Dead Aim

CHAPTER 17

Parish had quietly appeared in the gym so that he could look in on Ron Dolan’s early martial arts class. Today was this group’s last at the camp, and he liked to leave them with the impression that they’d had more of his personal attention than he had actually given them. He had left the gym and was on his way to the firing range when it occurred to him that he had not seen Debbie or Emily this morning. He walked into the cabin at the end of the long path, and saw Debbie barefoot, wearing sweatpants and a tank top, perched on a chair hugging her bent legs so her knees came up to serve as a chin rest.

He said, “What’s up?”

She turned her head farther than it seemed she should be able to and looked over her shoulder at him. His eyes moved to see Emily lying on her back on the single bed in the corner, with her hands clasped behind her head. She said, “We came together to bitch, Michael. You should get out while you can.”

“It sounds like something I should hear.” He stepped up to Debbie, took one of her hands, and gently tugged as he walked toward Emily’s side of the room. Debbie let the arm straighten, then yielded to the steady pressure and brought her feet to the floor to walk with him. When he reached the bed where Emily was lying on her back, staring up at the rafters, he sat on the very edge, then moved his hip against hers and pushed. “We’re joining you.” She slithered closer to the wall, and he and Debbie sat.

Emily rolled to face them, lying on her side. “She could kill you with her hands,” she said thoughtfully.

Parish looked at Debbie, put his arm around her waist, and said, “So? You could kill me in some other way.”

Emily persisted. “Even lion tamers sometimes go into the cage at the wrong time and get torn apart.”

“And while it’s happening, maybe what they feel is… ecstasy. That’s what their lives were all about, isn’t it-that the danger was real all along? And just being near those beautiful creatures, tempting them and teasing them.” His eyes glittered as he smiled, reached out a hand, and softly touched Emily’s cheek. He let his hand linger there for a second, but when she brought her hand up to brush it away, it was already gone. Her laugh seemed to escape in spite of her.

He said, “You both have legitimate complaints. Which one are we talking about?”

Debbie said, “Last night, Michael. The idea was to have those two do their own hunt, wasn’t it?”

Parish nodded. “Yes. It was.”

“Well, what I was doing wasn’t what a tracker usually does. I had to take a big risk to lure that target into the restaurant in the first place. She wasn’t some man I could get to follow me by batting my eyelashes. When I got her there, I had to find a way to signal Emily without her sensing that I was doing it, then sit there for fifteen minutes talking about the camp and about Catherine before anybody else even arrived.”

“You did it brilliantly,” he said. “I heard every word over the radio. That little bit of an implication that you were a bad girl but you regretted it, and that you needed her protection, I think that was what kept her there.”

Debbie gave an embarrassed smile, but she knew she was being seduced, so she gave his shoulder a push. “I did what was necessary. But at that point, my part should have been over. I signaled Emily, I gave her fifteen minutes to bring the two all-stars up and point them in the right direction. I waited, and talked. When they got there, I was supposed to get up and go to the bathroom, wasn’t I?”

Parish nodded. “That was certainly the plan. I know it didn’t go smoothly-I was there-and I’m very sorry.” He turned to Emily, waiting.

Emily said, “I did everything the scout is supposed to do. I found the restaurant, I got the two of them into safe places where they could wait, then brought them forward when it was time. So what do they do? They fuck it all up. They burst in there while Debbie is still at the table. Coleman was already reaching for his gun when he stepped in the door. If Debbie hadn’t been the fucking martial arts nightmare girl, she never would have been fast enough to keep the target from turning the hunt into a slaughter.”

Parish looked apologetically at Debbie. “She’s absolutely right,” he said. “You kept the target’s gun out of her hand and disabled her with that pepper spray. I’m still amazed at how quickly it happened.”

Emily went on. “And then they open fire. Debbie’s lucky they didn’t shoot her too. And what do they do next? With the bartender and the waitress gaping at all of us, they turn around and start to leave!”

Parish nodded. “I saw you drop the witnesses before you left. I admired your presence of mind. I was as disappointed as you are that Coleman and Markham didn’t do it themselves.”

The two women looked at each other and rolled their eyes, then stared at Parish.

