Endless Night (42 page)

“You gonna behave?” she asked.

“Yes!”

Dad looked back at them.

“Just taking care of business,” she told him.

“Is she hurting you, Andy?”

“No. Ow!”

Sharon twisted around in her seat to see what was happening.

“Don’t hurt him,” Dad said.

“I’m not.”

“Ow!”

“It’s a good hurt,” Sharon said.

She and Dad both cracked up. Jody wasn’t sure why. Andy looked perplexed, but his confusion became relief when Jody let go of his thumb.

“Thanks a heap,” he muttered. He gazed down at his thumb and made circles with it as if warming up for a hitchhiking contest. “Guess you didn’t bust it for me,” he said.

Jody almost gave him a pun punch for that, but decided against it. For one thing, she doubted that Andy was aware of his double-meaning. For another, drawing attention to a “bust” pun would alert Dad that breasts were somehow involved in the backseat shenanigans. Not a good idea. Besides, she’d already inflicted a good dose of punishment on Andy; anymore, and it might stop being fun for both of them.

In the front seats, Dad and Sharon had almost stopped laughing. They were smiling at each other, shaking their heads and taking deep breaths.

Jody noticed that the car had stopped, but she wasn’t sure how long it had been that way.

“Are we here?” she asked.

“I just stopped because of all the ...”

“This
doesn’t
look bad,” Sharon broke in. “No structures in sight. No other vehicles, either. And we can use that knoll out there as a backstop.”

“Yep,” Dad said. “Looks just fine.”

Andy quit wiggling his thumb, and raised his head. “Does this mean we have to get
out?”

Dad shut off the engine. The air conditioner died with it.

“Fresh air!” Sharon blurted, and threw her door open.

Hot air gushed into the car.

Jody moaned, “Oh my Gawd.” This was worse than she’d expected.

She waited for Andy to climb out, then got down on her knees and reached under the front passenger seat. She found her Smith & Wesson .22, its extra magazine, and the box of ammo. While she was getting up, Dad opened her door. He took out the Mossberg and Sharon’s rifle case.

On the seat, Jody made sure her pistol’s safety was still engaged. Then she shifted everything into her left hand and scooted sideways. Just before stepping out of the car, she used her empty right hand to give the bill of her cap a tug. The bill had been tilted high, but now she wanted it low enough to shield her face from the glaring sunlight.

She hadn’t worn the cap to breakfast at Kactus Kate‘s, but she’d been wearing it ever since they’d checked out of the motel. She’d even worn it into the various stores they’d visited before leaving Indio, stores where they’d bought new clothes for Andy, snacks and sodas for everyone, and supplies for the target shooting. Dad normally would’ve made her take the cap off when they went into the stores. “You aren’t supposed to wear your hat indoors,” he always said. “Not unless it’s a cowboy hat.” He hadn’t said that today, though. Jody’d known he wouldn’t, known she could get away with wearing the cap, and had gotten a kick out of taunting him with it. He just
couldn’t
complain. Because throughout all the shopping, a black and gold NRA cap had been perched on top of Sharon’s head.

When Jody stepped out of the car, the sun pressed down on her. She could
feel
the weight of its heat on her shoulders.

“Is your safety on?” Dad asked.

She swiveled her eyes upward. “Yes, of course.”

She followed him to the trunk. He opened it, reached in and lifted out the gun shop bag. The bag looked ready to split from the weight of so much ammunition.

“I’ll set up the cans,” Sharon said. She went striding off, a sack of empty cans swinging by her side. Jody supposed there must be at least a dozen cans. In addition to the empties from last night’s party—collected from the motel room wastebasket—they also had the cans from the sodas they’d drunk in the parking lot of the gun shop just before leaving Indio.

Dad and Andy both turned their heads to watch Sharon.

“Jeez, guys,” Jody said.

“Just wanta make sure she places the targets at the correct distances,” Dad explained.

“Oh, sure.”

As if to prove his sincerity, he called, “Right there’d be good for a few.”

Sharon smiled over her shoulder, nodded, and took out a can. She squatted to place it on the ground. Jody supposed the guys were hoping she would bend over and give them a good view of the seat of her shorts. The way she squatted, though, her shirt tail covered it.

