Dead Silver

30

Renee's car, a tight, tough little Subaru Outback, easily handled the mud and ruts of the road up Stumpleg Gulch. When we got to my cabin, I made a quick check around the premises. Everything seemed fine in my little world, including the black tomcat, aside from him being pissed about my absence and loudly letting me know it.

Then I led Renee through the woods to the back part of the property. Like at Astrid's cabin last night, she wasn't dressed for the outdoors-she was wearing the same street boots and shearling coat-so I took an indirect route to pick the driest and easiest going.

But she didn't seem concerned about that or even to notice her surroundings, except to glance occasionally at the.45, which I was carrying in its gun belt, slung over my shoulder. She'd been quiet, her focus inward, all during the drive here, and had said just enough for me to glean that whatever unsettling revelation she was about to make was connected to Astrid and to firing a weapon.

Her capacity for keeping me off balance hadn't diminished, that was for sure.

As we walked, I kept an eye out for signs of my new neighbor bobcat. I didn't see any, but I was far from expert at that sort of thing and fresh tracks would be hard to pick up, anyway. The snow was still ankle-deep in spots but there hadn't been any recent fall, and while the surface melted slightly during the warming days, it froze to a crust again at night, with the underneath staying grainy. The result was that feet, paws, and hooves left clumsy outlines to begin with, which quickly blurred into vague depressions.

If he was around, he wouldn't be for long-as soon as Renee started blowing a window through this peaceful afternoon and into her past.

The landscape opened up when we came to the steep mountainside that formed my northeast border. It was a perfect backdrop for shooting; my father had set up a range with target stands and distances marked up to two hundred yards, which we'd used both for recreation and to sight in our rifles for hunting.

I set up one of the paper targets I'd brought along, a standard two-foot square with concentric rings. I decided to start Renee close in. The.45 could be reasonably accurate in skilled hands, but it was designed to knock a man down if the slug even touched him rather than for precision. I walked to the ten-yard marker, hung the gunbelt on a pine stob, and while I always kept the chamber clear until I was ready to fire, I did a routine check to make certain.

"Ever shoot a pistol before?" I asked her.

"Some, growing up. Daddy had a twenty-two he used for teaching my brother and me."

"I assume he talked about safety?"

"Over and over again. Assume it's always loaded. Never let the barrel point at anyone. Make sure everybody's behind you before you shoot."

"That's a good start. Did he show you a stance?"

She moved slowly, remembering body commands that had long since gone rusty, but she stepped into a correct firing range position-imaginary pistol in both hands, arms extended straight in front of her, feet shoulder-width apart.

"Good again," I said. "Next, this thing's a long way from a twenty-two."

"I shot a bigger one once-nine-millimeter, I remember."

"A forty-five's still got a lot more whack. Somebody as light as you, it's going to jolt you pretty hard, and the grip's made for bigger hands so it'll try to jump out of yours. Hang on tight, squeeze the trigger gently, and don't shoot again until you're fully under control. Oh, yeah, it's also loud."

I'd brought a packet of foam earplugs along with the targets and extra rounds. I dug it out of my shirt pocket and gave a pair to her. She brushed her hair behind her right ear and started to insert one. But she hesitated, then stopped.

"I don't want to dull this," she said.

That brought me out of my officious-instructor mode and back around to the weirdness of why we were here in the first place. I shoved the earplugs in my pocket. We wouldn't be shooting enough to risk long-term hearing damage-it would just be less comfortable.

"Okay," I said. "Step up to the plate."

She positioned herself facing the target. I placed the pistol in her hands, steadying them with my own, with the barrel pointed down and to the front. I jacked a round into the chamber and touched her thumb to the safety.

"As soon as you click this off, you're hot," I said. "You've got seven shots."

I let her go and stepped back. She raised the weapon and aimed for several seconds. I could see her hands wavering with its weight.

A boom ripped across the still afternoon and through my eardrums. Renee stumbled backwards into my hands, which were waiting to catch her waist. The barrel flew up to point skyward, but she held on and kept it in front of her.

"That's fine," I said. "Go ahead, you'll get used to it."

She fired the next six shots carefully, with increasing control. When she finished, she looked attractively disheveled-bright-eyed, flushed, breathing slightly fast. I took the pistol from her, cleared it, hung it in its holster, and went to check the target. She'd hit it five times out of seven, with two of the shots inside the dinner-plate-sized circle and another only a few inches away-pretty damned impressive for a novice who didn't weigh much over a hundred pounds.

I set up a fresh target and took the used one to show her.

"Annie Oakley would be jealous," I said.

Renee didn't speak. Her eyes still had that bright, almost glazed look.

"You want to go again?" I said.

She nodded.

I reloaded the pistol, wondering if it was time to try a couple of prompting questions that might start her talking.

As it turned out, I didn't need to.

"Stand behind me," she said. I hadn't expected the sound of her voice, and it startled me a little. It was subdued and shaky.

I stepped to where I'd been when I'd caught her waist.

"Closer. Right up against me."

Carefully, I pressed my chest against her back and put my hands on her waist again. I could feel her warmth through our coats, and the quick rise and fall of her breathing-even imagined that I sensed the tremor of her heartbeats.

She raised her hands and took aim at the target.

"That nine-millimeter pistol was Astrid's," Renee said. "She stood just like you are and touched my breasts while I shot it."