He said, “They asked me for a challenge. I knew that bagging a private detective in public was sure to be exciting, but I didn’t anticipate that Miss Marks would be that challenging. I took into account the possibility that she might be armed in some way, but I didn’t know she’d be alert enough to her surroundings to cause a serious risk. She was very good.”

Debbie’s eyes narrowed. “But did you know how bad they would be? She saw them pulling out guns as soon as they were in the door, but it took an eternity for them to fire. I practically had to kill her myself-hold her there, disarm her, and disable her before they could even pull a trigger. Did you know they were that bad?”

“No, never,” said Parish. “But I knew if it turned wrong, then you would be up to it.” He tightened his arm to give her an affectionate squeeze. “I also knew that, from looking at you, she would never imagine that you would be capable of doing much harm. So if she had managed to get off a shot, you were not going to be the one she aimed it at. She would shoot Mr. Coleman or Mr. Markham.”

Emily eyed him suspiciously. “You’re not putting up much of a defense.”

Parish half-turned to see her better, leaned down, took her hand in his and kissed it. “I’m sorry. I apologize again for my mistake. I don’t think excuses are what you want, really. I have none.”

“You could at least offer a little resistance.”

He shrugged. “You’re both describing this situation accurately, just as you read the situation correctly last night. The tracker and the scout were in position and prepared. They saw that the clients weren’t going to be able to handle things, so they stepped in. The tracker took responsibility for the target, and made it an easy kill. The scout took charge of the environment and kept it safe: no interference, no witnesses left alive. You forgot nothing, and we all got home. It’s the way the hunting party is supposed to work. I’m very pleased with that part of the experience. It confirmed my faith in the professionals I chose to run this hunt. But I can’t defend my decision to let those two clients go after big game.”

Debbie put her arms around Parish and placed a kiss on his cheek. “Oh, Michael. You’re such a weasel.” She stood up and stretched, then stepped into her sandals and said over her shoulder, “I have a class to teach.” She slipped out the door silently.

Parish turned to Emily. “I have to go speak to the two clients. They’re probably already waiting for me. Do you want to come along?”

She lay on her side and squinted up at him as though judging his sincerity. Suddenly she sat up. “All right.”

They left the cabin and walked across the field and down the paved road toward the main lodge. “We have to keep in mind,” Parish said, “that these men are our customers. They pay us for all of this.”

“The customer is always right?” She watched him closely.

“We run a service for spoiled, childish people who have lots of money. Most of them have never done anything useful to get it. When they’re tired of their houses, they hire an architect and a decorator, then go off to Europe. When the house is done, they come back and tell people they did it all themselves. And this is the part that you need to know: they mean it. They believe what they’re saying. If you understand that, then you own them. Right now those two are probably very pleased with themselves, unaware that you and Debbie did everything for them. They should be aware that you and Debbie performed valuable services, but they’re feeling very potent and brave right now. That’s the way we want them to feel when they leave.”

“Whenever you talk about clients, you sound as though you don’t even like them.”

He glanced at her in surprise, then laughed. “Let’s just say the customer is limited in experience, but perfectible. You can’t judge him by the standards we use for ourselves.”

She muttered, “I’m not likely to get that mixed up.”

“I want you to remember that signs of contempt from a beautiful young woman might be particularly unproductive when I’m trying to teach these two clients.”

“Debbie’s right. You are manipulative.”

“I’m trying to be perfectly transparent right now. And I’m sincere about teaching these two. They’re strong, athletic, and eager. They’re both developing a taste for killing-a need for it that we can fulfill-and they’ll get better and better at it if we keep training them. People like Markham and Coleman are everything to us. They pay us. They share secrets with us. So let’s be careful what we say.”

They had nearly reached the lodge. Emily could see that the two men’s cars were parked in the small lot across the gravel road in front of the building, a new two-seat Mercedes and a new BMW. The two men were flawlessly true to type. She stepped up onto the porch, but Parish held her arm. “Give me a couple of minutes alone with them first,” he whispered, and stepped inside.

Emily walked to the water fountain, took a drink, then moved past it and sat down on the edge of the wooden porch, watching a hawk circling in a warm updraft high above the arroyo.

Inside the building, Parish pulled three chairs into a triangle, sat down in one, and looked at Markham, then at Coleman. He lifted his right hand in a gesture to the two men to sit down facing him. He said, “Before we get started on the critique of the hunt, I want to say something about a side issue that I never brought up with either of you before. I almost hesitate to say anything about it, because I should already have taught you the etiquette of the hunt.”

