of cordite. That smell is on my right hand from when we shook hands when you came in. Have you been using firearms, Mr. Denning?”
15
“Ready on the firing line!” the female instructor barked.
We straightened.
“Ready on the right!”
We checked in that direction.
“Ready on the left!”
Through safety glasses, we checked in
that
direction, making sure that nobody was doing anything careless.
“
One,
” the instructor yelled, “grip your holstered weapon!
Two,
draw and aim from the waist!
Three,
raise your weapon to your line of sight!
Four,
press the trigger!”
Eight almost—simultaneous shots filled the long, narrow indoor shooting range. They echoed off the concrete walls, my protective earphones making the reports sound oddly distant.
Although the instructor was directly behind me, she too sounded muffled. “Aim to the right of the target! To the left!”
We obeyed, not firing, but checking for other targets, which she’d warned could pop up at any time.
“Weapon to your waist! Secure it!”
As one, the eight of us completed the sequence and took our hands from our holstered firearms.
The range became silent.
“Not bad,” she said. “Let’s see if anybody hit anything.”
Each of us stood in a slot, with a ledge in front for ammunition and spare magazines. A button to the left engaged a motorized pulley that brought in the targets.
The instructor studied the results. “Okay. Nobody hit the bull’s—eye, but I don’t expect you to at this point. At least none of you missed the target completely. Denning, you hit closest, but you’re still a little high and to the left. Practice more dry—firing at home. Stop twisting your wrist when you press the trigger.”
She went on to correct the other students. We put masking tape over the holes in our targets, touched a button that returned the targets to the end of the gallery, and straightened when she shouted, “Ready on the firing line!”
16
I went to a fitness center every day. I’d never been in top physical condition, but since Petey had taken Kate and Jason, I’d fallen apart. A junk—food diet in combination with too much alcohol and no activity had caused me to put on twenty pounds. No longer. I hired a trainer. Knowing that I had to start slowly, I was nonetheless impatient to get on with it. I progressed from thirty to sixty minutes a day on the machines. I started jogging, at first at the center’s indoor track and then outside in the cold. One mile. Two. Five. I lost the weight I’d put on. Fat became muscle.
I took self—defense classes. Angle. Force. Mass. Architect’s language. I no longer pretended to try to work. As far as I was concerned, I had only one job, so I disbanded my company, giving my employees a generous severance package. When I wasn’t preparing myself by shooting and physical training, I spent my time searching the Internet, using other Web addresses that Payne had given me.
In my former life, I’d always been too busy to explore the Internet. Now I was amazed at how much information I could obtain, provided that, thanks to Payne, I knew where to look. I found Lester Dant’s birth information, which was exactly as the FBI had indicated: He’d definitely been born in Brockton, Indiana, on April 24, a year before Petey had been born. I searched the databases for every state in the union but couldn’t find corresponding
death
information about Lester Dant. Without proof that Petey had assumed Dant’s identity, I grudgingly tested the FBI’s theory that Dant had assumed
Petey’s
identity, but no matter how far I spread my search, I couldn’t find any proof that Petey had died, and, if he had, whether he’d been murdered.
Thanksgiving (the holiday’s name made me bitter) had passed. Kate’s parents had asked me to spend it with them. I’d refused, hardly in a social mood. But then I’d thought that they were as desolate as I was and we might as well try to console one another. The three
15
“Ready on the firing line!” the female instructor barked.
We straightened.
“Ready on the right!”
We checked in that direction.
“Ready on the left!”
Through safety glasses, we checked in
that
direction, making sure that nobody was doing anything careless.
“
One,
” the instructor yelled, “grip your holstered weapon!
Two,
draw and aim from the waist!
Three,
raise your weapon to your line of sight!
Four,
press the trigger!”
Eight almost—simultaneous shots filled the long, narrow indoor shooting range. They echoed off the concrete walls, my protective earphones making the reports sound oddly distant.
Although the instructor was directly behind me, she too sounded muffled. “Aim to the right of the target! To the left!”
We obeyed, not firing, but checking for other targets, which she’d warned could pop up at any time.
“Weapon to your waist! Secure it!”
As one, the eight of us completed the sequence and took our hands from our holstered firearms.
The range became silent.
“Not bad,” she said. “Let’s see if anybody hit anything.”
Each of us stood in a slot, with a ledge in front for ammunition and spare magazines. A button to the left engaged a motorized pulley that brought in the targets.
The instructor studied the results. “Okay. Nobody hit the bull’s—eye, but I don’t expect you to at this point. At least none of you missed the target completely. Denning, you hit closest, but you’re still a little high and to the left. Practice more dry—firing at home. Stop twisting your wrist when you press the trigger.”
She went on to correct the other students. We put masking tape over the holes in our targets, touched a button that returned the targets to the end of the gallery, and straightened when she shouted, “Ready on the firing line!”
16
I went to a fitness center every day. I’d never been in top physical condition, but since Petey had taken Kate and Jason, I’d fallen apart. A junk—food diet in combination with too much alcohol and no activity had caused me to put on twenty pounds. No longer. I hired a trainer. Knowing that I had to start slowly, I was nonetheless impatient to get on with it. I progressed from thirty to sixty minutes a day on the machines. I started jogging, at first at the center’s indoor track and then outside in the cold. One mile. Two. Five. I lost the weight I’d put on. Fat became muscle.
I took self—defense classes. Angle. Force. Mass. Architect’s language. I no longer pretended to try to work. As far as I was concerned, I had only one job, so I disbanded my company, giving my employees a generous severance package. When I wasn’t preparing myself by shooting and physical training, I spent my time searching the Internet, using other Web addresses that Payne had given me.
In my former life, I’d always been too busy to explore the Internet. Now I was amazed at how much information I could obtain, provided that, thanks to Payne, I knew where to look. I found Lester Dant’s birth information, which was exactly as the FBI had indicated: He’d definitely been born in Brockton, Indiana, on April 24, a year before Petey had been born. I searched the databases for every state in the union but couldn’t find corresponding
death
information about Lester Dant. Without proof that Petey had assumed Dant’s identity, I grudgingly tested the FBI’s theory that Dant had assumed
Petey’s
identity, but no matter how far I spread my search, I couldn’t find any proof that Petey had died, and, if he had, whether he’d been murdered.
Thanksgiving (the holiday’s name made me bitter) had passed. Kate’s parents had asked me to spend it with them. I’d refused, hardly in a social mood. But then I’d thought that they were as desolate as I was and we might as well try to console one another. The three
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