment, Grayson ignored the patrolman's question and asked his own.
"You calling it quits, Bucky? The sun is getting high and squirrels won't be moving."
"Yep, my stomach's calling lunch, anyway."
Grayson led the way through the woods toward the dirt road where Larson's vehicle would be parked. Then he handled Larson's question.
"Anybody who can shoot a pistol will do all right with a rifle, and I'm too old to hike back and forth to check rifle targets."
Bucky said, "I didn't see any targets and only a few empty cases, but your backstop is plenty shot up."
"I bring in my targets. I don't want anyone seeing how badly I shoot, and I reload most of my cases. Saves money and I still enjoy working up loads."
Larson said, "I looked over the leftover cases. Someone's been shooting .45s, .380s, and 9mm. A lot of .22 Long Rifle, too."
"I doubt anyone else has been shooting there. I leave some bad cases, all of the rimfires, and I miss others. You know how it is. Empty an eight-shot magazine and you will be lucky to recover half a dozen empties. Some get trampled, others just disappear. You know how it goes."
"What are you carrying now, Mister Grayson?"
"A little flat sided .380. What have you got?"
Bucky was a little embarrassed. "Seeing I have my rifle I only brought my .22 wheel gun."
"Must be a North American Arms .22 Magnum. Everybody has them these days."
"That's what I've got. Not a good choice for out of doors, now that I think about it."
They reached Larson's truck, a top of the line Ford F-150 with plush seats and automatic windows.
Bucky opened the cap and dropped the tailgate. He wiped the Sako down and secured it in a foam-lined Pelican case. Grayson watched silently, but Bucky felt the man judging how he handled his weapon.
Bucky closed the rear end and opened the driver's door. He smiled, "Well, Old Bart makes it through another day."
He climbed behind the wheel, started the deep throated engine, and they both listened to its powerful rumble.
Larson opened his window and closed his door. Fastening his seat belt he said, "I'll buy you a lunch at Steve's if you're interested, Mister Grayson."
The older man's answer was friendly. "Not today, Bucky, but I'll take a rain check. I ride my Harley out that way pretty often. I'll look for your truck."
Larson drove away thinking about it. A Harley-Davidson! Grayson looked more like a sports car type, maybe an MG or more likely, an XK120 Jaguar.
An interesting man, that was for sure. Carried a piece and moved like an Indian. How in Holy Hell had Grayson slid in behind him that way? Robert Grayson. Larson guessed he would ask around about him.
Cutting back through his woods, Grayson thought only a little about the young police officer. A sharp young man with a trained eye, that was clear. Grayson's .380 lay tight in his back; you had to be looking to detect it.
Grayson altered his course and came onto his pistol range. The shooting spot was primitive, simply a one hundred yard long path cleared to a small embankment that would absorb bullets. He removed a block of three-inch Post-it notes from a sweat shirt pocket and stuck six in a row along a shot-up target-holding board fifty feet down range.
Grayson walked away five steps then snapped around drawing his .380 as he turned. His body crouched, but his arms straightened to eye level. The pistol cracked three times, shifted to the empty hand and fired three more shots.
Grayson popped the magazine with one live round remaining in the pistol's chamber. A full magazine came from the sweatshirt pocket, and the pistol was again fully loaded.
He gathered his spent brass and his Post-it notes. He examined them as he walked. Four were solidly hit, one had a bullet's half-moon cut along an edge. One had been missed. Not missed by much, Grayson expected.
Chapter 2
The house had started as doodling on a scratch pad. The stranger in the adjoining cubicle had identified himself as Dick who had a degree in architecture. With little to occupy them, Grayson's house plan became an attractive time filler.
The simple sketch became careful drawings and eventually developed into a stack of complicated blueprints. Ideas beget concepts and many were included in the evolving structure.
Grayson and Dick did not discuss their occupations, but Dick understood Grayson's requirements more than most could have. Their work, each expected, at least paralleled the other's.
Dick said, "Geothermal heat pumps will give you the best heat and air conditioning. You can run your heat exchangers horizontally if you have a big field, or you can put them down wells if you are short of land." Grayson had a field. He brought plats and aerial photographs and they spent time positioning the house exactly right.
The architect called Grayson "Gray." Nearly everyone did.
"Gray, you'll want three tunnels. One to the river, and one out each end, but the fourth side—the field side—presents an expensive problem. It is one hundred and twenty yards to the wood's edge, and you would want your entrance well inside. Too far to tunnel, I think." Gray solved the problem another way, but that was after Dick's desk had been cleaned out, and a man called Phil sat there. Dick never resurfaced.
Fortunately, the house plan was virtually complete, and Gray began building. Sometimes he wondered about Dick. The man could have retired or been transferred. Dick might even be building his own home based on their plans, but Grayson doubted it.
A local man excavated Gray's cellar and concreted the footers and floor in one monolithic pour. He had groused over the silliness of three foot wide footers, all of the rebar in both the footers and the ridiculously thick six-inch cellar floor.
As if that were not twice what was needed, additional reinforced footers crossed under the floor where interior walls would later rise. All of the rebar was 5/8 inch and epoxy coated. It was laced in and crisscrossed like a bank vault, and where there would be walls, the reinforcing bars projected upward more than a foot on sixteen-inch centers.
A big company with a lot of cement trucks formed up and poured the cellar walls, the main floor, and all interior walls. The house walls were capped at the square with a twelve inch thick flat roof. The owner insisted on one continuous pour—no cold joints would be tolerated. The pour was a challenge because of the crisscrossed rebar and plumbing and electrical conduits running through everything and the complication of large window openings.
The walls were twelve inches thick, and they were pouring a special 3500 psi concrete with fiberglass added. The workmen decided they were building some sort of a government bomb shelter, but they could not explain the windows. Holes in a bomb shelter did not make sense.
