by Paula Boyd
The target was only a few yards away so I had a pretty good chance of hitting some part of it if I could just get my mind wrapped around the correct sequence of actions to get the bullet headed in that general direction. I ran down the list: Safety off; load the first round in the chamber; hold the gun properly, left fingers on top of right ones; aim--surely I could at least hit the paper; squeeze trigger. Bang!
There wasn’t really any kickback to the shot and that surprised me. I must have been anticipating that the gun would slam back into me like a hunting rifle because it felt like I’d flinched at the last second. I think I might have shut my eyes, too, but I wasn’t going to admit that part. "I think I missed."
"That’s fine," Jerry said patiently. "You pulled off to the right at the last second. Happens all the time. Just keep your focus on the target and squeeze the trigger slowly with the tip of your finger. Try again."
I did exactly what he said and squeezed, carefully. Pop.
A hole appeared a couple of inches to the right of the black circle. Wow! I did it! And I could do that again, yes, I could. Pop. Within an inch of the first shot and closer to the circle. Hey, this was kind of fun. Pop. Pop. Pop.
I guess I must have forgotten about that "just shoot three rounds" order from Mr. Sheriff because I emptied the first clip, ejected it quite expertly, and grabbed for another. I popped it in, chambered up the first round and aimed. I emptied that clip, too, and jammed in the third.
When I was finished, my paper guy had twenty bullet holes all over his body. Somewhere along the way, I’d become enamored with the rapid-fire approach and had neglected to work on the aiming part. Even so, I thought I’d done a pretty darn good job of keeping my holes inside the lines. Paper guy sure wouldn’t be messing with me again. I turned around to grin at Jerry, but he was sitting on the bench loading up the empty clips for me. What a nice guy! I held my hand out for one.
He shook his head and pointed to a tall gray-haired man standing just inside the door.
Well, damn. Time for school. And here I was just starting to get the hang of things.
* * * *
The class was interesting, informative, darned technical in spots, and inherently gruesome. I saw lots of bullets fired into some special gelatin stuff, but it did not adequately emulate the actual damage done to real humanoid types, which I also saw on film in full color detail--not to mention the ones I'd seen in person.
Still, misconceptions abound, particularly in Hollywood. I have never found it particularly realistic that the force of a single bullet could hurl a body across a room or out a window, but I guess that’s what makes a movie an action flick. I also did not need to be told that you can get shot and not know it. Ronald Reagan and I have learned that lesson the hard way.
Actually, I think having been wounded in the line of duty--sort of--kind of made me "one of the boys," and before I knew it, classroom training was over and Teacher John and I were back on the firing line. Jerry was nowhere to be found, and that was plenty fine with me. I needed a little time to get my technique down without him watching over my shoulder.
Teacher John was patient but concise. I didn’t get to just blast away at the paper. He gave me situations to evaluate, and made me repeat the drills until I got them right. Then I did it all over again just to be sure. Mel Gibson wasn’t likely to sign me up for Lethal Weapon XVI, but I wasn’t Barney Fife either.
Time literally flew. I only knew it was getting late because I was beginning to get hungry and needed to go to the bathroom.
After I emptied my last clip, Teacher John took off his earmuffs and told me to do the same. Jerry walked into the range about that same time. I must have been beaming with pride because Jerry was looking at me--rather proudly I might add--and smiling.
"How’d she do, John?"
"I wouldn’t make her mad if I was you." He said it like he was serious and he didn’t grin either. Teacher John is a smart man. "Those short barrels aren’t usually very accurate, but she did real fine."
I guess I might have beamed a little more. "Want me to show you?" I asked, ready to show off my new tricks.
Jerry shook his head. "I’ve been watching you for the last hour through the glass. Besides, it’s been a long time since you’ve eaten--or had a Dr Pepper. You don’t seem to do well under those conditions."
He had a point, and it was nice that he’d thought about such things. Going too long without eating can make me cranky, but I wasn’t quite to the cranky point just yet. Armed, dangerous and cheerful was probably a closer fit.
