Death Indoors: Target Practice Mysteries 4 (2 page)

I gave him a big smile. "Don't worry. I've got this under control." And when he saw how well I shot this afternoon, I was going to knock his socks off.

He looked at me, searching my face. I kept smiling and focused on radiating calm, collected energy. "Trust me" energy. He didn't seem convinced, but he dropped the topic. "Do you want to warm up or grab lunch?"

I hopped up and pulled Moo out of his chair then handed Liam the leash. "Since my hands are full." I grabbed my quiver from underneath the desk and checked in the pocket that my finger tab was in there. It was the one piece of equipment I had kept from competing in college. The smooth, well-worn leather was comforting.

"You still using that old thing? Didn't we send you a new finger tab?"

I gasped and held the quiver to my chest. "Yes, but this one's special."

He chuckled at me, and I glared back, though I struggled to hide a smile that pulled at my lips. "Plus the one you sent was a bit bigger than Jess liked. She ordered two more in a smaller size. I'll be breaking them in next week to prepare for the tournament in Vegas next month." I cut my eyes to him and raised my eyebrows defiantly. "But I'm keeping this one in my desk."

He chuckled. "I wouldn't dream of trying to take it away. You ready?"

I shook my head and followed him into the hallway, carefully weaving the bow with its long stabilizer and the quiver on my shoulder out the door without smashing anything into the door frame. I turned to try and lock the door behind me without the quiver sliding off my shoulder when Liam took the keys from my hand.

"Thanks. And..." There was a lot I wanted to say, like how much I'd missed him, especially in the past two weeks while he was in Salt Lake. I wanted to tell him not to leave again, even though I knew he had to. "I'm really glad you're here," I said finally. "How's work going?"

He patted my back briefly as we walked toward the short range which was set up to be the practice range this weekend. I preferred the long range since it was across the hallway from my office. Mary, the on-site athletes (or OSAs, as we called them), Minx and Tiger, and I practiced there most days, with Mouse joining us for long weekends. The short range was used for private lessons and tuning, since an equipment room was attached. Sometimes we switched between the ranges to either escape people or find people.

"Work is work, but it's going well."

"And you think you'll be done by Vegas?"

"That's the plan." He placed a hand on my lower back and guided me through the doorway ahead of him.

His fingers were warm enough to register through my Westmound jersey as we stepped into the practice range. The room was warm and crowded. Mouse tipped her head back in acknowledgement and blew the whistle for the archers to pull their arrows. The back wall was crowded with open bow cases and people milling about for space.

As the archers present crossed over the shooting line, I went over to check on Mouse. When I'd met her last month, she had been more timid, but since the New Year she had started coming to the training centers from Friday to Monday to train and gained a great deal of confidence. The rest of the week she attended community college at home. In exchange for training, lodging, and eating at the center, she worked at the center; this weekend her job was running the practice range with Tiger, a full-time OSA, during the morning line while Minx, the remaining OSA, shot.

"Hey, Mouse, how's the practice range going?"

She blew out a heavy sigh and rolled her eyes. "So totally boring. No one was even here until twenty minutes ago, so I got to practice a bit. But then my old coach showed up, and he's a total dillweed. No running!"

The last bit she shouted at two kids who were racing back from the target. "Kids." She rolled her eyes again.

I bit back a snicker. She had only turned eighteen the previous month after graduating high school a year early. She was naturally tiny and could easily be confused for a youth archer. "Which one was your coach?"

"His name's Coach Ron, and he thinks he's so awesome, but he's a total tool. I went to his program when I started to get good, but my parents pulled me out after a few months. He had a few favorites, and he ignored the rest of us." She pointed her whole arm across the range. "He's in the blue shirt."

I grabbed her hand to lower it. "Yes, I see him."

He had a blue shirt on and his back turned to me. On the shirt, bold white letters professed, "Coach Ron's YAP The Best in the Nation." As he turned, I spied a rather sizable belly, his feet planted widely as he pointed, and his voice carried across the range, but not clearly enough for me to hear it. The tone was harsh and clipped, and something in it set my teeth on edge.

People grabbed their bows and headed to the waiting line. Mouse leaned in to whisper at me, "He's such a blowhard. I hope he isn't anywhere near me today. He's loud and shouts at his archers on the line. I've been messing with him since he arrived, telling him to step back even when he's completely behind the waiting line. It's driving him nuts." She smirked at me and blew two whistles for the archers to approach the line.

"Mouse, come on. You're more mature than that. Just because he's a douchecanoe doesn't mean you get to be a jerk, too." I felt a million years old giving her this speech, but I knew Jess would have a cow if I let Mouse continue.

She giggled at the word "douchecanoe" then rolled her eyes at me. Everyone was looking at her, waiting to shoot. She blew the single whistle, and those practicing on the line started shooting.

"I'll behave, but you just wait. You'll hate him, too. Now quit goofing off. Go shoot."

I went to Liam, who was hanging toward the back of the room. Moo looked uncomfortable, hiding behind Liam and shifting his weight between his front legs. I dropped my bow stand next to Liam and squeezed onto the shooting line in an empty spot. Putting my finger sling from my thumb around the bow then to my index finger, I squared my shoulders and prepared to shoot when Coach Ron stepped up a foot behind me and loudly said, "Excuse me."

Startled, I turned to look at him.

"You need to move. My student was going to stand there."

"Um..." My face burned with embarrassment. Had I broken some unspoken practice range rule? He continued to glare at me, and I decided to move. I stepped off the line, and he ushered a thin, redheaded girl to the line. I moved down toward the door and found another empty spot.

I squared my shoulders and drew back my bow. People pressed in close on either side of the line. Parents milled about, talking loudly about their children's scores and training.

