by Lisa Gardner
Jesse and Antonio moved along slowly behind, a good fifteen feet back, rifles in hand. They didn’t like the ditch. By definition, it formed a chute, boxing them in. Strategically speaking, if someone were to appear at the top edge, armed with a rifle . . . It would be like shooting fish in a barrel.
Cal was aware of the danger. Unfortunately for all of them, this was the best lead they had.
Another broken twig, straight ahead. Middle gleamed white, end of the twig still fresh and pliable in Cal’s fingers. Recent break, then, the wood not having dried out. Ditch was narrowing now, and slowly but surely growing shallower. Soon they’d be at road level, meaning their target—and they—would have to make choices.
“Cal,” Nonie whispered.
He stilled, turning his head to the right, where she was working five feet back. “What is it?”
“Got something, tucked up there in the blackberries.”
Cal reversed course, walking back to Nonie’s vantage point. No doubt about it, the grandmother had great eyes. Cal had been looking straight ahead when he’d passed through this section. Nonie, however, had had the sense to look up.
But now, following her finger, he could just make out what had caught her attention. At first glance, it appeared to be a darker shadow, maybe even a particularly dense patch of blackberry bush. But it wasn’t.
Nonie’s hands were smaller than his. He nodded at her to do the honors.
She gloved up first. All SAR team members had training in evidence recovery. Even the most urgent fugitive chase was merely the opening act in a much larger law enforcement drama. Screwing up the evidence risked releasing the suspect they’d spent so much effort hunting down in the first place.
It took her a bit to work it free from the thicket of thorns. Slowly but surely, Nonie eased the wadded-up fabric from its hiding place.
Antonio and Jesse stood closer, rifles still in hand, not watching Nonie but keeping their attention all around.
“Got it,” Nonie murmured.
She pulled it down and out. A thick black hoodie. Nonie took an experimental sniff. “Vomit,” she reported stoically.
Then, for the first time since starting the hunt, she and Cal broke into smiles.
“We got trail,” Cal said.
“We got trail,” Nonie repeated.
Cal radioed it in.
Their team leader was happy. Jenny consulted the master map. By her estimate, they had about a hundred more yards of gully, then they’d arrive at an intersection with a dirt road. Road cut east-west, west connecting with the highway, east heading deeper into rural residential. Appeared to be five or six properties from what she could tell. All on large pieces of land.
Cal and Nonie exchanged glances. Not the best news. Out of the gully, they’d be back to hard-packed earth. Tough surface for tracking. Not to mention half a dozen homes tucked away in the deep shadowed woods . . .
Antonio and Jesse, clad in light body armor and covered in sweat, didn’t say anything at all.
Cal left the hoodie in plain sight, marked with a bright orange flag to help alert the follow-up officers to its position. A second flag indicated where Nonie had pulled it from the bushes. Crime scene techs would want to retrieve the sweatshirt for analysis, plus work their own magic at the site. For all he knew, they’d clip entire swaths of the blackberry bushes, looking for bloody thorns where the suspect might’ve scratched himself.
That kind of thing was beyond Cal’s pay grade. Command had its job, the detectives and the crime scene geeks had theirs. As for him and his team . . .
They resumed the hunt.
They hiked to the end of the drainage ditch, where it merged with a flat dirt road. Sounds of the highway to the left. Dark green shade to the right.
Cal didn’t need the next toe imprint, coming up the side of the shallow ditch, to know which way their fugitive had headed.
Into the cool dark woods, roof of the first home just visible, they went.
Chapter 13
THIS IS A TWENTY-TWO BOLT-ACTION RIFLE. Training rifle, so you’ll notice there’s not a big kick. Having said that, a rifle feels fundamentally different from a handgun. Check it out.”
We were out in the woods again. Same clearing. Same setup with the folding table, wood pallet target, litter of spent shells. For today’s lesson, however, a long black bag lay in the middle of the table. I could already tell from the bag’s sleek shape that it contained a rifle. Now Frank tended to the zipper, and sure enough . . .