“What is it?” asked Coleman. “We’re here to learn everything we can.”

“Let me say it as a story. Two amateurs go on a big-game hunt in Africa. They hire a professional hunter, who provides an expert tracker and an experienced scout. The hunt is set up competently. The tracker finds the game-say, a lion-and keeps close to it-maybe dangerously close-so it won’t disappear into the tall grass. The scout brings up the hunters, covers their backs, makes sure they’re safe. But the lion spots them too soon, and prepares to charge. The tracker jumps up and distracts him. The hunters shoot, and get their lion. Everything seems to be over. But suddenly, out of the grass nearby, come two more lions. The hunters aren’t prepared for that, so the scout takes dead aim, and drops the two lions with two shots.” He paused, scrutinizing them. “Everybody gets to go home.” He waited.

“What?” asked Markham after a few seconds. “I don’t think I understand. That’s us, but what am I missing? That’s how it’s supposed to work, right?”

“The two hunters. What do you think they should do, as a matter of etiquette?”

“A tip?” gasped Coleman. Markham winced, but Coleman did not stop. “We paid you fifty thousand for this hunt. Are we supposed to tip you, too?”

Parish stared at him coldly and in silence until Coleman’s eyes found their way to his feet. “I wasn’t referring to myself. You don’t tip the owner of a hotel or the captain of a ship.”

“It’s for the girls,” Markham announced, as though he had discovered something nobody else had seen. “They took a risk, too. At least until we got there and killed the target.” He turned to Parish. “You’re right. We should give them something. What would be appropriate?” He grinned. “We don’t want to spoil them for you.”

If there was anything in Parish’s eyes that could be called amusement, neither of them saw it. He appeared to be considering. “Twenty percent should do it.”

“Ten thousand dollars?” Coleman said. His eyes looked thoughtful. “Do we split it so they each get five?”

“No,” said Parish. “So they each get ten.”

Coleman and Markham exchanged a quick glance. Markham said, “Well, thanks, Michael. Last night we were wondering if there was something we ought to do for them, weren’t we?” It was obviously a lie. “And then it kind of slipped.”

“Then I’m glad I brought it up,” said Parish. “Now, I’m going to bring Emily in to help with the critique. The scout sometimes sees things the professional hunter misses, because she’s in closer. This is for your benefit, so don’t be shy about asking questions.” He stood and carried a chair from the wall to a spot beside his own. “Emily!” he called at the open doorway. He turned to the two men and said conspiratorially, “You might want to say something about your gift.”

Emily stepped into the doorway, and the sun glowed through her dark hair for a second.

Coleman said, “Hi, Emily. You know, Markham and I were talking, and there’s something we’d like you to have, to show you we appreciate the good job you did on our hunt. We didn’t know we’d be seeing you today, so you’ll have to give me a minute to write out the check.”

Markham said quietly, “If you’re doing that, I may as well write the one for Debbie. Maybe we can give it to her after we’re through here.”

Markham noticed that when Emily saw the number Coleman was putting on her check, she looked quickly at Parish, and her blue eyes were different. They were bright and intense, and her lips were turned up at the corners, but only a little, and they were tightly closed. Markham supposed that she was feeling gratitude, mixed with a bit of awkwardness, as people sometimes did in situations like this, but it didn’t exactly look like gratitude. It looked as though she thought something was funny and was having a difficult time keeping from laughing out loud.

She took the check. “Thank you,” she said, and she seemed more attractive to Markham than before. He could see that Coleman could barely keep his hands off her. It was typical that Coleman would jump in early to be sure he was the one who gave Emily her check, leaving Markham to track down Debbie and face the barely veiled hostility he and Coleman both remembered from their first meeting, before the hunt.

He decided it would serve Coleman right if he got Emily interested enough to have a relationship. He could end up married to a woman who was accustomed to killing people for money, who was comfortable with it. Coleman had more than enough money to make her consider dropping something heavy on his head as soon as the marriage certificate was filed in the county courthouse.