"I’ll get started on the paperwork, Miz Jackson," Teacher John said. "It’ll be out front whenever you’re ready."
I turned in my safety glasses and earmuffs and John presented me with a signed certificate for my class. The guys behind the counter were mighty impressed with my hole-filled papers and tried again to talk me out of the little Mustang. I told them it wasn’t the gun that put those bullets in the center of that target, buddy boys, it was me. As they laughed and chanted some over-used NRA slogans, Jerry dragged me from the club and loaded me up in the Expedition.
"Hey, there was no need to rush off," I said, snapping my seat belt. "I was having a good time back there."
"I noticed." He started the truck, grabbed a thick packet from beside his seat and tossed it into my lap. "I was worried this was a mistake before we got here. Now, I’m sure of it."
"What, I wasn’t supposed to have fun? You’d be happier if I was complaining right now?"
He shoved his mirrored glasses over his eyes. "That’s a tough call. I just wanted you to be able to protect yourself. I didn’t expect you to turn into Rambo Jolene."
Heh, heh, heh. Real funny, or it might have been if it weren’t sort of true. I liked having the little metallic peacekeeper at my side more than I really wanted to admit. "Well, even if you are sorry you gave it to me, I want to thank you very much. I like the little pistol a lot." Yes, there was genuine gratitude and glee this time around. "What’s in the envelope?" I asked, even as I was peeping inside and reading aloud. "Concealed Weapons Permit? From Colorado? How did you get this?"
"I have a few friends in the sheriff’s office up there. They faxed up the papers. Everything is filled in except for a few personal questions. In a weak moment, Rick and I both wrote you letters of recommendation. Just sign the forms and let’s get this in the overnight drop box before I change my mind."
Oh, my, but he did not sound nearly as cheerful as he had earlier when he was rushing me out of the hotel room. And a touch of sarcasm to boot. Tsk, tsk. Okay, maybe I was going a little over the top--although I had really enjoyed the lessons--but I was mostly doing it for his benefit.
The truth was, I had no desire to carry the little Colt with me everywhere I went. Playing around at a gun range was entertaining, but it did not qualify me for a SWAT unit and I knew it better than anyone. As amusing as it was to shoot at targets, I held no delusions that I could perform equally well under pressure--or threat of imminent death. I’d get around to telling him that before long, but since he’d gone to the trouble--and it was no small amount--of arranging the permit, I pulled out the papers, filled in the blanks and shoved it all back in the mailer. "So, does this Colorado permit you got me work here in Texas, too?"
"Not automatically, no, but I’ve foolishly taken care of that as well. Everything should be in order by tomorrow."
I glanced into the back seat where the gun case and box of goodies rode. "So, what this means is that today I have to hold the gun up where everybody can see it--pretty stupid if you ask me--but tomorrow I can hide it under my shirt?"
He nodded. "If you want it under your shirt today, you’ll need an official to help you with that." One corner of his mouth curved up in a little grin. "I’m available."
"Yeah, right."
He chuckled. "I think I better take you to dinner first."
* * * *
It was nice to have the old Jerry back, and when we pulled up to a local--and h
ighly authentic--Mexican food place out by the hotel, I didn’t hesitate to say what was on my mind. "Didn’t we just have Mexican food at lunch?"
He turned off the car, unhooked his seatbelt and leaned toward me. "First of all, you hardly ate anything at lunch. Second of all, we’re here for old times’ sake." He grinned then turned to open his door. "Just don’t throw up on my car this time, okay?"
I did not honor his comment with a response, just hopped out and headed into the restaurant. I have never been very good with alcohol and he knows it as well as I do. A little bit and I’m having great fun. A little more and I want to take a nap, any more than that and I automatically combust. The pattern had not improved any in the last twenty-five years either.
As we were being shown to our table, Jerry slipped his arm around my waist and whispered, "It was still one of the best nights of my life."
