of him, a paper target appeared. He squeezed off a couple of rounds, taking satisfaction in the weapon's kick against the palms of his hands. The muffled sounds of gunfire, the smell of burning gunpowder, the surge of adrenaline—everything combined within his senses and sent his memory into overdrive. David's face suddenly appeared on the target, taunting him like the ghost that he'd become, and when it did, Frank snapped, emptying his gun into the target. Moving in robotlike motions, he ejected the empty clip and slipped a full one in place before pressing the button on the wall beside him to bring the paper target up close.
Yanking it from the wire, he grunted in satisfaction. Every shot he'd fired had hit within a three-inch radius of where a man's heart would be. He dropped it onto the floor beside him, hit the switch, then adjusted his safety glasses as he waited for a new target to appear. He'd done fine, just fine. But he could do better.
He set the distance on the new target at fifty feet farther back than before and took aim. Again, David's face appeared before him. He squeezed the trigger in rapid succession again, this time peppering the head until there was nothing left of the target above the shoulders and no bullets left in the clip.
Muscles in his healing shoulder protested, but he ignored the painful twinges as he took off the headphones and goggles, then mopped the sweat from his face with his handkerchief.
A passing attendant glanced into Frank's cubicle and whistled softly.
"Good job, sir. Whoever he is, he's definitely dead."
Frank turned abruptly, still holding his weapon and making sure that he'd never seen him before. Luckily for the attendant, he was a stranger to Frank, or he might never have lived to see another sunrise. Then Frank smiled, pulling the scarred side of his mouth into a grimace.
"Yeah … he's that, all right," Frank said, and headed for the exit.
* * *
Morning dawned on a gray, overcast day. It looked like rain. David stood at the living room windows staring out into the yard, but he wasn't looking at the view. His thoughts had gone inward, mentally plotting out a course of action. The scent of coffee still permeated the air from their breakfast. Cara had scooted David out of the kitchen, claiming she was making him a surprise. Then she'd argued he should be resting in bed and he'd retaliated by ignoring her.
Now, although they were but a room away from each other, the distance between them couldn't have been further. He wasn't thinking like David. He'd become Jonah again—planning the best way to trap and dispose of a killer.
Happy with the pie she was baking, Cara never knew when David went out the front door and checked the contents of his trunk. He needed to check in with his agents and the powers that be again. If God had been listening to his prayers, maybe they'd already fished Frank's body out of the East River, but he wasn't betting his future on that. At least not yet.
He looked at the house. He wasn't in the mood to go to the lake, but no way was he ever going to destroy the sanctity of that home by bringing any part of his old life into it. Anxious to get things in motion, he set the bag in the front seat of the car and ran into the house.
Cara heard the front door slam, then the sound of running footsteps. She turned just as David entered the kitchen.
"What's the hurry?"
He hesitated. "Something smells good."
She frowned. "David. I raised three children and I've heard just about every excuse in the book. That's not what you came here to tell me."
He grinned. "Damn, you're good."
"Yes, and don't you forget it," she muttered. "So, what's up?"
"I'm going to take another little drive. I won't be gone long, okay?"
Her fingers tightened around the handle of the knife she was holding. It was the only outward sign of her unease.
"Okay. If you get as far as Chiltingham, would you mind bringing back a gallon of milk?"
His eyes widened, then a genuine smile
Yanking it from the wire, he grunted in satisfaction. Every shot he'd fired had hit within a three-inch radius of where a man's heart would be. He dropped it onto the floor beside him, hit the switch, then adjusted his safety glasses as he waited for a new target to appear. He'd done fine, just fine. But he could do better.
He set the distance on the new target at fifty feet farther back than before and took aim. Again, David's face appeared before him. He squeezed the trigger in rapid succession again, this time peppering the head until there was nothing left of the target above the shoulders and no bullets left in the clip.
Muscles in his healing shoulder protested, but he ignored the painful twinges as he took off the headphones and goggles, then mopped the sweat from his face with his handkerchief.
A passing attendant glanced into Frank's cubicle and whistled softly.
"Good job, sir. Whoever he is, he's definitely dead."
Frank turned abruptly, still holding his weapon and making sure that he'd never seen him before. Luckily for the attendant, he was a stranger to Frank, or he might never have lived to see another sunrise. Then Frank smiled, pulling the scarred side of his mouth into a grimace.
"Yeah … he's that, all right," Frank said, and headed for the exit.
* * *
Morning dawned on a gray, overcast day. It looked like rain. David stood at the living room windows staring out into the yard, but he wasn't looking at the view. His thoughts had gone inward, mentally plotting out a course of action. The scent of coffee still permeated the air from their breakfast. Cara had scooted David out of the kitchen, claiming she was making him a surprise. Then she'd argued he should be resting in bed and he'd retaliated by ignoring her.
Now, although they were but a room away from each other, the distance between them couldn't have been further. He wasn't thinking like David. He'd become Jonah again—planning the best way to trap and dispose of a killer.
Happy with the pie she was baking, Cara never knew when David went out the front door and checked the contents of his trunk. He needed to check in with his agents and the powers that be again. If God had been listening to his prayers, maybe they'd already fished Frank's body out of the East River, but he wasn't betting his future on that. At least not yet.
He looked at the house. He wasn't in the mood to go to the lake, but no way was he ever going to destroy the sanctity of that home by bringing any part of his old life into it. Anxious to get things in motion, he set the bag in the front seat of the car and ran into the house.
Cara heard the front door slam, then the sound of running footsteps. She turned just as David entered the kitchen.
"What's the hurry?"
He hesitated. "Something smells good."
She frowned. "David. I raised three children and I've heard just about every excuse in the book. That's not what you came here to tell me."
He grinned. "Damn, you're good."
"Yes, and don't you forget it," she muttered. "So, what's up?"
"I'm going to take another little drive. I won't be gone long, okay?"
Her fingers tightened around the handle of the knife she was holding. It was the only outward sign of her unease.
"Okay. If you get as far as Chiltingham, would you mind bringing back a gallon of milk?"
His eyes widened, then a genuine smile
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