“Right.” Clare smiles. “This is your store of choice?”
“They have a nice range out back. I know the owner. I did a tour with his cousin.”
Together they weave through the racks of binoculars and camouflage gear to the back of the store where the gun wall resides. A young man spritzes the glass countertop with a spray bottle, then rubs at it hard with a clump of paper towels. They stand in clear view but it still takes the young man a few beats to snap out of his cleaning trance and look up.
“Douglas! Jesus. Didn’t even see you there.”
“Hi, Danny,” Douglas says. “We’re looking to purchase a weapon. One. Possibly two.”
“Excellent. Anything specific today?”
“A handgun,” Douglas says. “On the compact side. Easy to pack away.”
They speak as if Clare isn’t there. Danny shuffles down the counter and waves his hand over a selection of smaller guns. He points to one in the corner of the cabinet.
“This one is a very popular model. Inexpensive given what you get. Fits in most pockets. Well, your pockets, maybe. I’m not sure about hers.”
“Ha,” Douglas says, unamused. “Can we have a look?”
Danny pats at his chest and retrieves a lanyard tucked under his green golf shirt. Clare watches him as he crouches to unlock the cabinet. There is evidence that Danny is far older than he looks at first glance, the way his skin is pinched around his eyes, closer in age to Clare than she might ever have previously guessed. It isn’t until he unravels a cloth and sets the first gun down on it that Clare notices the thin band on his left hand. Married. He lines four options up along the counter. Clare picks up the smallest gun. It is heavier than she expected. She must nudge her finger into the trigger loop, cupping the gun so that her thumb can press down and gently roll the cylinder open.
“It’s not loaded,” Danny says.
Clare casts him a look. “Of course it isn’t.”
“Technically I’m supposed to see your ID before I let you handle the weapons,” he says.
Douglas fishes his driver’s license from his wallet and slaps it on the counter.
“I know who you are, Mr. Bentley,” Danny says. “I was referring to her.”
“She’s not buying,” Douglas says.
“She’s holding the gun, though.” Finally he looks directly at Clare. “Wait. Have we met?”
“Definitely not,” Clare says, eyes to the floor.
“This is my niece,” Douglas says. “She’s visiting from out of town. Her crazy uncle wants to make sure she stays safe. I know you can appreciate that, Danny.”
“Sure.” Danny’s brow creases as he studies her. “But, hmm. You really look familiar.”
Fuck, Clare thinks. The video. Surely a young guy who works in a gun store would have seen it. He’s the video’s target audience.
“Listen, Danny,” Douglas interjects. “We’d like to use the range out back if that’s okay with you. Clare had her wallet stolen in a coffee shop yesterday, so all you’ve got with her is my word that she’s not going to put a bullet in my head.”
“Okay,” Danny says, his focus still on Clare. “There’s no one out on the range right now. I’m going say that only you should be handling the guns, Mr. Bentley. But I can give you an extra set of glasses and earmuffs. Just in case you need them. And I’ll be busy in here for the next fifteen minutes or so. I won’t be checking up on you. Got it?”
“Got it, Dan. We appreciate it.”
As Douglas signs the paperwork, Clare keeps her eyes squarely on Danny. She will counter the patter in her chest, the anxiety, by working to put him in his place. It used to be a game for her, this stare, the count to see just how long it would take before her target would start to squirm. Douglas passes the waiver form back and they follow Danny through the rear door. Outside, Clare and Douglas lift their hands in unison to form visors against the sharp sun. It is warmer here than by the ocean. The gun range consists of messy plywood booths and targets at a distance, pocked with bullet holes. Danny sets the guns and safety equipment down in the nearest booth.
“We can handle it from here,” Douglas says.
“I’m supposed to give my safety spiel,” Danny says.
“I appreciate that, Danny, but unless it’s changed from the last thirty times I’ve heard it, I think you can count on me being safe.”
Danny looks slighted. Once he’s gone back inside, Douglas hands Clare the smaller of the ear protection muffs and the safety glasses. The muffs give Clare the sensation that she is underwater, the tasks her hands now perform in front of her silenced. The glasses cast a yellow hue over everything. Douglas has set Clare up at one of the stations, the handgun resting on a block. He is saying something. Read. Clare retracts the muff from her ear.
“You ready?” Douglas asks.
“Yes,” Clare says.
“You need a hand?”
Clare shakes her head and steps into the booth. She holds the handgun on her open palm like an artifact before lifting it into the proper grip. She fits the muff back in place on her ear. The target is about fifty feet away, Clare estimates. Count, her father used to say. Never guess. In the vast field behind their house he’d measure out specific distances and set up targets for her.
Count.
Clare points the gun and squeezes her left eye closed. She can feel Douglas behind her. There it is, Clare thinks. The trance she remembers so well, the veil that used to descend when she took aim. The focus. She lifts the safety and points to the target’s heart. She pulls the trigger and the target jolts. She aims again, this time for the forehead, triangulated from the two dotted eyes. She fires again and holds her position for a moment, breathing through her nose. Finally Clare sets the gun down and removes her muffs.
“Well, he’s definitely dead,” Douglas
