Mop Galloway rose from his chair. “They don’t, Doctor Dyer. There is something in the water down at Parris Island that fossilizes their brains. After Boot Camp, Marines just run on automatic.”
Mop waved at Gabriel. “Come on, Shooter, you’ve used up all of the good will around here.”
Dyer said, “Come out to our place for the night, Shooter. Hannah will be disappointed if you don’t.”
Shooter said, “Thanks, but Uncle Mop is right. I’ve been around too long and too often. You’ve been more than a friend, Doc. Next time I get shot I’ll look you up first.”
Dyer groaned. “When’ll that be, Galloway, next week?”
Shooter grinned. “No, I’m on hold right now. I appreciate everything, Doc, and I accept that there is nothing wrong inside my head. I’ve always claimed that, you’ll remember.”
Dyer grinned and held out a hand for shaking. “Now, Gabriel, I didn’t say that exactly. All we experts claim is that the bullet left no permanent damage. Beyond that, old partner, I am not prepared to testify.”
+++
Mop chose to drive until they were on the Pennsylvania turnpike. Shooter leaned his seat back and got comfortable. His mind drifted across the last two months. It had been a satisfying time.
He thought a lot about his battalion still battling it out in Iraq. He heard now and then through e-mail, but time and even a little distance changed directions. When you were out, you were out, and the team, your friends, whatever you were dealing with moved on—as you did.
When the army and Walter Reed let him go, Shooter had returned to the county determined to get to work on the many things he had planned while overseas.
There was the new house to get underway, but the builder he wanted was tied up for the next two months. So that had to wait.
He had money talks with Dan Grouse.
Grouse said, “I’m ready to go back into the stock market, Shooter. You want to come with me?”
Shooter said, “You’re the man, Dan. If it’s time, let’s do it.”
“And, you’re a fine client, Gabriel Galloway.” Grouse joked but he meant his words.
“We did well with the municipal bonds, Shooter. Not that we made much money, but we didn’t lose any, and for the last couple of years, that has been a major accomplishment. People who stayed in the stock market lost nearly a third of their portfolio’s value, but now is the time to get back in.”
Grouse had qualifiers, of course. “We won’t be expecting golden bubbles like the late nineties, Shooter. That kind of market was mindless and unhealthy and, in the end, it was disastrous. We will remain alert to the boom-to-bust cycle because it will come again.
“The new market will grow, but compared to those earlier times progress will feel sluggish. That is the way a stock market should operate. Good companies should increase in value, but not because of wild and baseless speculative buying. If that mindless speculation appears again, we will once more withdraw—and we will be quick about it.”
As if irritated, Grouse scrubbed at his thick white hair. “I intend to put some money, including part of yours, into precious metals, Shooter. Gold and Silver, perhaps copper are due to break out and rise dramatically. I think there can be great profit there.
“We may see little difference over a year, but when examined after perhaps ten years, we will have significantly more.” Grouse grinned. “At least that is the plan. The markets can turn and bite hard, as most have recently discovered.”
Roy Elder was not to be found. Galloway’s rather amateurish efforts on the Internet brought up nothing. Shooter considered hiring an expert, but that would leave an interest trail. Galloway put Elder on hold.
A problem often surfacing in his mind was the advancing ages of everyone he cared about. Shooter included himself.
He, Gabriel Galloway was thirty years old, and no longer a young and inexperienced boy notable only by a knack for shooting.
Dan Grouse was talking about retiring. Emma Showalter was becoming increasingly infirm. Since Hannah Dyer had left, Emma had another distant cousin living in with her, but Emma was very old, and . . . ?
Uncle Mop Galloway was getting on as well. Mop had to be nearing sixty. Shooter resolved to pin that age down more closely.
Sheriff Brunner had retired, and it looked as if even the school president would soon hang up his eagles.
That meant that Roy Elder could have already passed on, or he might at least be getting decrepit. Shooter planned to give those possibilities more thought as well. Perhaps just letting the last Elder run down was the best way to end it all, but he had vowed—so very long ago—to kill them all.
Kill them all! Shooter Galloway found it harder to genuinely care. He could almost measure his life by the men he had shot, and there always seemed to be another living target eager to run into his sights.
Gabriel Galloway, killer of men, was not a reputation to be savored, but so far, Gabriel feared his life had amounted to little more. As Battalion S3, in charge of plans and training, he had virtually run his battalion for more than a year, and he had a few years teaching experience to his credit. Not impressive he feared. What could he do about it? Not much, at least until Roy Elder was removed from the table.
In most ways, Galloway enjoyed his life. He liked teaching school, and he particularly cherished his freedom to come and go or pick and choose. He did not suffer loneliness, and he had no notable feelings about the men he had killed. He experienced no bizarre dreams or nightly sweats.