The thought pulled Markham into new territory. He found himself considering what sort of target Coleman would make. It would be amazing, incredible, to hire Parish to set up a hunt with Coleman as the target. This time, Emily could be the bait, and take him to a quiet, private spot. Markham, the old friend, would arrive unexpectedly. For a moment, Coleman would wonder if it was a practical joke, a surprise party. Markham pushed the idea out of his mind. He signed the check to Debbie, tore it out of the book, and set it on the table where it could be seen. Then he went back to his chair.

“Let’s start with your reactions,” said Parish. “Did you feel that your hunt was worth the time, the money, and the risk?”

“It was the best,” said Coleman. “It’s the most intense activity that human beings do. It has anticipation, bravery, cunning, camaraderie…” He looked at Emily. “Even temptation.”

Markham detested Coleman for his eagerness always to jump in too quickly, leaving him nothing to say. “I agree.”

Parish did not seem to notice. “Fine. We wanted you to have a good experience. The rest of what we offer is training. We want you to improve each time out. That’s the spirit in which we make these critiques.”

“Fire away,” said Coleman.

“First, when you stepped in the door of the restaurant, you took the wrong approach to the target. What happens in this situation is, two men walk in the door. In a restaurant, bar, or small store, the target will always feel a blast of air from the door opening or hear it and look, or see it in his peripheral vision. He will make an evaluation. It’s primal stuff: Do I know these two men? No. Are these two going about business that has nothing to do with me, or are they a threat of some kind? Once you pass this examination and the target determines that you’re not interested in him, he won’t stare at you for a time, because it’s rude.”

“But this was a woman,” Coleman said.

“All of this works even better if the target is a woman. They’re not subject to instinctive rivalry if they see men, and they’re more likely to worry about being rude, so they stop staring sooner. But you didn’t give this target a chance to reassure herself. Instead of going to safe positions off to the side, you faced her table directly, and began to reach for weapons when you were still too far away to use them. And most importantly, you forgot to wait until the tracker, Debbie, had moved out of the way.”

“We knew we wouldn’t hit her or anything,” said Coleman. “She stood up as soon as we came in.”

Parish appeared to be considering the argument, then spoke quietly and carefully. “It seems to me that you may have underestimated the target because she was a woman. You knew that she was an experienced professional detective. You knew that Debbie had lured her to that restaurant by posing as an informant. Now, the conclusion I wanted you to draw from that information was that this target knew she was in a situation that had great potential for danger. She might be armed-as, in fact, she was. If she realized that she had been set up, then she would know it was Debbie who had done it. If you’ll remember, the plan was for Debbie to get physically out of sight before anything happened that might make the target feel threatened. Debbie was to see you come in the front door, and excuse herself to go to the ladies’ room, remember? That would get her away from the table and behind the target, to control the back corridor and the rear exit. Her act of standing up and walking back there would also distract the target from whatever was going on at the front entrance, which was your taking positions. Done right, it makes all three of you safe: the target can’t figure out whom to watch, so she tries to swivel her head to see where Debbie’s going, and back up front to see what you’re doing. But it wasn’t done right.”

“I’m sorry,” said Coleman. “I guess I was the one who got too eager.”

Markham didn’t contradict him, or chime in to share the blame. It was true. He even knew what Coleman had been trying to do. He had wanted first blood. Probably he had even hoped his first round would be fatal, so he would get the kill, and Markham would have paid twenty-five grand to fire shots into a corpse.

“I’m not looking for apologies,” said Parish. “There were errors, and if I fail to point them out, you won’t improve. This time we had the target five ways, so no matter what she did, she was going to be ours. But she could have gotten off a shot and hit somebody. We didn’t have to give her that chance. Fortunately, Debbie took it away from her.”

Coleman shifted uneasily in his seat. “Watch the timing, and make sure the tracker is clear. That’s it, right?” He put his hands on the arms of the chair as though he was ready to stand up.

“Not quite,” Parish said. “When the target falls, you’re not home yet. There were other customers in that place, the waitress, and the bartender.”

“Well, yeah,” said Markham. “But Emily took care of them, so we didn’t need to.”

Emily said, “What were you waiting for?” Her voice was strained, as though she was trying to keep it calm but couldn’t quite do it.