Coach Ron was audible above the din, talking to his star redheaded student. "Aggressive shot. Hand in. Head still. Follow through. Move the sight two clicks to--never mind, let me do it." It was a series of commands given like a drill sergeant, and it grated against my ears.

My front shoulder was set down in a relaxed, neutral position as I drew the string back to my face. The noise assaulted me, but I tried to focus. As my hand came under my chin to anchor, my bowstring bit into the corner of my jaw and the tip of my nose gently touched the string, Coach Ron barked loudly at someone to "Focus," and my bow hand jerked up, the sight lifted completely off the target.

I let down, returning my hands to their starting position. Rolling my shoulders up and back a few times and adjusting my feet, I started over. When I got to full draw, my sight pin bounced and jerked all over the target, more than it had ever done in practice, and cold prickling went over my body. This was not how it was supposed to go. This was not how practice had been. I finished executing the shot and my hand came back behind my head for the follow-through, but I knew it wasn't the strong shot that I had been executing recently.

I rolled my head to loosen up then shot three more arrows. None of them were any better, and I was covered in a cold sweat. I felt tears itching at my eyes, and I blinked them away. I was a thirty, no, thirty-one-year-old woman, an adult who would not cry like a child in a room full of real children.

Liam was talking to a mother, and I snuck over to put my bow on the stand at his feet but avoided his eyes. The mother was carrying on about her son and his wonderful training schedule while Liam nodded at the appropriate times. She called Liam Lumberjack, a nickname he hated, which meant that she didn't know him well at all.

I took a deep interest in my finger tab, carefully adjusting the length of shoelace that my middle finger slid through to avoid making eye contact while I waited for Mouse to blow the three whistles to allow us to retrieve our arrows. Liam put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed a few times. Did he know I was struggling? I felt jittery and nauseated, like I had drunk fifteen cups of coffee and washed it down with an energy drink.

Mouse blew the whistle, and we went to pull our arrows. I hung back several steps so as not to be hit by others' arrows as they were removed from the target mats. Once a few people cleared, I stepped forward to grab my arrows, which littered the outer rings of the target.

A teenage girl to my left caught my eye and smiled shyly. She was shorter than me and curvy, with cherub cheeks. I returned her smiled quickly and focused on removing my arrow.

"Excuse me, you're Di, right? You work here," the girl said.

"Yes." I gave her a big smile. "How did you know that?"

Her face lit up. "I've been reading your blog. Mary's too. It so cool. Jess is a great coach. I would love to work with her."

After returning from the OIT Show a few weeks ago, we had implemented the training blogs. They were in the early stages of development as we figured out how best to highlight the Westmound Training Center and the Westmound products.

"Are you serious? I'll have to introduce you to Jess. She'll be thrilled to hear that you like the blogs."

We were walking back to the line when she hesitantly put her hand on my arm to stop me. She looked around then leaned in close. "Ignore Coach Ron. He was totally out of line to tell you to move."

I blushed just thinking about it. "Oh, I wasn't paying attention--"

"No," she cut me off. "He is always throwing his weight around like that. He must not know who you are, because he's normally sucking up to everyone that's important. So gross. I went to a weekend seminar with him, and he wanted nothing to do with me."

We crossed over the shooting line and continued talking while a few people were still milling around the target, pulling arrows. "What happ--"

"You can't wear those pants." Coach Ron had snuck up on us. "They're not dress-code compliant."

CHAPTER TWO

I looked down at my cotton black athletic pants with "Westmound" written down the right leg. They were specially designed by Jess to be worn in tournaments, and it seemed unlikely that she didn't check the dress code. "What?"

"Not you." He pointed to the girl I'd been talking to. "You. The rules say no 'oversized or baggy pants,' and those are. I assume you will be changing before the tournament." He crossed his arms and waited.

The girl turned a bright shade of hot pink. "But, but... I always wear these pants."

"Then you have always been in violation of the dress code."

Her eyes were bright and shiny. "They're not that baggy. And I don't have any other pants. I only brought these and my jeans to wear afterwards." Tears started to roll down her cheeks.

"You better figure it out. I'll make sure the judges know that your pants are in violation. We'll file a protest if they aren't fixed." He turned and walked off.

The girl pulled the sleeves on her long shirt down over her fists and dabbed her eyes while turning to me. "What am I going to do? I don't have anything else to wear."

"Can one of your parents go to get you something?" I suggested, though I was already trying to think of another option.

She shook her head. "I didn't come with my mom. I came with Mrs. Johnston." The tears flowing down her face were making large black streaks from her clumpy mascara.

Mouse came over. "What's going on? What did Coach Ron say?" She was glaring in his direction.

Between sobs and gasps the girl said, "He says my pants are too baggy for dress code."

"Do the rules say how baggy is too baggy?" I asked. Most of the dress code rules were very specific. Women could wear a sleeveless shirt so long as the thinnest part of the strap was at least three inches wide. The inseam on shorts had to be three inches as well. I now carried a tape measure in my purse so I was prepared when shopping.

Mouse rolled her eyes. "No, just not oversized or baggy."

"That's stupid. Who determines that?"

"The judges," said Mouse. "Now the judges are awesome and try to do the best job they can, but Coach Ron could make a big stink and pressure them into kicking her out."

The girl burst into tears again, and I patted her back. "Thanks, Mouse, real helpful. Come on, sweetie, I'll figure something out." I realized that I hadn't asked the girl her name and hoped that nicknames like "sweetie" would suffice. Putting an arm around her shoulders, I carefully maneuvered her around the people and their quivers.

Maybe I had something in my apartment of the housing center or maybe... I looked down at my Westmound pants. "Of course. I'll get you a pair of pants like mine."