He had survived Hannah’s departure with little more than irritated regrets, and sometimes he thought that not becoming tied down with a wife (and probably a family) was more than compensated for by the liberty to sink into personal interests without outside responsibilities crowding for time and attention.
To finish out the academic year, Major Galloway helped out a little at the school—mostly substitute teaching for faculty officers who wanted to get away for a day or two.
On his first campus tour, Shawn McMillin had appeared and resumed his position at Major Galloway’s left side. The small cadet had marched up, rendered his best salute, and announced that he had been keeping close track on Major Galloway’s heroic war experiences. Being so devotedly admired was heady stuff, and the faculty seemed to accept that cadet McMillin was Shooter’s boy.
Once, Galloway had taught Shawn’s grade. He had found it nearly impossible to remain on subject, and ended up, as did most substitutes, merely entertaining the students. The class attention span was about an inch long, and their live-wire energy demanded unflagging attention. Shooter’s respect for grammar and middle school teachers rose dramatically.
Corporal Shawn McMillin (the boy had done well in the military end of things) regularly announced that his father was coming for commencement, and that Major Galloway would probably end up working for him. Shooter did not pursue that career possibility, but a father so cared about by a young boy must have something on the ball, and Galloway would be pleased to meet him.
Commencement ceremonies covered a three-day period and occurred during the first days of June. The programs included a personal oration by each graduating senior; there was a parade and a manual of arms contest. The Glee Club sang and debaters vied for intellectual recognition with declaimers who re-spoke important passages from significant works. Gunga Din was always a favorite.
Parents roamed the campus attempting to lure the faculty into conversations, but the fathers and mothers were up against highly practiced dodgers. Except for a few like Major Galloway who enjoyed the conversations, faculty appeared only moments before an activity was to begin and magically disappeared at its end.
Shooter understood both sides. Many of the teachers had been at the school for decades and they had heard and said it all too many times. Their immediate interests were to finish an exhausting year and forget their work until September. The parents were, of course, hungry to hear anything about their offspring and sought even the smallest details about
the school and its teachers.
Mister McMillin’s son Shawn almost dragged his father through other parents to meet the most important Major Shooter Galloway, a wounded war hero, courageous survivor of danger-filled battles who, Shawn explained, was highly decorated but should have gotten far more medals for defeating the Iraqi army virtually single-handed.
Shooter endured the virtual canonization with an inclusive smile that he hoped the father would accept as denial with understanding of a young boy’s over-the-top enthusiasm.
Mister McMillin stood six feet, tall and Shooter judged him to be about fifty years old. The father was solid in build, and he retained an almost Italian-quality head of thick silver hair. Galloway was pleased that McMillin’s haircut was fresh and quite short. Almost military, Shooter judged.
The father dressed simply in slacks and an open-collared shirt under a sport jacket. The man’s eyes were focused and intent. His handshake was strong without being crushing. Dad McMillin made a good impression.
So did his bodyguard.
Ted Barner was more than a bodyguard. Probably in his middle sixties, Barner appeared to also be Mister McMillin’s trusted confidante, but Shooter saw the pistol shape beneath Barner’s jacket, and it had to be a large, serious handgun to make those particular stretches and wrinkles. Guessing, Galloway thought the man might be packing a 1911 type .45-caliber pistol.
Interesting, but Shawn McMillin had always implied that his father was important, and as Major Galloway’s only expertise beyond teaching school lay in guns and shooting—perhaps some law enforcement skills and know-how from military police education—it was probable that McMillin senior worked in a similar field.
Not until the second day did a McMillin representative approach Major Galloway. Ted Barner found Shooter alone, enjoying a break below the chapel where few parents chose to assemble.
Barner said, “I understand that you were a military police officer, Major Galloway.”
“I still am, Mister Barner. I’ve just been put out to pasture for a while.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Not the combat and miseries of the Middle East, but I dearly miss the military camaraderie and a sense of doing something specially important.”
Shooter questioned, “Have you been in the service, Mister Barner?”
“Marine Corps, Vietnam—two tours, had a company, then went to battalion staff. Got out in seventy-eight and have worked for Mister McMillin ever since.”
“Semper Fi, Mister Barner.”
“Semper Fi, Major.”
“You like the Army better than the Corps, Major?”
“Nope, but I like my position better. Once I hoped to be a Gunnery Sergeant, and I might have succeeded except for a Navy Corpsman who got me interested in going to college.”
“Regrets?”
“No, but you know how it is. Once a Marine, always a Marine.”
They considered each other for a long moment before Barner said, “Shawn thinks a lot of you, Major.”
“He’s a fine boy, and he will make an excellent cadet leader. At this school we consider that a compliment.”
Galloway added, “Shawn thinks the world of his father, and that is not the usual case with young boys.”
