Their old cottage had been torn down several years before by the current owners, in favor of a big new two-story colonial, so she drove instead to Old Gun Hollow, where her daddy’s houseboat had been moored, with his little fishing boat tied up behind it. The dock, rickety even back then, was a ruin now, with just a few slats remaining. She parked right next to it and opened the windows. The lake water lapped the shore with a faint sucking sound. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes to picture the scene Franny had described: her father sitting on the deck that last night, drunk. What was it that he was thinking about in the dark? What was bedeviling him? Was it something bad enough to make him kill himself, to leave her behind without a word of good-bye?
One of the cornerstones of her life for nearly three decades had been her conviction that her father had been murdered. She still believed it, but this morning a fault line had cracked through the foundation of her belief. Her whole body felt shaky and weak.
That belief had shaped her character and directed her life. She drove a Chevy truck because her daddy had loved his and had left it behind for her—her first vehicle, which she drove for eleven years until it broke down past all repair, when she replaced it with another. She was a professional writer because he had died before he could be the writer he wanted to be. She wrote about crime because she had developed a passion for the subject while looking into his death. She was an indefatigable worker who never gave up because she had cut her teeth on an impossible quest. She lived alone because she needed to be unencumbered to follow her obsessions.
What if all this time she had been wrong? What if Vernon Cates had killed himself in a state of despair over God knew what? Had so much of her life been built on a fiction?
She opened her eyes and was dazzled by the glittering water and the glare of the Texas sun. A sailboat with a red and white striped spinnaker scutted by. A lone turkey vulture cruised the air current along the high western bank. The water kept up its steady low lapping at the shore. About a month before his death, she and her daddy had gone out on the lake in his little fishing boat after a heavy rain. On the shore they saw a dead tree with scores of vultures perched in it, their immense black wings spread out wide to dry. Her daddy had shut off the outboard motor so they could just drift and watch it in silence. The current had lapped against the boat’s hull with that same soothing rhythm she was hearing now. After a while, awed by the scene, Molly had said, “It’s like catching a glimpse of death waiting for us.”
Her father had nodded and said, “A good reminder to live while we can.”
She felt so confused now. So exhausted.
She reached down for the lever and lowered the seat back. Her eyes closed. If there were anything more to do for him, anything in the world, she would do it. But she didn’t know what that would be. Maybe Grady was right and she needed to declare the case closed. Unsolved and closed. Could she do that?
Yes. For now, for this minute, she thought she could. She would let it all go, just let herself float. The plush fabric of the seat buoyed her. The sun on her face warmed her. The lapping of the water lulled her.
She did something she hadn’t done during the daylight hours since she was a small child: she took a nap.
MY DEFINITION OF GUN CONTROL IS HITTING THE TARGET WITH EVERY SHOT.
—BUMPER STICKER ON WANDA LAVOY’S PICKUP
Clem’s was the sort of hot, dusty, redneck place Molly Cates had spent her life trying to avoid. The driveway consisted of two gravel ruts, the buildings were ramshackle wood affairs with layers of red paint laid on thick in hopes of holding them together for a few more years. At the front, closest to the road, stood several towers for skeet shooting and a small office. A crooked, hand-lettered sign said, CLEM’S SKEET AND SHOOTING RANGE. It was the last place on earth Molly wanted to be right now. It had been her editor’s idea: two women who had never before fired guns, a mother and daughter—Molly and Jo Beth—would be in the first group to go through the training to get licensed to carry a handgun. And Molly would write about the experience as part of the coverage of the new law. At the time he proposed it to her, in the air-conditioned tranquility of the Lone Star Monthly offices, it had seemed like a good idea. But the hot sticky reality was far less appealing.
Jo Beth Traynor coughed and rolled up her window against the dust. “Mom, I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”
“You ought to know better by now.” Molly parked her truck next to Wanda’s in front of the office. Wanda was pulling a bulging duffel bag out of her truck. She slung it over her shoulder and headed toward the office. She wore a pink and white checked Western-style shirt with pearly snap buttons, skin-tight Levi’s, boots, and a wide leather belt with an enormous buckle that had engraved on it “Central Texas Women’s Handgun Champion.” Her black hair was teased and sprayed into immobility.
