percussion cap, clicked back the hammer, flipped up his elevation crossbar, got his eye relief, and settled the sights on the almost invisible dot.
He took a deep breath, let it out, steadied over the warm hood, and rested the rifle barrel on a sandbag, snugged the stock along his cheek, raised the sights imperceptibly, found the magic moment, and squeezed the trigger.
With a loud, familiar bang, the rifle heaved against his shoulder. As the cloud of sulfurous smoke dissipated, he counted under his breath, one thousand…and heard the whack of cast lead tearing wood as the low-velocity round smacked home.
“Aw right,” Darl crowed, looking up from the spotting scope. “You owe me twenty bucks, ’cause Mitch just blew a wad of splinters through ‘Abe Lincoln’s’ friggin eye.”
So much for auditions.
Mitch set the rifle on the hood of the truck, looked back over his shoulder, and saw Marcy watching from the side of the house. She shook her head and turned away.
“Hold out your hands,” Dwayne said.
Mitch did.
Dwayne took Mitch’s outstretched hands in his own, gently pressed his fingers into the hollow of Mitch’s wrist, then released them, and said, “Not bad. You were under some pressure and made your shot. Your hands are dry and your pulse’s practically normal. What about tomorrow? Think you’ll be sweating and your heart banging?”
Mitch said, “You really believed that you wouldn’t be here talking.”
“Pretty sure of yourself, ain’tcha.” The way Dwayne said it, it didn’t come out like a question. “Okay.” He glanced at the rifle lying on the case across the hood of the truck. “So a fuckin’ Civil War rifle.”
“Yep,” Mitch said. “That’s the original wood, the original lock and action. Go on, touch the barrel and feel the dead Yankees. Hiram sent it up to Bobby Hoyt in Pennsylvania and he retooled the barrel. No one does it better.”
“I thought the Whitworth was the big sniper gun for our side,” Dwayne pondered.
Darl shook his head. “Whitworth fires a distinctive six-sided bolt.”
“Plus,” Mitch added, “in addition to being rare as hell, they kick like a mule. They used to be able to identify a Whitworth shooter by his black eye from the scope clocking back and busting him in the face. Enfield shoots as good as a Whitworth out to five hundred yards.”
Mitch looked downrange at the rectangle of plywood, turned back to Dwayne. “Tomorrow they’ll be more’n four hundred cheap-ass repros of this rifle on the field pointed at the Yankees. All of ’em capable of firing the same kind of round. The cops are gonna go nuts trying to secure four hundred rifles.”
Then they talked Dwayne through how’d they get in and out, Darl working the blue side to spot Beeman, talking Mitch in on him with the stolen cell that he’d ditch later.
“You put a contract on Kenny Beeman for laming Donny—well, tomorrow you’re gonna watch it come due,” Mitch said.
“Like an accident. No money changing hands. Keep it in the family. You do me a favor and I reciprocate. And you want that done when?” Dwayne asked.
“Right after the old man dies,” Mitch said.
“What if she quits running the roads after her daddy passes?”
“She won’t, she’ll run more,” Mitch said. “And then you and me will sit down, have a beer, and look over a plat map of the Kirby Estate.”
“Okay, Cousin, we got a deal,” Dwayne said. “You deliver on your part and I’ll give it to Jimmy Beal. Too bad we ain’t got Donny. He always liked to drive fast.” Dwayne paused, and for the first time Mitch observed the young cat-killer gleam in his eyes. “Thing with Donny, he had a vicious damn streak I never could break. Fuckin’ kid. Just as well he ain’t here to run her down. Wouldn’t put it past him to drag his dick in some roadkill pussy.”
11
Friday, 4 p.m.
MCNAIRY COUNTY, TENNESSEE
THEY’D TURNED HARD RIGHT AT MADISON AND entered a long, dark tunnel of rainy
He took a deep breath, let it out, steadied over the warm hood, and rested the rifle barrel on a sandbag, snugged the stock along his cheek, raised the sights imperceptibly, found the magic moment, and squeezed the trigger.
With a loud, familiar bang, the rifle heaved against his shoulder. As the cloud of sulfurous smoke dissipated, he counted under his breath, one thousand…and heard the whack of cast lead tearing wood as the low-velocity round smacked home.
“Aw right,” Darl crowed, looking up from the spotting scope. “You owe me twenty bucks, ’cause Mitch just blew a wad of splinters through ‘Abe Lincoln’s’ friggin eye.”
So much for auditions.
Mitch set the rifle on the hood of the truck, looked back over his shoulder, and saw Marcy watching from the side of the house. She shook her head and turned away.
“Hold out your hands,” Dwayne said.
Mitch did.
Dwayne took Mitch’s outstretched hands in his own, gently pressed his fingers into the hollow of Mitch’s wrist, then released them, and said, “Not bad. You were under some pressure and made your shot. Your hands are dry and your pulse’s practically normal. What about tomorrow? Think you’ll be sweating and your heart banging?”
Mitch said, “You really believed that you wouldn’t be here talking.”
“Pretty sure of yourself, ain’tcha.” The way Dwayne said it, it didn’t come out like a question. “Okay.” He glanced at the rifle lying on the case across the hood of the truck. “So a fuckin’ Civil War rifle.”
“Yep,” Mitch said. “That’s the original wood, the original lock and action. Go on, touch the barrel and feel the dead Yankees. Hiram sent it up to Bobby Hoyt in Pennsylvania and he retooled the barrel. No one does it better.”
“I thought the Whitworth was the big sniper gun for our side,” Dwayne pondered.
Darl shook his head. “Whitworth fires a distinctive six-sided bolt.”
“Plus,” Mitch added, “in addition to being rare as hell, they kick like a mule. They used to be able to identify a Whitworth shooter by his black eye from the scope clocking back and busting him in the face. Enfield shoots as good as a Whitworth out to five hundred yards.”
Mitch looked downrange at the rectangle of plywood, turned back to Dwayne. “Tomorrow they’ll be more’n four hundred cheap-ass repros of this rifle on the field pointed at the Yankees. All of ’em capable of firing the same kind of round. The cops are gonna go nuts trying to secure four hundred rifles.”
Then they talked Dwayne through how’d they get in and out, Darl working the blue side to spot Beeman, talking Mitch in on him with the stolen cell that he’d ditch later.
“You put a contract on Kenny Beeman for laming Donny—well, tomorrow you’re gonna watch it come due,” Mitch said.
“Like an accident. No money changing hands. Keep it in the family. You do me a favor and I reciprocate. And you want that done when?” Dwayne asked.
“Right after the old man dies,” Mitch said.
“What if she quits running the roads after her daddy passes?”
“She won’t, she’ll run more,” Mitch said. “And then you and me will sit down, have a beer, and look over a plat map of the Kirby Estate.”
“Okay, Cousin, we got a deal,” Dwayne said. “You deliver on your part and I’ll give it to Jimmy Beal. Too bad we ain’t got Donny. He always liked to drive fast.” Dwayne paused, and for the first time Mitch observed the young cat-killer gleam in his eyes. “Thing with Donny, he had a vicious damn streak I never could break. Fuckin’ kid. Just as well he ain’t here to run her down. Wouldn’t put it past him to drag his dick in some roadkill pussy.”
11
Friday, 4 p.m.
MCNAIRY COUNTY, TENNESSEE
THEY’D TURNED HARD RIGHT AT MADISON AND entered a long, dark tunnel of rainy
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