Barner appeared to think that over for another lengthy moment.
“Bob, Mister McMillin that is, hates having Shawn away at school like this, but sending him here seems a wise choice.”
Galloway did not know how to directly respond, so he said, “We like having him here.”
Following another pause, Barner said, “Mister McMillin asked me to speak with you. He would like to have an hour or so of your time. This evening, if possible. We have to leave by noon tomorrow, and he would be appreciative.
Galloway asked, “Do you have supper plans? We could eat simply at The Curve. They serve large and reasonably priced meals, or we could drive to a more upscale restaurant. I would enjoy meeting with Mister McMillin, and I can be free any time after the cadets march in to their evening meal.”
Barner agreed, and decided that they would meet at The Curve at 1800 hours. Galloway was amused by the natural use of military time, and wondered if McMillin and Barner were in some way connected to government.
Mister McMillin had something private to speak about, and Shooter was willing to listen. Perhaps the father wanted his son moved in certain directions. Those kinds of requests were common, but they did not require special meetings. Perhaps there was more.
McMillan and Barner sat across from Galloway, and Barner had brought a thick manila folder which he put aside, apparently for scrutiny following their meal.
The men ordered soft drinks and studied the menu. McMillin said, “Simple, nutritious, and fattening as hell.”
Galloway said, “And you get a lot of it. Think small. These are big meals.”
Barner asked, “Hamburgers?”
“Bad choice—overcooked, plain old bun, and nearly tasteless.”
McMillin said, “I’ll have the roast beef sandwich. They are always safe.” Barner and Galloway followed suit.
For a while they talked about the military and the Iraq War. Shooter quickly discovered that he was being allowed to do most of the talking. Being looked over? Evaluated? For what?
Subjects changed and roamed through education and federal level politics. Gun control and the Second Amendment came up, and Galloway decided to make a point.
Shooter said, “I am certain that at least Mister Barner accepts the right to carry, or he would not be packing that big gun under his arm.”
Far from being embarrassed, Barner said, “I knew this jacket was shrinking. That gun never used to show.”
McMillin laughed. “You’ve put on weight, Ted, and you know it.”
“I’m getting old, Bob.” McMillin did not answer his assistant’s comment, but Shooter sensed meaning behind the words.
Barner said, “What kind of a piece do you have in that ankle holster, Major?”
Caught, blown up by his own petard. Shooter laughed aloud. “Damn, I must be putting on weight, that gun didn’t used to show.”
They shared laughter, and Shooter said, “It’s a North American Arms .22 Magnum revolver. Anything bigger shows under uniform pants.”
McMillin offered, “I carry a nine millimeter. How does that strike you, Major?” McMillin did not show his pistol.
Galloway answered frankly. “Too light, Mister McMillin. In uniform, I am stuck with this .22, but otherwise I carry a .44 special revolver. I like revolvers. They are fast, and they never jam. I place those attributes ahead of their too fat shapes.”
“Big gun.” Barner did not sound critical.
“Big bullet, Mister Barner, and that is what counts.”
The waitress removed their plates and Barner produced his thick folder. Galloway gathered that dessert was not on their menu.
Chapter 30
McMillin took over.
“Major Galloway, I would like to call you Shooter.” He grinned, “As my son, and I gather, the entire cadet corps does beyond your presence, and I would appreciate you addressing us as Ted and Bob. Would that be acceptable?”
Galloway was pleased. “Of course it would, Bob.” He nodded to the right-hand man, “Ted.
“Actually, the Major title is so new I am still not completely comfortable with it.”
Bob McMillin pointed to Barner’s folder.
“That file contains everything commonly known about you and your life, plus more than a few things very few are likely to discover.” McMillin waited for Galloway’s reaction.
Shooter wondered how he was supposed to feel. Anger over strangers poking around in his life? Let them search. His tracks were well covered —where they needed to be.
Interested and curious fit better. Why on earth would McMillin be investigating him? Because his son liked him? The potential but undescribed employment that Shawn spoke about? A boy’s imaginings, Shooter had believed.
Galloway asked,
“Now why would you be interested in my activities?”
Bob McMillin avoided answering, “You do not seem perturbed that we have assembled a dossier on you.”
“I’m not. There are few secrets anymore. These days someone somewhere is looking at anyone we could name. It might be the government, possibly hiring officers, perhaps borrowing or loan institutions, collection agencies are always lurking. I imagine you searched all of those and more, didn’t you?”
Bob said, “All of those and many more.”
Galloway did not wait for further response.
“I am sure that you discovered that I have no secrets worthy of investigation, and there is nothing sinister or unique in my life except , , ,” Shooter paused, “the number and circumstances of the civilian Americans I have shot.
Shooter Galloway Page 32