They’d just spent an hour and a half across the highway in the trailer-classroom learning about the safe handling of firearms, the difference between a revolver and a semiautomatic, the anatomy of a round of ammunition, and how the damn things worked. And they’d been exposed to a hefty dose of Wanda Lavoy’s philosophy, a paranoid brew of Dirty Harry mixed with Thelma and Louise: the world was full of bad guys and they were all out to get you, so a woman needed to know how to blow them away. She also played a really frightening tape recording of a woman talking with a 911 dispatcher for sixteen minutes while she listened to a man breaking into her house and waited for the police to arrive. The bad guy got to her first and raped her before the good guys got there to arrest him. Molly was impressed; it was an effective illustration of the need to be able to defend yourself.
Inside the office they paid their fees and asked for thirty rounds of ammunition apiece for Molly and Jo Beth. “Clem, give my gals those reloaded wadcutters, will ya? And, honey, they want your best price,” Wanda said with a wink at the thin-lipped proprietor. Without smiling, he handed each of them a box of cartridges.
During the classroom session, Wanda had let them select guns from her own arsenal—a Rossi .38 special with a small frame for Jo Beth, and a Ruger .38 special for Molly. They had amused themselves by playing with the guns and dry-firing while Wanda lectured.
As they walked to the shooting range at the back of the property, Wanda said, “How have you two gals managed to make it to your ages without ever shooting off a gun?”
Jo Beth said, “Everybody thinks because my dad is a cop I must be an old hand. But he’s probably the only cop on the planet who’s not interested in guns. When I was little I used to beg him to teach me to shoot. But he never did.”
“Probably a good thing, sweetie,” Molly said, “since he’s the worst shot in the history of the APD.”
“How about you, Molly?” Wanda asked.
“Oh, same thing, I guess. My daddy grew up in a West Texas hunting family, but he hated guns and the whole scene, so we never had any around the house and I just never had the opportunity.”
Wanda said, “Well, my stepdaddy taught me to shoot when I was six. It came in real handy when I was thirteen and needed to get him the hell out of my bedroom, the sumbitch.” She patted the gun case she carried under her arm. “Amazin’ how much behavior modification you can accomplish with a handgun applied in just the right place.”
Behind Wanda’s back Jo Beth rolled her eyes at Molly.
The shooting range stretched from a rough wood shelter at one end to a grass-covered berm at the other. Wood frames with tattered paper targets attached to them stood at various distances.
The only other customer this hot weekday afternoon was a man wearing a pair of striped boxer shorts and a set of hearing protectors that looked like immense earphones. He was shooting a revolver while three barefoot, dirty children in swimsuits sat on the rickety table and watched.
As they entered the shooting area, there was a crunch under her feet that Molly took for gravel at first, but when she looked down she realized they were walking on shell casings. The brass and
aluminum casings were so thick you couldn’t see the dirt below.
Wanda handed each of them a pair of hearing protectors from her bag. “You’ll need ’em,” she said. She set the bag on the table and pulled the guns out, unzipped each from its case, and leaned her bag against the greasy sandbag on the table. “Now let’s see you load these babies up. Just like I showed you. Keep ’em pointing down with your trigger finger straight along the frame and you won’t get into trouble.”
Molly had chosen the Ruger because the rubber grip seemed to fit her hand perfectly. She held it in her left hand and pressed the cylinder release as she’d practiced and tipped the gun muzzle down so she could see through the six empty chambers. She dropped a cartridge into each chamber, surprised by the way they clicked into place so precisely. She had to admit these revolvers were beautifully made objects, sensual even, the shape and solidity pleasing to her hand. And the design fitted the function perfectly. There was no denying the appeal.