Mine too. I scooted into the booth and he slid in across from me. I was kind of hurt that he didn’t sit beside me, but that would have pretty much eliminated the possibility of my carrying on any kind of intelligent conversation so it was definitely for the best.
The restaurant looked the same as it had the last time I’d been here--when I was seventeen. The booths were still covered in red vinyl, and when the food arrived, it was still amazingly good. I also had no doubts that I could still find a cockroach carcass under the table if I looked, which I did not.
We didn’t discuss the murders or anything remotely serious, and I eventually had him laughing at some of my better wisecracks. We didn’t linger since we had a watchdog in the parking lot, but even with the Redwater Falls police officer watching, Jerry dragged me into the liquor store next to the restaurant and bought a six-pack of Coronas and a couple of limes. Sounded good to me.
Jerry parked the car in the hotel’s underground lot again and the unmarked police car pulled in across from us. We’d given our guard a nice to-go meal of special red tacos and handmade tamales from the restaurant, so that would help him pass the time for a good fifteen minutes--five to eat, ten to clean up the mess. The rest of the night he was on his own. As were we.
We went in through Jerry’s door and he did the standard check of my room. When he came back he went straight to the brown paper sack. "How about a beer?"
I set my gun case and remaining box of bullets on his bed and kicked off my sandals. "You know my history and yet you ply with me alcohol."
He pulled a Swiss army knife from his pocket, popped the tops on two bottles, sliced up the limes and handed me the first drink. "Ah, but I am older and wiser now. I know when to make you stop."
I took the beer, squeezed the lime and popped it in the bottle. "As I recall, you were the one coaxing me into drinking more than I should have."
He toyed with his lime and nodded. "You could be right about that."
"I am right."
He held up his bottle in toast. "To old friends and new memories."
I chinked mine against his. "To new memories. I’m not old." We each took a swig, and stood there for a minute, then I set my bottle on the dresser and walked toward the window. "Can we see the falls from here?"
"Don’t open the drapes, Jolene."
I stopped and turned back toward him. "Snipers?"
"Maybe. Or maybe I just don’t want anybody seeing what I’m going to do to you."
Now, he had my attention, but I didn't show it. I just stood there, real calm and cool, waiting to see if he made good on his comment. Okay, that's probably not true, but it sounds better than admitting that I was shocked at his bold statement and more nervous than a seventeen-year-old virgin, which I had been in a very similar situation, except that we’d been in a car parked next to some oil storage tanks.
He set his bottle on the dresser and pulled me to him, wrapping his arms around my waist. "I’ve waited a lifetime for this, Jolene."
I slid my hands up his chest. "Me too."
And then he kissed me, really kissed me. Time seemed to stand still and I have no idea how long we stood there. I do know that I enjoyed every second of it and somewhere in my daze I swear I could hear something that sounded like applause.
Jerry pulled back and snapped his head toward the door.
I sucked in a breath and automatically turned to the door too, realizing that my mental standing ovation was really the door latch rattling. And now, someone was knocking. Loudly.
My heart leaped into overdrive, but about the time I decided I was terrified, my friend Anger came up and kicked me in the chest. The noise had definitely put a scare into me, but now I was leaning more toward being seriously pissed.
"Dammit, Jerry," I said, my heart still beating somewhere outside my chest. "You just tell whoever it is to go away and leave us alone. I don’t care what the latest news is on the case, it can wait until tomorrow. We’ve got things to do."
Another knock, hurried, jittery.
Jerry pushed me back toward the bed, and motioned me behind the wall, away from the short hallway that led to the door. It was about then that I noticed he’d pulled his pistol from his holster.
Well, damn. If Jerry was worried, I darn well better be too. Okay, I could worry, but that didn’t mean I could do anything else--or even know what to do. I gave myself a quick talking to and decided that this was just the reason Jerry got me the gun and the lessons. I’d look pretty stupid, quivering in the corner with a pistol two feet away.