Parish warned her with his eyes, and turned to the men. “Emily is right, of course. Once a gun appears, anyone in the place is justified in killing you, and some of them get over any reluctance very quickly. Some bartenders hide a gun near the cash register. Emily perceived that this one was moving in that direction and needed to be dead before he got there. You didn’t.” He let them think about it for a moment, then stood. “That’s it.” He smiled. “Otherwise, it was a perfect evening.” He held out his hand so Coleman could shake it, then turned to Markham and let him shake it.

Markham muttered, “Thank you, Michael. Thanks, Emily.”

“You’re welcome,” said Parish. “If we can do anything more for you in the future, get in touch.”

He walked them out to the porch and watched them cross the road to get into their cars. As they backed into the driveway, Emily joined him. “Wave to them,” he said. “And smile. The man just gave you a ten-thousand-dollar tip.”

Emily waved her hand. She could see Coleman waving energetically back to her as he drove out the gate. “No, he didn’t,” she said through her false smile. “You did.”

As soon as the two cars had gone around the first bend, Parish said, “Where to next?”

She grinned, and this time the expression was real. “I want to be the one to give Debbie her check. I’d like to see the look on her face. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” He watched her slip into the lodge and snatch up the check that Markham had left, then hurry toward the gym. He walked across the long drive toward the hill in the direction of the firing range. He had problems to consider, and he welcomed the solitude. He had managed, by force of will and self-discipline, to control several unsatisfactory situations at once, but he had not yet had the time to consider what they had to teach him.

Parish had designed last night’s hunt to provide a specific experience for two paying clients. He had assumed that when Lydia Marks was made to believe that an informant had come to her, she would do as she had done in the past: show up with her client, Mr. Mallon, and they would interview the informant together. Parish went over his reasoning again: they had come to the self-defense school together, and while they were talking to Parish, they had said they’d gone to Pittsburgh together to interview Catherine’s sister. They had also said they were fresh from interviewing some woman in Los Angeles together. Parish had been perfectly justified in drawing the conclusion that if he presented an informant as bait, two targets would appear, not one. He had chosen those two targets over all others precisely because he had wanted to provide each of his two clients with a kill of his own.

Parish strode up through the dry brown weeds that covered the hill, considering. When he had heard Debbie’s first radio transmission making it clear that there was only one target, he had dreaded the dissatisfaction of his two amateur hunters: they would feel cheated with only one kill between them. But he had overestimated them. They were too arrogant to have noticed that their challenge had been insultingly easy. They had been so spoiled and flattered all of their lives that whatever meager achievement they accomplished was magnified to heroic proportions. There had been nothing for Parish to worry about. He had greatly overestimated them.

But that thought brought its own worries. Their mistakes on the hunt had been gross and shocking. He had seen at the time that most of the mistakes had come from pure selfishness. Coleman and Markham had each wanted to beat the other to the kill, each rushing to get his money’s worth and the other man’s too. Their greedy competition had been carried out in a mental vacuum, so that they had eagerly fought over one target, and left five equally good targets-the bartender, the waitress, and the three customers-completely alone. In their minds, only Markham, Coleman, and their designated target existed.

Parish never let his discoveries go unconsidered, and he sensed that this one had great potential for the future. The key to a new source of profits might be contained in the single word competition. There had also been other discoveries that cheered him a bit. He had watched his staff react instantly and expertly to salvage the hunt. And although he may have misjudged Markham and Coleman-their experience, their sagacity, their technical competence-he had not been mistaken in choosing to exploit them. They were acceptable.

The camp’s prices for the initial training, in money and in time, ensured that all of his guests were wealthy and idle. Month by month, the classes came and went, while Michael Parish watched and listened. Some clients were plagued by a fantasy that strangers would steal their money or take them hostage or rape them. Some of the middle-aged men who had been born too rich and protected to have been forced into military training when they were young seemed to thirst for it now, to feel their incompleteness and inadequacy and want to patch it up. But among the legion of silly, frightened, or bored people who paid him over a thousand a day for simple shooting lessons, he would see a few who had real potential. It was a small group, and they were very precious to Parish. What they wanted was the real thing.

Often he could see it in their eyes. On the range, they weren’t aiming at targets, they were aiming at a person, and he knew that the person had a name. When they were in martial arts, they were the ones who went into a strange reverie when they punched or kicked the heavy bag. The clenched teeth, the fixed, determined stare, the strain when the blow connected told him that they were seeing a particular face.