Wanda waited until the man two stations down had stopped firing. She went to talk with him, then walked out onto the range. She stopped at the target frame closest to Jo Beth and unrolled the targets she had brought with her. She stapled one onto the frame. Molly smiled when she saw it. The target was a picture of a stubble-faced man in an undershirt and jeans. He held a pistol pointed at the viewer. One of Wanda’s bad guys.
“I bring my own,” Wanda called back to them. “More realistic than those bull’s-eye things they use here.” She stuck a round red Day-Glo sticker smack in the middle of the man’s chest. Then she stapled a second picture-target to the stake in front of Molly and put a sticker in the same place.
She walked back to them. “Seven yards today. It’s the most likely scenario. Elizabeth, why don’t you go first, darlin’.” It still gave Molly a start to hear her daughter called Elizabeth. Growing up, she had been Jo Beth, but during law school she’d decided to use just her middle name—Elizabeth. Everybody but Molly and Grady seemed to have adjusted to it.
“Shoot for the center of the mass,” Wanda was saying, “where the sticker is.” She pointed a long gleaming nail at the target. “Remember, he’s a bad guy. He’s broken into your house and he’s coming at you. Shoot to stop him. None of this disable him crap. This is not the movies, gals, where you shoot someone and he falls down dead. This is the real world where you shoot someone and he just keeps on coming at you.” Wanda took the hearing protectors that had been hanging around her neck and fitted them against her ears.
Jo Beth and Molly did the same with theirs.
“Okay, Elizabeth,” Wanda shouted to be heard through the protectors, “shoot the crap out of that sumbitch!”
Molly watched her daughter take the gun in the two-handed grip Wanda had taught them. Jo Beth was wearing a white tank top that revealed the full length of her smooth honey-colored arms. Knees bent slightly, she raised the gun until it was straight out in front of her. Her arms were absolutely steady. Molly enjoyed watching her daughter’s preparation; it was the cool, deliberate approach she brought to everything she did. From babyhood Jo Beth had had the gift of focus and concentration, and now at twenty-five she lived her life as though the outcome were all within her control.
“Get your sight picture. Make it a lollipop with the red circle right on top. Now squeeze it,” Wanda said. “Slow and easy.”
Jo Beth’s arms tensed as she squeezed the trigger, then jerked up with the recoil. Molly flinched at the noise. She looked at the target and saw daylight through a tiny hole in the man’s chest about an inch from the red sticker. Jo Beth let out a snort of delight.
“Real good, darlin’,” Wanda said. “An inch to the left this time. He’s still coming at you. Stop him.”
Jo Beth aimed and fired again. This time the hole was an inch to the other side of the sticker. By the time she’d fired off all six shots, there was a neat circle of holes surrounding the red sticker.
“Darlin’, you are a natural,” Wanda crowed. “You don’t even blink when you fire. Cool as an igloo. If your mama and daddy had brung you up right, you’d of been a state champion today.”
Jo Beth smiled at Molly. Her cheeks were flushed with pleasure. “Try it, Mom.”
“Your turn, Molly,” Wanda said. “Blow that sucker away.” Molly had been holding the revolver in the two-handed grip. Now she brought it up in front of her face and aimed so the front sight nestled neatly inside the notch of the rear sight. How hard could this be? Then she put the red circle right on top of the sights. But she was having trouble holding it steady. It kept bouncing around because her arms were shaking.
“Keep that lollipop steady,” Wanda commanded. “And focus on the front sight.”
“My arms are wobbling.”
“Well, keep it as steady as you can and squeeze.”
Molly finally gave up trying to hold still and pulled the trigger to get it over with. The impact on her palms was like a hammer blow that hurt all the way to her elbows. The noise, even with the ear protectors, made her flinch. She opened her eyes and looked at the target. Nothing.
“Oops,” Jo Beth said.
Wanda said, “You mashed on the trigger. This time, keep your eyes open and squeeeeze it, nice and slow.”
Molly shot five more times. With numbers five and six, she hit the target, but nowhere near the red sticker. Her arms were already aching and her nose was itching with the stench of cordite. This was much harder than it looked in the movies.