I reached over to the bed, jerked the blue plastic carrying case toward me and snapped it open. I yanked the gun out, trying like hell to remember if I had bullets in the clip or not. My hands shook as I released the clip. It was full so I shoved it back in place, flipped down the safety and chambered a round.
That distinctive chink-chink got Jerry’s attention and he cut his eyes toward me. He didn’t say anything, just put his finger to his lips for me to be quiet--and presumably careful.
Believe me, I was going to be damned careful. Having the little pistol in my hand was both good and bad. I’d readily admit that it gave me a measure of comfort. It also scared the hell out of me.
I double-checked that the safety was off and wrapped my hands around the gun just like Jerry had his, only mine were shaking. Ditto for the knees. The lungs weren’t doing so well either as I had pretty much lost the ability to breathe.
Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.
Jerry moved toward the door, staying close to the wall. He stepped into the doorway of the bathroom, which was only a couple of feet from the door. "Who is it?"
"It’s me, Jerry," a voice rasped. "Russell. Russell Clements. Let me in, man."
Chapter 17
Y
“
ou’re not going to let him in, are you?" I hissed from behind the wall. "As much as I’ve avoided confronting the issue, there really is somebody trying to kill us. It could very well be that drug addict outside the door."
"Go into your room," he whispered to me. "Look through the peep and see if it’s really Russell, if he’s alone and if he’s armed."
No problem--except that I was too scared to move.
Jerry motioned me toward the adjoining door again, and somehow I got my feet scurrying in that direction. Yes, you can be assured that I took the gun with me.
The view from my little hole in the door wasn’t great, but I could see enough of the guy to tell that it was indeed Russell Clements. I couldn’t see anyone else in the hallway, but that didn’t mean much since fifty people could be on either side of what I could see. I ran back into Jerry’s room and took my same position.
"Yeah, it’s him. He’s wearing a tank top with a short-sleeved shirt hanging loose outside it," I whispered. "He could have a gun under his shirt. I just couldn’t tell. I didn’t see anyone else out there, but they could have been down the hall a little farther or against the wall. Dammit, Jerry, we don’t have to open that door. Let’s just call somebody."
Jerry flattened himself against the wall behind the door where he could open it back on himse
lf. "No offense, Russell, but when you walk into this room there are going to be two pistols aimed at your head."
"Oh, yeah, hey, man, that’s okay," he said, sounding more frantic by the second. "I know you’re not gonna shoot me. But damn, Jer, let me in before somebody sees me."
I held my gun around the edge of the wall--just like I’d been taught--and watched Jerry flip the latches and open the door.
Russell Clements rushed in, took two steps, saw me and my Colt, stopped and held up his hands. "Hey, Jolene. Nice pistol."
Jerry closed the door behind him and nudged him face up to the wall. "How’d you know to come here, Russell?"
"I’ve been following you for days, ever since Calvin got whacked. I gotta talk to you, man."
"We’ll get to that," Jerry said, holding his left hand on Russell’s shoulder, keeping him pressed against the wall. "Jolene is going to pat you down now, Russell, just so we can all relax."
"Me?" Yes, it was kind of a squeaky croak, although I am not proud of the fact. "I...I...okay, fine," I muttered.
I flipped the safety up to the on position and stuck the gun in the pocket of my shorts, hoping like hell it didn’t become possessed and do something stupid like shoot my leg off. I walked over to Russell, who looked about the same as he had at the falls the other day, maybe even wearing the same clothes, I couldn’t remember. He smelled like onions and dirt. And I had to touch him. Lovely.
"Good to see you again, Jolene," Russell said, rather politely. "My apologies for my appearance. I don’t usually look like this, but I’ve kinda been hiding out wherever I could."
I mumbled something like "don’t worry about it," took a deep breath and started at Russell’s shoulders.
"Hey, it’s really cool, you two getting together again."
Fat chance of that, apparently. When I finished my distasteful touchy-feely job and pronounced him weaponless, I stepped back so Jerry could direct him into the main part of the hotel room.