Dead Man Falls (24 page)

Jerry checked his watch again. "We need to get going. You’ve got a handgun safety class starting in a few minutes."

"A what?"

"You need to know how to use the gun properly. I could teach you, but you have a tendency to distract me."

Oh, yeah, happens all the time. Just look how hard it’s been for him to not fling me to the bed and have his way with me today.

"You need an official certificate for the permit anyway. Classroom training, then whatever it takes on the range." He picked up the gun and held it in his palm. "When you leave the gun club you’ll be able to handle this without even thinking about it."

Oh, I had some serious doubts about that, but there was no point in arguing. Besides, it was better than sitting in the hotel waiting for something else ludicrous to occur. "Okay, you win, Mr. Sheriff, sir. Lead the way. I’m yours to commando."

* * * *

We arrived at the Redwater Falls Gun Club in time for Jerry to acquaint me with the pistol, the clips, the ammunition and the "don’t do anything stupid" basics before class time. I also had time to listen to a few stories about my mother from the guys behind the counter. I didn’t ask to hear the stories, mind you, but once it became clear I was "Miz Lucille’s" daughter, there was no way to avoid it. Apparently, she's become the den mother for the group--more details of my mother's life I wish I didn't know about.

Jerry cut their reminiscing short by showing off the gun he’d bought for me. The men drooled and cooed over it, then promptly tried to buy it from him--for more than he’d paid. Jerry had snagged one of the last ones made, and the price of the little pistols was skyrocketing daily, or so said they said. No question, the little Colt Mustang Plus II was kind of cute--and Jerry had dropped some serious cash for it--but I also knew it was quite deadly.

With our safety glasses on and earmuffs hanging around our necks, Jerry and I walked through a series of doors into what looked like a long, narrow, concrete tunnel. We had the room to ourselves, and I counted eight stall-like areas with dials and switches and armrests and target holders.

Jerry motioned me back to a bench along the wall and sat me down. He gave me a few tips on gun range etiquette and other important tidbits then set me to work loading and reloading the clips, over and over and over.

I was neither an enthusiastic nor particularly adept student, and the persnickety clips kept spitting the bullets back at me when I tried to stuff them in. I eventually got the hang of it and we moved on to a crash course on the parts of the gun, how to release the clip, how to chamber a round and how not to point the damn thing at him while I was doing any of the above.

Among the other things that I could legitimately say I’d learned in my brief lesson was that the pistol was a .380 caliber and it had three clips, which held seven bullets each. I also learned in a hurry that your fingers could get mighty sore trying to load the spring-powered gizmos. Ditto for pulling back the top of the gun--called the slide--to chamber a round.

After all the bullet loading, clip popping and dropping, safety releasing, and chambering business, I was getting the urge to actually shoot the darn thing. "So do I get to try this baby out or do I have to wait for the class?"

Jerry stood and chuckled just a little. "I have assured John that you have experience with other guns and that he wouldn’t be starting from square one. Let’s try a few rounds before he gets here to make sure I didn’t lie to him."

"Very funny." Standing, I collected my artillery and supplies from the bench and nodded toward the booths. The two middle ones had targets already hung on the racks. "Does it matter which one I start with?"

He walked over to the first stall and flipped a switch. The target moved away maybe fifteen feet and stopped. He flipped another switch, which illuminated the paper line drawing, then motioned me over--and promptly took the gun from me. "Every gun is always loaded. Always treat--"

"Jerry, dear, you have told me that at least eighty-three times since you sprung this thing on me, not that I didn’t know it already. I shall do my very best not to shoot you."

He set the gun on a small shelf by the switches then put on his earmuffs. I set my clips and holster down and did the same. The headphone things felt kind of strange, as if they almost completely sealed off my ears, and I wondered if I could hear anything at all besides my own breathing. Then Jerry said, "Ready?" and I heard him okay, which made me wonder how loud the gunshots would sound.

Jerry picked up the Colt and put it in my right hand, then stood behind me and fit my fingers around and over in what he said was the proper shooting technique: grip with the right, hold back with the left.