He waited, and eventually the hints would start. The student would ask where to hit to cause the most damage, what it took to make the heart stop beating. The ones he wanted had no interest in self-improvement. They only half-listened to lessons about anything but firing the fatal shot or striking the deathblow. Their ears merely monitored the stream of talk for tips that might help them fulfill the dream of the avenger that their minds were forming.

Parish never approached any of the guests to offer special services. He simply answered questions, admitted the truth that the lessons of self-defense were the same as the skills of an aggressor: a bullet could do nothing but punch a hole in what it hit. The bullet did not distinguish between an opponent who was about to attack and an unsuspecting enemy who had committed his offense five years ago. The methods, the lessons Parish taught, were the same.

Parish accepted only a very few, the ones who were right for his needs. They had to be reasonably good at their lessons. They had to be haters, but they had to hate in the right way. Parish could not be involved with lunatics who were afraid of whole races, or wanted to kill politicians or other public figures. He could not accept the sort of emotional, undisciplined person who would go into it in a hot rage, without considering what killing a human being would be like or what it would mean after it had been accomplished. Students he found acceptable had to embrace the hunt, not see it as a sin or a crime that they were driven to take on themselves. If they saw it as a sin, they might later decide that the way to lift the burden of the sin was to confess it. What he needed were people who were immune to seeing their acts as infractions, because they could not imagine why they should ever be denied any possession, or any pleasure.

Parish was patient, and Parish never compromised. He observed, and then he waited until the right students came to him and tried to persuade him to give them the chance they wanted. After he was convinced that they were the right ones, he did not assume that they were ready. He had to impress upon them the seriousness, not only of the act they contemplated but also of sharing knowledge of the act. Anyone who knew of a kill was dangerous to the others and, therefore, was in danger if he seemed unreliable.

Parish had not yet failed in choosing clients who would not compromise the hunt. He had also prohibited hunting anywhere near the self-defense school. Almost every hunt had taken place in some distant part of the country. Over the years, he had permitted only two expeditions anywhere within the state of California, neither within eighty miles of here.

The clients were satisfyingly malleable. They were so egotistical that they could easily be made to believe that what they wanted was their birthright, simply because they wanted it. The logic was irresistible because it was familiar to the rich. They believed they had more of everything than other people because they-or more often, their ancestors and consequently they themselves-were superior. They had done more for society than their inferiors: they had tamed a wilderness into a sprawl of shopping centers, or created labor for the masses, or developed some innovation into a corporation. It was simply the law of nature that they should be richer, because they were better.

Parish professed to agree with their deeply held belief in their superiority. It made no sense, he repeatedly declared, that in the United States the upper classes should have to suffer offenses at the hands of nobodies. It was an outrage that such a perversion had been allowed to grip this country. In other parts of the world, these incidents were not tolerated. The authorities would simply have made these vermin disappear. Parish had traveled in certain circles with access to inside information, and take his word for it, even in some countries he could name that professed egalitarianism, the ruling class was not subjected to insult, insecurity, or harm. The authorities knew whom they were working for. They took care of such matters efficiently and quietly. Parish’s flattery always worked, because his customers were so convinced of their superiority, so cushioned from reality by their money, that they didn’t know they were being flattered.

The secret that Parish never revealed to anyone was that the reason he knew how to instill in his chosen students the taste for killing was that he had it himself. It was a kind of addiction, a gnawing need that had afflicted him since the Africa days. After he had come to this country, it had taken him years to find a way to feed it.

He had managed to do very well. Here he was, training his killers openly, without having to hide anything from anyone, because he was operating a legitimate self-defense school. He had little to fear from the authorities in the distant places where the hunting parties took place, because there was no connection to make between the targets and Michael Parish. There was nothing to fear from the authorities in California, because he and his people never did anything illegal here. As soon as his mind had formed the thought, he remembered the exceptions. He should never have allowed Catherine Broward to hunt in California.

He reached the end of the dry arroyo, opened the steel door of the storage building at the end of the firing range, and took out a rifle. He loaded it and fired a round at one of the targets placed at two hundred yards, then cycled the bolt. Dead aim was not just a matter of practice-of training hand and eye. It was a matter of calm, of control. It was character. He had, narrowly and provisionally, kept Emily and Debbie happy. But he would have to try to restore balance, and keep the other instructors involved. He had one more loose end to clip.