The gun was striking. Different from the compact, black-on-black Ruger we’d shot two weeks ago. The rifle reminded me of Western movies, a new sheriff in town. The wooden stock had beautiful golden grain, a diamond pattern etched into the grip.
The barrel was long. Twenty-five inches, Frank told me as he slid the rifle from the bag. As he had with the handgun, he set this out on the table, magazine ejected, bolt removed to reveal the empty chamber.
“I added the scope myself,” Frank continued, tossing the carrying bag aside. “Nothing special. Just a basic Bushnell. Will help you get used to looking through the crosshairs. Like the Ruger, this rifle comes with a magazine. This is a five-round magazine. Small, you can see. This button in front, click up and the magazine ejects into your hand. Load the magazine, and simply pop it back into place. It sits in front of the trigger guard, versus being part of the handle, but you won’t notice it much. Small little thing, which is why I also purchased a larger plus ten. But that’s for later. Right now, you need comfort, not firepower.
“Now, just like the handgun, for safety’s sake, you clear the magazine, then check the chamber. In this case, the bolt is all the way out, showing the cleared chamber. The bolt action is what makes this rifle special. No semiauto function to kick in after the first round is fired. No, you’re gonna have to feed each bullet from the magazine into the chamber, by racking the bolt after each and every shot. Here, I’ll show you.”
Frank hefted the rifle effortlessly, feeding the bolt into the top of the barrel, right under the scope. It looked like a tight fit to me, but apparently there was exactly enough room for everything.
Next, he brought out a strange container of bright blue bullets, roughly the size of .22s.
“Load the magazine,” he instructed me, nodding his head toward the box.
My hands shook. I tried to keep them close to myself, so Frank wouldn’t notice. He seemed to enjoy these sessions. His older son was gone now, off to college. Guess that made me, the troubled foster, the only candidate for father-son bonding. But guns made me nervous. The Ruger, once I’d picked it up, hadn’t been so bad. That had been an okay first session.
But this, the rifle. It scared me.
I finally got the blue rounds into the magazine. Awkwardly done. I could feel Frank watching me, noticing. But he didn’t say a word.
He took the magazine from me. Popped it into position, in front of the trigger guard. “Bright blue rounds are dummy rounds,” he announced now. “No gunpowder. Just to help you get a feel for the weapon.”
His eyes looked kind. Maybe. What does kindness look like in a man? Not something I’d had much opportunity to see. I shrugged, shook out my arms beneath my favorite black hoodie, worn with my favorite baggy black jeans. Black on black. Johnny Cash, Frank called me when I dressed like this, but I had no idea who he was talking about.
“Go on,” he said now. “Pick it up. Remember what we said about pretending there’s a laser coming out of the end of the barrel. Even if it’s loaded with dummy rounds, don’t point the rifle at anything you wouldn’t want to shoot.”
The rifle was heavy. Awkward. I tried holding the stock against my right shoulder, right hand around (but not touching) the trigger, left hand holding up the incredibly long barrel. Immediately, my left arm started shaking. I didn’t see how anyone could hold this for long, let alone spend a day hunting in
the woods.
“All right, first things first.” Frank moved to stand beside me. “Move your feet. Sideways stance, left foot forward. There you go. Now, right arm, bring your elbow out. See how that forms a natural pocket in the front of your shoulder? Dig in with the stock there. Yeah, like that. Left arm, bring that elbow down. You want that arm tight against your side. Better. So, this is a long gun. Almost seven pounds. A compact seven pounds, say a dumbbell, you could lift no problem. But by virtue of length, the weight is way out in front of you. That’s what’s taxing your arm, making it shake, the effort of trying to hold up the barrel.
“So you need to pull the rifle more into your shoulder. Press it into the pocket. Notice how that immediately lightens the load on your left arm.”
I did what he said, and as he predicted, my left arm stopped shaking.