"This is weird," I said, although having Jerry’s arms around me was anything but. "With my twenty-two, all I ever do is just point and shoot--with one hand." And I do just fine, thank you very much. "This two-handed business feels like overkill, so to speak."

"This stance gives you more stability and you should be more accurate. You’ll get used to it."

I didn’t really want to get used it and I had severe doubts that I’d be doing this sort of thing much anyway. I was here to humor him, nothing more.

"Shoot three rounds at the target," he said, stepping away. "Take your time."

I held the gun like he wanted me to, pointed at the black circle and pulled the trigger. Unfortunately, the trigger didn’t pull. Jerry stepped back up beside me and went through the "you have to take it off safety first" drill again.

"I’m just not used to a safety. My revolver doesn’t have one. But I get it now."

He nodded, but the look in his eyes didn’t twinkle "Olympic hopeful." I’m not even sure there was a flicker of "she’ll hit the paper" hope.

I smiled anyway and turned around, determined to prove him wrong. Problem was, I had developed a little case of nervousness--okay, maybe it was a big one--now that I had to prove I’d paid attention. I’d already blown my first attempt at impressing him by forgetting the safety. I didn’t want him to think I was an incompetent idiot, but the potential for that was rather high.

The target was only a few yards away so I had a pretty good chance of hitting some part of it if I could just get my mind wrapped around the correct sequence of actions to get the bullet headed in that general direction. I ran down the list: Safety off; load the first round in the chamber; hold the gun properly, left fingers on top of right ones; aim--surely I could at least hit the paper; squeeze trigger.
Bang!

There wasn’t really any kickback to the shot and that surprised me. I must have been anticipating that the gun would slam back into me like a hunting rifle because it felt like I’d flinched at the last second. I think I might have shut my eyes, too, but I wasn’t going to admit that part. "I think I missed."

"That’s fine," Jerry said patiently. "You pulled off to the right at the last second. Happens all the time. Just keep your focus on the target and squeeze the trigger slowly with the tip of your finger. Try again."

I did exactly what he said and squeezed, carefully.
Pop.

A hole appeared a couple of inches to the right of the black circle. Wow! I did it! And I could do that again, yes, I could.
Pop.
Within an inch of the first shot and closer to the circle. Hey, this was kind of fun.
Pop. Pop. Pop.

I guess I must have forgotten about that "just shoot three rounds" order from Mr. Sheriff because I emptied the first clip, ejected it quite expertly, and grabbed for another. I popped it in, chambered up the first round and aimed. I emptied that clip, too, and jammed in the third.

When I was finished, my paper guy had twenty bullet holes all over his body. Somewhere along the way, I’d become enamored with the rapid-fire approach and had neglected to work on the aiming part. Even so, I thought I’d done a pretty darn good job of keeping my holes inside the lines. Paper guy sure wouldn’t be messing with me again. I turned around to grin at Jerry, but he was sitting on the bench loading up the empty clips for me. What a nice guy! I held my hand out for one.

He shook his head and pointed to a tall gray-haired man standing just inside the door.

Well, damn. Time for school. And here I was just starting to get the hang of things.

* * * *

The class was interesting, informative, darned technical in spots, and inherently gruesome. I saw lots of bullets fired into some special gelatin stuff, but it did not adequately emulate the actual damage done to real humanoid types, which I also saw on film in full color detail--not to mention the ones I'd seen in person.

Still, misconceptions abound, particularly in Hollywood. I have never found it particularly realistic that the force of a single bullet could hurl a body across a room or out a window, but I guess that’s what makes a movie an action flick. I also did not need to be told that you can get shot and not know it. Ronald Reagan and I have learned that lesson the hard way.

Actually, I think having been wounded in the line of duty--sort of--kind of made me "one of the boys," and before I knew it, classroom training was over and Teacher John and I were back on the firing line. Jerry was nowhere to be found, and that was plenty fine with me. I needed a little time to get my technique down without him watching over my shoulder.

Teacher John was patient but concise. I didn’t get to just blast away at the paper. He gave me situations to evaluate, and made me repeat the drills until I got them right. Then I did it all over again just to be sure. Mel Gibson wasn’t likely to sign me up for Lethal Weapon XVI, but I wasn’t Barney Fife either.