Dad stopped watching. He shut the trunk. Andy helped him spread the blanket over the trunk lid. When it was in place, Jody put her pistol on it. Then Dad set out the boxes of ammo. Four boxes, fifty rounds each, of 9 mm cartridges for his and Sharon’s pistols. A single large box that contained several smaller boxes—a total of five hundred .22 caliber bullets for Jody’s pistol. Five long flat boxes, wrapped in cellophane, containing twenty rounds each of .223 cartridges for Sharon’s rifle. And two boxes, twenty-five per box, of 12-gauge shotgun shells with No. 000 buckshot.

“All we need now is a war,” Jody said.

“Are we really gonna shoot all this?” Andy asked.

“Not even close,” Dad said. “We don’t want to be out here in this heat for more than an hour.”

“Then why’d you buy so much?”

“Good question,” Jody said. She already knew the answer.

“You just can’t have too much ammo,” Dad explained. “It’s like money.”

“It’s the old storm trooper mentality rearing its ugly head,” Jody said.

Dad laughed, then gave her rump a swat.

They all turned around. Sharon was about fifty yards out, setting up the last few cans.

Dad picked up his stubby black shotgun. “Put one on your head!” he yelled.

As Jody muttered, “Jeez, Dad,” Sharon turned to face them and carefully set a can on top of her NRA cap. She threw a hip sideways. Weight on one leg, she bent the knee of the other. She raised both arms, palms turned up.

Like she’s the sidekick for a carnival performer, Jody thought—the gal about to get knives thrown at her or hold a cigar in her mouth for the bullwhip man. All she needs is a skimpy costume that glitters.

“He isn’t really gonna do it, is he?” Andy asked Jody.

“Sure I am,” Dad said.

“What’re you waiting for?” Sharon called.

Dad licked the tip of his forefinger and stuck it into the air, pretending to test wind direction.

“Boy,” Jody said. “You two sure are setting a great example for Andy.”

“Aside from the weapon not being loaded, I haven’t once aimed it at her.”

“I know. But you shouldn’t be clowning.”

“You’re right.” To Sharon, he called out, “Maybe later!”

She yelled, “Chicken!” Then she took the can off her head, propped it among some limbs of a scrawny bush, and started heading in.

Dad grinned at Jody. “You know, I would never actually try a stunt like that. Not with a shotgun.”

Sharon heard him and laughed. “Nobody in his right mind would try it with any sort of gun.”

“That’s how Mike Fink murdered his worst enemy,” Dad said.

“Mike Fink, King of the River?”

“Yup, the keelboat guy. It was a tavern wager. He was supposed to shoot a tankard of booze off the fellow’s head, but he conveniently aimed too low and plugged him right between the eyes.”

“Very clever,” Sharon said. “Made it look like an accident.”

“Not clever enough. Everybody saw right through it, and some pals of the dead guy ventilated Fink.”

“Dad’s a fount of useless information.” Jody explained.

“No such thing as useless information,” Dad said.

“I know, 1 know.”

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” he said to Sharon.

She unzipped her leather case and slipped out a rifle. “A Ruger Mini-14,” she said, and passed it to him.

“Ooo, she’s a beauty. Looks sort of like an old M-1.”

“Very similar,” Sharon agreed. “Different caliber, of course.”

“I like that stainless steel barrel and stuff,” Jody said. “And the wood. The wood looks great. That black plastic you see all the time seems so ... I don’t know, cold and futuristic.”

“Is that why you hate my Mossberg?” Dad asked.

“I don’t hate it. I just can’t shoot it.”

“You’ll have to try this one,” Sharon told her. “Has a real nice feel to it.”

“It might be a good idea,” Dad said, “for each one of us to try out everything. That way, if we do run into trouble, we’ll all have at least a passing acquaintance with each kind of weapon.” He turned to Andy. “Have you had any experience with shooting?”

The boy grimaced. “I wasn’t ever allowed to even have a cap gun. My parents didn’t believe in it.”

Please, Dad, Jody thought. Be careful. Don’t forget they’re dead.

“A lot of people
don’t
believe in guns,” Dad said. From the gentle tone of his voice, Jody knew she didn’t need to worry. “But guns aren’t either good or bad, Andy. They’re just tools. It’s all in how they’re used. If they’re used properly, they can be a lot of fun.”

“Which you’re about to find out,” Sharon told him.

“They can also be used to protect yourself and people you love,” Dad went on. “I don’t need to tell you about the evil people out there.”