“Good job. Rifle takes a bit to get comfortable with. You’re gonna have to practice more to make it feel like a natural extension of your body. Now, try putting your right eye to the scope. You can squeeze your left eye shut if it makes it easier. But find the crosshairs. Place them on the target and just hold for a bit. Practice breathing in, breathing out, with the crosshairs moving the least amount possible. Good job.”
He was lying. Being kind again? My crosshairs were all over the place. Left arm back to shaking, each inhale and exhale rocking the system. But he didn’t complain. Just nodded beside me as if all was going according to plan.
Last week, Sandra had asked me my favorite meal. I’d told her Kraft macaroni and cheese. No, no, she’d tried to explain. A homemade meal, or maybe something I’d once eaten at a restaurant. I stuck with Kraft. So last night, for dinner, that’s what she’d made. Or at least tried to. Instead of buying the cheap blue box with the powdered sauce, she’d purchased the home-style version. Probably as close as she could bring herself to preparing packaged food. Home-style came with a real sauce, though at least it was the same reassuringly nuclear orange color. Frank had eaten his gamely. Sandra had pushed hers around the plate. But I’d eaten all of mine, then asked for seconds, even if it wasn’t the right version of mac ’n’ cheese. That seemed to please her.
I still hadn’t figured Sandra out. She seemed happy when her men were happy. Honestly, it creeped me out.
Time to work the bolt action. I was to take my right hand off the trigger to push up, push forward, pull down with the bolt. It was harder than it looked. First time, I nose-dived the end of the barrel. Guess my fake laser was eating dirt. But with a bit of practice, I got used to the feel of the bolt. The way the “empty” shell spit out the right side, before the fresh bullet was racked into place.
My arms hurt. Especially my left arm. I’d liked the Ruger. The Ruger hadn’t been so bad. But this . . .
“How about live ammo?” Frank said now.
“Sure.” I gratefully returned the rifle to the table. Hoped he didn’t notice me shaking out my left arm, rubbing my right shoulder.
“A twenty-two doesn’t have much stopping power. Meaning this is a good rifle for training, but not much else. Hunting, you’re gonna want a three-oh-eight. Self-defense, an AR-fifteen.”
I nodded, though I had no idea what he was talking about.
Then, as if he’d read my mind: “Know the difference between a twenty-two and three-oh-eight?” he asked me.
“Bullet size.”
“True. Three-oh-eight is larger, makes a bigger hole. But more importantly?”
My foster dad, the science teacher, stared at me.
I shook my head.
“Energy. Three-oh-eight leaves the barrel with way more energy. Say each bullet was a bobsled. Twenty-two is fired by four guys standing in one place, shoving it forward. We watched the Jamaican bobsledding movie the other night. What’s the better way of pushing off?”
“Running with the sled to build up speed, then shoving it off.”
“Exactly. A three-oh-eight hunting rifle provides a great deal more energy to a larger bullet, resulting in greater efficiency. You’ll wound with a rifle like this one.” He lifted up the reloaded training rifle. “You’ll kill with a three-oh-eight.”
And now, armed with live rounds, he moved me into position once more.
I missed the target with the first shot. Snagged a corner with the second.
“Take your time. Focus. Press it back tighter into your shoulder. Breathe in. Breathe out.”
Twelve shots later, I hit the target.
“Yeah!” I exhaled before I could stop myself.
Frank clapped me on the shoulder.
“You wanna shoot now?” I asked him, setting the rifle on the table, going about the business of clearing it. I almost felt like a pro.
“Nah, it’s getting late. We should get back.”
“Come on. Couple of rounds. Your gun, after all.”
I was curious. With the handgun, he’d been amazing. And with the rifle?
“All right,” he conceded, with a glance at the sky, which was growing darker. “Why don’t you set it up for me,” he said.
It didn’t take him long. Five shots. Five bull’s-eyes. And whereas I’d stood ten yards from the target, he’d moved back to thirty. It was impressive enough for me.
“You’re really good,” I said as we started to pack up.
“Just like it.”
“Were you in the military, something like that?”
“Nope.”
“Local competitions? Aren’t there events for these sorts of things?”