“Okay, gals,” Wanda said, “free-fire time. Experiment a little. Remember, you hate that guy. Shoot his heart out.”
By the fifteenth round Molly was getting the feel of it. The jolt every time the gun discharged set her body to humming like a tuning fork. It felt as powerful and momentous as such condensed lethality should feel.
She looked over at Jo Beth and was surprised to see a trancelike smile on her lips as she methodically aimed and fired.
When they were finished with all thirty rounds, Molly’s target had one hole that took an edge off the sticker and about twenty sprayed somewhere on the bad guy’s body. Jo Beth had thirty holes in her target, all of them in the chest.
Wanda walked out onto the range and retrieved their targets. She handed Jo Beth hers. “You stopped him for sure, Elizabeth.” Then she looked at Molly’s. “I believe you caused him some discomfort, but I sure hope there were no innocent bystanders.”
Wanda glanced back at the office parking lot, where several cars were pulling in, then at her watch. “It’s six. The range is closing to the public, but stay awhile. Some of my WICs are here. You’ll see some real shooting. We’re planning to do some quick draw and point shooting at close range today. It’s pretty advanced stuff.”
A tall dark-haired woman in jeans was heading toward them. “That’s Helen,” Wanda said. “She was raped in her big house in Northwest Hills coupla years ago. She’s one of my best marksmen, won a combat-shooting competition a few weeks ago.”
Another woman, a slender young woman with wispy blonde hair, ran to catch up with Helen. “And that’s Gracie. She’s the night manager at Kendall’s and she makes the 4 A.M. bank deposit. Makes her a little nervous. She started out about like you, Molly, but she’s gotten pretty good.”
When Helen and Gracie reached them, Helen looked back toward the highway and said, “Wanda, that same car’s there, the one from last week. White Camry with one man in it. Across the highway.”
“I wonder why he doesn’t just come in and say howdy and ask whatever it is he wants to know.” Wanda was smiling, but Molly noticed the furrow between her eyebrows that hadn’t been there before.
During the next ten minutes seven more women ranging in age from seventeen to seventy walked back to the range carrying boxes of ammunition. Wanda reached into her big duffel and started to pull out identical leather handbags. She gave one to each of the WIC group as they arrived. These handbags looked like regular leather shoulder bags, but they had a special compartment for concealing a handgun. “I orde
red these for the WIC group,” Wanda said to Molly, “but I got some extras if you gals want to buy one—thirty-nine ninety-five.”
Wanda explained the drill. Each woman would start with her gun concealed in her handbag. When Wanda gave the signal, each was to draw and put six shots into the target as quickly as possible with Wanda timing her.
Molly and Jo Beth watched as they did the first drill. Now that she’d discovered how difficult it was, Molly was impressed with their speed and control. Wanda had taught them well. And the women sure didn’t look like the angry harridans and vigilantes Cullen Shoemaker had described. Unless it was extremist to want to defend yourself.
“We’ve got to go, Wanda,” Molly said after they’d watched for about twenty minutes.
“Next week,” Wanda said, “same time, same place.” She handed the Ruger in its carrying case to Molly. “You need to practice. Take this home and dry-fire until it feels comfortable.”
Molly hesitated.
“Go on. If you decide you like it, I’ll sell it to you cheap.”
Molly hadn’t considered the idea of buying a gun, but right now the idea was appealing. She took it. “Okay.”
“If you’re gonna get a license you need a gun. Also, one of these genuine leather shoulder bags.”
“Well, I don’t—”
She pushed the handbag at Molly. “Borrow it. You can let me know next time.” She walked off to examine the targets.
Molly and Jo Beth walked back to the car.
On the way out of the driveway, Molly looked for the white Camry. There it was, about fifty yards from the entrance on the opposite side of the road, pulled off on the shoulder. She could just make out through the dark tinted windows the shape of a man slouched down in the driver’s seat.
“Someone’s husband?” Jo Beth said. “Checking up.”
“Maybe,” Molly said.
They drove for a while in silence. “What do you think, honey?” Molly asked finally.
All the Dead Lie Down Page 9
