At the desk ahead of me was a man facing the other way, but I noticed a familiar brown haircut. Kerry Reed turned as I approached and gave me an engaging smile. “Well, look who’s here! It’s that Wild woman.”
I was glad to see him. “Hi. You putting in the obligatory target time, too?”
“Me? Nah, I come here to pick up women.” He winked at me.
“I would have figured you more the type to be out cruising for redwoods,” I joked.
He laughed. “No redwoods in this state. But you look like you might do in a pinch.” Then he reached for my targets. “Let me see how we did today.” He looked them over approvingly. “Not bad. Not bad. Yeah, those guys are both definitely dead, Jamaica. You got them. You know, I think I’ll try to stay on your good side, not do anything to make you mad. What do you think?” he said over his shoulder to the target master, holding up the two sheets.
The target master nodded. “Yeah, you don’t want to cross a woman with a gun, let me tell you. You look like you’re getting a little better with that Sig Sauer, Jamaica.” He went back to shelving boxes of ammo.
“Let me see yours,” I said to Kerry, and I reached for the target on the counter behind him. He moved his body to block my hand, holding the paper behind his back. This put me inches away from him, my arm around him, and I could smell his scent again, like that morning in the truck, a smell like soap and clean air and
“Ah, I’m no good with a handgun,” he said, as we hung there in sensual space, inanimate. “I only fired my pistol today. I am much better with a rifle.” He still blocked the target with his body, still smelled good, still emanated warm signals to my flesh. He was smiling that smile again.
I moved back a step, fortified myself with a little air. “Hey, I showed you my targets, now you show me yours.” I reached out again, extending my open palm between us.
“Okay.” He shrugged and placed the paper in my hand. I looked at it. He had shot perfectly through the pupil of each of the target’s two eyes, made a third eye in the center of the forehead, nailed one right through the midpoint of the mouth, and engraved a heart-shaped series of dots like a valentine over the target’s chest. Inside the valentine was a single, perfectly centered shot through the middle of the heart.
I drew in a breath. “Wow! Where did you learn to shoot like that?”
He took the target from me and handed it to the target master to initial and score. “Army Rangers. I was point man on my squad.”
“Oh.” I pushed my two papers across the counter next.
“You’re a pretty good shot, too,” he said, “especially with that Ruger rifle. Where’d you learn to shoot?”
“I grew up on a farm.” I folded my initialed targets in half, then in half again, and tucked them under my arm. “Well, I gotta go. I’ll see you on the job tonight.”
“Hey, wait.” He followed me as I went out the door. “How come you act that way whenever I ask you something about yourself?”
I had been pushing a good stride toward my Jeep, which was parked around the side near the back of the building. I stopped and turned to face him. “What way?”
“Like I’m about to find out that you were really raised by wolves or something.”
“What do you mean?” Irritation made my nostrils flare.
“Well, just like back there.” He gestured toward the door of the Bullet Hole.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I just wondered where you learned to shoot. You’re really good.”
“I told you.”
“No, you didn’t.” He let one corner of his mouth turn up in a smile, then tilted his head and raised his eyebrows in a tiny, beckoning gesture.
I saw the grin start, and for some fool reason I grinned, too. Then I giggled. So did he. “Well, I was raised by wolves…”
“I knew it!” We both laughed now, and he put out a hand and grabbed hold of my shoulder as he doubled over trying to howl like a wolf but sputtering too much to get it out, clutching his holstered gun with the belt wrapped around it against his abdomen.
I tried to howl, too, with my rifle in one hand, my handgun in the other, laughing too hard to sustain a decent wail.
“I knew you would tell me eventually,” he said, as his laughter began to wind down.
This felt good, really good. “My dad taught me to fire a rifle when I was seven years old,” I said finally, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. “We had a farm. He said everyone who lived in the country should know how to shoot a gun. We had a lot of rattlesnakes. I was there by myself a lot. He wanted me to know how to protect myself.”
“Seven, huh? And did he take you hunting as well?”
“No. He didn’t hunt. Oh, I think he did when he was a boy. By the time… well, when I was growing up, he… he didn’t hunt anymore. Anyway, I’ve run off a few coyotes from the compost heap, but my favorite target was soup cans.”
“I see. Knocking them off of logs, rocks, and fence posts, right?”
“That would be it.” I pushed the toe of my boot around in the dirt, looking for something to prod.
“Well, you sure are good with the rifle. But you could use a little more work with that pistol. Hey, I have a night scope that you might like to use while we’re working together on this night assignment. I’ll bring it with me tonight.”
“Wow. That would be fun. I never have tried one, but I’d like to.”
“You know, we should come here together and work on our pistols sometime. And I’ll bring a rifle along just to show you that I really can shoot.”
“I can’t imagine how you could top that target I saw today.”
“Let’s come down here some time together and I’ll show you-you’ll see.”
“Okay, it’s a deal. But I have to go now,” I said, reluctantly.
“Yeah, me, too. So, I’ll bring that scope and I’ll see you tonight.”
“You bet.” I turned and went to my Jeep. I opened the door to the driver’s seat and pushed the back of the seat forward, then bent down and leaned in, carefully placing the Mini-14 on the floor alongside my shotgun. When I raised up and pushed the seat back into its upright position, I saw the back of Kerry Reed’s head in his ranger hat as he drove away in his truck.
I looked around the parking lot, across the road. For a moment there, I had forgotten to watch my own back.
23
Christine Salazar met me at the sheriff’s office. Like most of New Mexico’s field deputy medical investigators, she worked part-time for the Office of Medical Investigation, or OMI, and most of the time at another endeavor so that she had steady income. After several years as a private investigator, Christine’s other endeavor was teaching science at the University of New Mexico.
“I understand you knew the deceased,” she said as she showed me to an interview room.
“Yes, I had met him. Once.”
“Well, I’m sorry for your loss,” she said, closing the door and gesturing for me to take a seat at the table.
I sat down.
Christine sat down opposite me. “But when you witnessed the scene that morning, you didn’t know who it was, correct?”
“That’s right, I didn’t know who it was.”
“Okay, then. For the purposes of this interview, I think it would be best if we tried to proceed as if you didn’t know who the deceased was, even now. It will keep you more detached, and you will be able to retrieve the information from your memory without emotions clouding the data. Do you think you can do that?”
