days later it’s every item of clothing—except a pair of jeans, a couple of shirts, socks, and boots—I brought to this spook house in my duffel—what was it…five, six, maybe even eight weeks ago? I realize I’ve lost all sense of time.
Worse, I’ve lost sense of my life. When’s the last time I thought of Annie or Helen, Dog or Ice Box? They seem a world away, maybe two worlds, not quite real, figures from a distant past, or an imagined one. Am I seeming as far from them as they’re seeming to me? Can I bear that big a loss?
Then Terry stops appearing at breakfast, not that I care, since I never connected with that cipher anyway. But it is another manifestation of the process. Whoever’s guard-dogging the house in his place—there has to be acrew, working shifts—stays invisible. Yet there’s an increase in the comings and goings—people I don’t know and am not introduced to, huddling with Allison or Rob in rooms I’ve never entered. I feel like the house ghost; visitors look straight through me, don’t seem to see me at all.
Thank God for the shooting, out at the FBI range in Maryland. The instructor’s a tall, thin guy, maybe forty, with the slightly hooded eyes of a raptor. He doesn’t say much. He doesn’t need to. I feel in my zone from the start, which is simply putting two hundred rounds through each gun into steel silhouettes at ranges from seven to thirty yards. I don’t miss much.
Feel even better when we move on to combat town. It’s a block of buildings made of plywood and two-by-fours, like a Hollywood set minus any period details. The game is simple: as you move along the block, life-size photos on plywood cutouts pop up unpredictably at windows, come through doors, flash out from behind corners and jerk rapidly back. Most of the photo targets are bad guys with guns aimed at you, but every so often one of a young mother holding an infant appears. You fire at a mom, you lose major points and have to start over, even if you miss.
The instructor wants to begin with the most basic drill: pistol unholstered, cocked, and held at low ready with both hands, just as you would enter a known hot zone, real-world. The first time I move fast in a slight crouch, cold and clear, doing nothing fancy with the Wilson. When I’m through, the instructor reads the talley: fourteen of fourteen bad guys with one bullet each in the kill zone, no shot taken at three moms. I go twice more, once with the XD and once with the Korth. The place and timing of the targets’ appearance changes with each run. Same score, same time with the Springfield,same score but six seconds slower with the Korth, because it takes longer to reload a revolver.
The instructor manipulates the target control panel and we go through as a team. He uses a SIG 226, fifteen rounds of 9mm in his mags. We cover each other; I take out a bad guy who jumps up behind him, he does the same for me. Our scores match: twelve of twelve shooters dead, no shots at four moms, each.
“Hey, can we give this a try?” Rob asks the instructor.
“Solo or team?” he asks.
“Team. Okay, Rob?” Allison says. Rob nods.
“Give me a minute,” the instructor says, flicking some switches on the control panel, then disappearing for a little while behind the buildings. He comes back grinning.
“On my signal,” the instructor says. He pauses. “Go!”
They move into the block, looking pretty good, Rob holding an HK USP and Allison gripping her SIG 229 in the approved fashion. The targets and their pistols start popping early but, it seems to me, at a slightly slower pace than before.
“They look like they can shoot, they think they can shoot, but ten bucks says they’re going to be real surprised,” the instructor says to me.
“Won’t take that bet,” I say.
“Wise man.”
After they come back to the start and the instructor goes out to score, he waves us up about midway on his return. “Allison, eight of twelve dead, two moms wounded.
Worse, I’ve lost sense of my life. When’s the last time I thought of Annie or Helen, Dog or Ice Box? They seem a world away, maybe two worlds, not quite real, figures from a distant past, or an imagined one. Am I seeming as far from them as they’re seeming to me? Can I bear that big a loss?
Then Terry stops appearing at breakfast, not that I care, since I never connected with that cipher anyway. But it is another manifestation of the process. Whoever’s guard-dogging the house in his place—there has to be acrew, working shifts—stays invisible. Yet there’s an increase in the comings and goings—people I don’t know and am not introduced to, huddling with Allison or Rob in rooms I’ve never entered. I feel like the house ghost; visitors look straight through me, don’t seem to see me at all.
Thank God for the shooting, out at the FBI range in Maryland. The instructor’s a tall, thin guy, maybe forty, with the slightly hooded eyes of a raptor. He doesn’t say much. He doesn’t need to. I feel in my zone from the start, which is simply putting two hundred rounds through each gun into steel silhouettes at ranges from seven to thirty yards. I don’t miss much.
Feel even better when we move on to combat town. It’s a block of buildings made of plywood and two-by-fours, like a Hollywood set minus any period details. The game is simple: as you move along the block, life-size photos on plywood cutouts pop up unpredictably at windows, come through doors, flash out from behind corners and jerk rapidly back. Most of the photo targets are bad guys with guns aimed at you, but every so often one of a young mother holding an infant appears. You fire at a mom, you lose major points and have to start over, even if you miss.
The instructor wants to begin with the most basic drill: pistol unholstered, cocked, and held at low ready with both hands, just as you would enter a known hot zone, real-world. The first time I move fast in a slight crouch, cold and clear, doing nothing fancy with the Wilson. When I’m through, the instructor reads the talley: fourteen of fourteen bad guys with one bullet each in the kill zone, no shot taken at three moms. I go twice more, once with the XD and once with the Korth. The place and timing of the targets’ appearance changes with each run. Same score, same time with the Springfield,same score but six seconds slower with the Korth, because it takes longer to reload a revolver.
The instructor manipulates the target control panel and we go through as a team. He uses a SIG 226, fifteen rounds of 9mm in his mags. We cover each other; I take out a bad guy who jumps up behind him, he does the same for me. Our scores match: twelve of twelve shooters dead, no shots at four moms, each.
“Hey, can we give this a try?” Rob asks the instructor.
“Solo or team?” he asks.
“Team. Okay, Rob?” Allison says. Rob nods.
“Give me a minute,” the instructor says, flicking some switches on the control panel, then disappearing for a little while behind the buildings. He comes back grinning.
“On my signal,” the instructor says. He pauses. “Go!”
They move into the block, looking pretty good, Rob holding an HK USP and Allison gripping her SIG 229 in the approved fashion. The targets and their pistols start popping early but, it seems to me, at a slightly slower pace than before.
“They look like they can shoot, they think they can shoot, but ten bucks says they’re going to be real surprised,” the instructor says to me.
“Won’t take that bet,” I say.
“Wise man.”
After they come back to the start and the instructor goes out to score, he waves us up about midway on his return. “Allison, eight of twelve dead, two moms wounded.
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