Nodding slightly, Andy caught his lower lip between his teeth.

“The only time you ever shoot someone,” Dad told him, “is if that person is a dangerous threat to an innocent person. Even then, you only fire if there’s no other safe way to stop him. And always shoot to kill.”

Andy scowled. “Shouldn’t I try to just wound him in the arm or leg?”

“Never,” Sharon said.

“Jody?”

“What?”

“You tell him.”

She sighed. “Always shoot to kill.”

“Tell him why,” Dad said.

“Because. If you go for an arm or leg, you might miss. And even if you do hit him there, the bullet might kill him anyhow. The purpose of shooting people is to stop them before they can do more harm. To do that, you need to put them out of commission. The only sure way to do that is to kill them.”

“And how do you do that?” Dad asked her.

She smirked at Sharon. “I’m always getting this. The ‘drill.’ It really gets old.”

Sharon nodded. “Let’s get to the shooting. Andy, here’s the whole deal boiled down: if you have to fire at someone, put as many slugs as fast as you can into his chest. Empty your gun into him. If you’re a really great shot, forget the chest and go for the head.” She grinned at Jack. “End of lecture?”

“Good enough for now,” he said. “We oughta start him on the twenty-two.”

“But not yet,” Sharon said.

“What?” Dad asked.

“I think we’d better find out if Andy actually wants to learn how to shoot. He was brought up in a family that opposed firearms. If he has any sort of moral objections, it isn’t our place to force him into ...”

“You’re right,” Dad said. “I should’ve thought of that. Andy, how do you feel about it?”

“I want to shoot.”

“Are you sure?” Sharon asked. “Your parents might not have wanted ...”

“Maybe I could’ve saved them if I’d had a gun,” he said. “Them and Evelyn.” His chin started to shake.

His eyes were hidden behind his new sunglasses, but Jody knew there had to be tears in them.

Sharon took a step toward him before she seemed to realize that she held the rifle in her hands. A helpless look crossed her face.

Jody put her arms around the weeping boy. “It’s all right,” she whispered.

He tried to push her away, but she hugged him more tightly. His sunglasses bumped her neck and fell off.

“It’s all right,” she said again.

“Leave go. I wanta shoot.”

“You can’t shoot while you’re crying.”

“I’m not crying.”

“No, that’s just your sweat soaking through my shirt.”

“Damn it!”

“Everybody cries,” Dad told him. “You’ve got better reasons than most.”

“If you ever get done,” Sharon added, “we’ll turn you into a regular Annie Oakley.”

Andy choked out a sob that was partly a laugh. It gushed hot air against Jody’s skin through the wet cloth of her shirt.

Chapter Thirty-eight

Dad picked up the small, stainless steel Smith & Wesson. Andy reached for it, but Dad said, “Not so fast, pardner.”

“More lectures,” Jody muttered.

Andy shrugged. “I don’t mind.” He wiped his eyes one more time, then put his sunglasses back on.

“This kind of gun is a semi-automatic,” Dad explained. “Which means you don’t have to cock it between firing. After the first shot, it recocks itself over and over again until the magazine is empty. All you’ve gotta do is pull the trigger each time you want to fire it. That’s what a semi-automatic does. A
full
automatic lets you fire just by holding the trigger back.”

“And they’re highly illegal,” Sharon pointed out. “Possession’s a federal crime unless you’ve got the proper permits.”

“Which means,” Jody said, “that only the bad guys are allowed to have them.”

Dad grinned. “Very good.”

She dipped her head.

“Let’s get back to the lesson.” He held up the twenty-two. “A little on semantics. Most people will call this weapon an ‘automatic’ or an ‘auto,’ but it’s not. It’s actually a semi-automatic. We just leave off the ‘semi’ part to shorten the word and make things easier to say.”

“Easier, but inaccurate,” Sharon said.

“But almost everybody says it,” Dad added. “Okay now, with an automatic or semi-automatic you’ve got two danger areas. One is the side port here.” He tapped it with his fingertip. “Almost the instant you fire, the shell casing will be ejected. It flies out of here. It doesn’t
fall
out, it flies out. Fast. The casings are brass and they come out hot. You don’t want to be standing near the right side of someone who’s firing, because it’s easy to get hit in the face by the things.”

Andy looked skeptical. “Can something like that really
hurt
you?”

“Might put out yer eye,” Jody said, trying to sound like an old geezer.