“Just my hobby. Teaching is what I love. This is how I blow off steam. Speaking of which, what do you love, Telly?”
The question caught me off guard. I hadn’t seen it coming. I shrugged defensively, working on getting the rifle back into its form-fitting carrying bag. “I dunno.”
“In school. Out of school. Everyone loves something.”
“I’m okay.”
“Not what the principal said when he called about the fight on Friday.”
Now my fingers stilled on the bag. I looked away. I should’ve known. Let’s go shooting together. Always a catch.
“He started it,” I mumbled.
“Principal thought the same.”
I didn’t answer.
“But you can’t keep making yourself a target. And when you fight back, engage with the enemy, it makes it more likely to happen again.”
I didn’t say anything.
“You’re angry, Telly. I see it in you. I get it. Hell, if I’d been through everything you’ve been through, I’d be angry too. At my loser parents. Other kids. The system. Even people like Sandra and me. Just passing through, while your entire life, you’ve had to go at it alone.”
He paused. I kept my gaze on the rifle bag.
“Do you have one good memory, Telly? A single good memory of your time with your parents?”
“The library,” I heard myself say.
“They took you to the library.”
“No. I took myself. My baby sister.”
“But your parents read you stories?”
“No.”
“Encouraged you to check out books?”
I shook my head, very confused now. He stared back at me.
“So your one good memory of your time with your parents doesn’t involve your parents at all?”
I shrugged. “I liked the library. They were good to us at the library.”
“All right. Okay. So . . . maybe you’d like to become a librarian?”
Now I did look at him like he was crazy.
But Frank shook his head. “Seriously, Telly, you’re a junior in high school. You’re barely passing now, and with the fighting in the halls, that prank you pulled in the lunchroom, trashing school lockers . . . Reckoning is coming. You can only be an angry young hoodlum for so long. Next year is your senior year. Then that�
��s it. You’re on your own. Who are you gonna be, Telly? And are you ready for it?”
I didn’t have an answer for him.
“Your parents are gone. Your sister, too. What happened happened. Hating it, taking everything out on others, out on yourself, it’s just a waste of time. Sooner or later, you have to stop being so angry. And sooner or later, you have to stop living backward. That’s what this next year is all about. Figuring out who you want to be. Setting yourself up for success. Sandra and me, we’re there for you. We get it. So stop thinking you’re alone all the time and the world hates you. You have at least two on your side. That’s not such a bad thing.”
Frank took the rifle bag from me, headed for the truck.
“I can’t come out next weekend,” he called over his shoulder. “High school science fair. But maybe the weekend after that. I’ll bring the rifles again. Good practice for you.”
I went to work on the folding table.
He paused, standing next to his truck, eyeing me intently. “You can do this, Telly. Maybe not perfectly. And maybe you gotta make some more mistakes first. But I see something in you. You saved your sister. Now you just gotta figure out how to save yourself. One more year, Telly. Then it’s all up to you: What kind of man are you gonna be?”
Chapter 14
SITTING AT THE KITCHEN TABLE, Rainie could hear the sound of Luka’s toenails click-clacking on the basement floor as the German shepherd ran around in the cool space. No noise from Sharlah, but that was hardly surprising. The thirteen-year-old preferred silence; anything to keep from calling attention to herself. Sharlah read, listened to music with her earbuds on, played games on her iPad, all very quietly. They spent entire evenings where Rainie, Quincy, and Sharlah all sat in the family room, looking at their individual books/devices, never making a sound.
In the beginning, the quiet had bothered Rainie. Now she chose to view it as comfortable, one more way her and Quincy’s soon-to-be adopted daughter was surprisingly much like themselves—most at home in silence.
Rainie got up, paced around the table. She’d just gotten off the phone with Brenda Leavitt, Sharlah’s caseworker. It had taken Rainie a bit, but she’d managed to get some information on Sharlah’s past. Next, the caseworker was going to look up Telly’s previous placements, promising to get back to Rainie shortly.