Time literally flew. I only knew it was getting late because I was beginning to get hungry and needed to go to the bathroom.

After I emptied my last clip, Teacher John took off his earmuffs and told me to do the same. Jerry walked into the range about that same time. I must have been beaming with pride because Jerry was looking at me--rather proudly I might add--and smiling.

"How’d she do, John?"

"I wouldn’t make her mad if I was you." He said it like he was serious and he didn’t grin either. Teacher John is a smart man. "Those short barrels aren’t usually very accurate, but she did real fine."

I guess I might have beamed a little more. "Want me to show you?" I asked, ready to show off my new tricks.

Jerry shook his head. "I’ve been watching you for the last hour through the glass. Besides, it’s been a long time since you’ve eaten--or had a Dr Pepper. You don’t seem to do well under those conditions."

He had a point, and it was nice that he’d thought about such things. Going too long without eating can make me cranky, but I wasn’t quite to the cranky point just yet. Armed, dangerous and cheerful was probably a closer fit.

"I’ll get started on the paperwork, Miz Jackson," Teacher John said. "It’ll be out front whenever you’re ready."

I turned in my safety glasses and earmuffs and John presented me with a signed certificate for my class. The guys behind the counter were mighty impressed with my hole-filled papers and tried again to talk me out of the little Mustang. I told them it wasn’t the gun that put those bullets in the center of that target, buddy boys, it was me. As they laughed and chanted some over-used NRA slogans, Jerry dragged me from the club and loaded me up in the Expedition.

"Hey, there was no need to rush off," I said, snapping my seat belt. "I was having a good time back there."

"I noticed." He started the truck, grabbed a thick packet from beside his seat and tossed it into my lap. "I was worried this was a mistake before we got here. Now, I’m sure of it."

"What, I wasn’t supposed to have fun? You’d be happier if I was complaining right now?"

He shoved his mirrored glasses over his eyes. "That’s a tough call. I just wanted you to be able to protect yourself. I didn’t expect you to turn into Rambo Jolene."

Heh, heh, heh. Real funny, or it might have been if it weren’t sort of true. I liked having the little metallic peacekeeper at my side more than I really wanted to admit. "Well, even if you are sorry you gave it to me, I want to thank you very much. I like the little pistol a lot." Yes, there was genuine gratitude and glee this time around. "What’s in the envelope?" I asked, even as I was peeping inside and reading aloud. "Concealed Weapons Permit? From Colorado? How did you get this?"

"I have a few friends in the sheriff’s office up there. They faxed up the papers. Everything is filled in except for a few personal questions. In a weak moment, Rick and I both wrote you letters of recommendation. Just sign the forms and let’s get this in the overnight drop box before I change my mind."

Oh, my, but he did not sound nearly as cheerful as he had earlier when he was rushing me out of the hotel room. And a touch of sarcasm to boot. Tsk, tsk. Okay, maybe I was going a little over the top--although I had really enjoyed the lessons--but I was mostly doing it for his benefit.

The truth was, I had no desire to carry the little Colt with me everywhere I went. Playing around at a gun range was entertaining, but it did not qualify me for a SWAT unit and I knew it better than anyone. As amusing as it was to shoot at targets, I held no delusions that I could perform equally well under pressure--or threat of imminent death. I’d get around to telling him that before long, but since he’d gone to the trouble--and it was no small amount--of arranging the permit, I pulled out the papers, filled in the blanks and shoved it all back in the mailer. "So, does this Colorado permit you got me work here in Texas, too?"

"Not automatically, no, but I’ve foolishly taken care of that as well. Everything should be in order by tomorrow."

I glanced into the back seat where the gun case and box of goodies rode. "So, what this means is that today I have to hold the gun up where everybody can see it--pretty stupid if you ask me--but tomorrow I can hide it under my shirt?"

He nodded. "If you want it under your shirt today, you’ll need an official to help you with that." One corner of his mouth curved up in a little grin. "I’m available."