Full Measure

Chapter nine

Ted quit the grove work at noon and drove to Oceanside. He stepped inside Open Sights gun store and range, saw the glass counters along three of the walls, heard the muffled gunfire. The handguns were arrayed beneath the glass, all pointing in the same direction, like fish in a school. A tall man with a big head and a black suit came in. Ted thought he might have seen him around Fallbrook recently, then decided it was just his guilty conscience. Then he thought, What should I feel guilty about? The Second Amendment protects my right to keep and bear arms.

He looked through the safety window at the range shooters blasting away. There were several men, three women, and two children who, it seemed to Ted, should be in school. He watched them through the imperfectly clear bulletproof glass, their arms extended, all wearing goggles and bulbous headgear, guns jumping in their hands, shiny cases flying. He heard the pop-pop of smaller guns, then the booming thunderbolts of the Magnums. Through all the soundproofing, he thought. What power. With the glass before him it was like watching on a monitor or TV or through the windshield of his taxi, thus hypnotic. He wanted to polish the safety glass so he could see better.

“May I help you?”

“I hope so. I was robbed at gunpoint three days ago. I’m looking for a gun.”

“I’m sorry that happened. I hear stories like that a lot these days. I can help you be better prepared for that kind of situation.”

“I’m Ted.”

“Kerry.”

Kerry was about Ted’s age — assured, muscular, and friendly — and Ted wished he was more like him. Kerry gave him general advice on reliable, effective home-protection handguns and Ted liked the look of the Glocks. Kerry removed one of them, checked the chamber, popped out the magazine, and set the gun on the counter. He told Ted that you could run it over with a truck, dip it in mud, and hold it underwater, and a Glock would still fire every time. He praised the.40 caliber as a versatile round, plenty of stopping power and it would carry fifteen cartridges in the magazine. He handed the gun to Ted. “It’s like having your own fire squad,” Kerry said.

“I sure could have used it a couple days back.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Ted did, feeling his anger and fear again, and his embarrassment at having been lured into the ambush.

“That shouldn’t happen in this country,” said Kerry.

“I’d like it not to happen to me again.”

“We teach weapons self-defense classes, right here.”

“I’ll take the gun.”

“You do know if you decide to purchase, there’s a ten-day wait while the state does a background check on you?”

“Right. So they can make sure I’m not a crazy.”

“We offer a free test-fire if you’re serious about that sidearm. Have you fired a handgun before?”

“No.”

“I think you’ll like it.”

Inside the range Ted watched Kerry fasten the Zombie Steve target to the motorized line and send it twenty feet out. At the bench he watched Kerry ready the autoloader. The headsets were comfortable and made the gunshots around him sound distant, but he could still feel the percussion in his body. Kerry stepped to the shooting stall with the gun, demonstrated the basic two-hand shooter’s stance: feet shoulder-wide, weight slightly forward, right elbow locked, left not, grip firm but not tight. Squeeze, he said, don’t pull. He fired one round. It took Ted a moment to find the hole, which was right through the middle of Zombie Steve’s grimacing face. Ted smiled. Kerry set the gun on the shelf and Ted stepped forward and picked it up.

He listened to Kerry’s instructions and squeezed off a round. He was surprised at the power, and at the immediacy of the recoil. A gun was a decisive thing, he realized — nothing hesitant or reversible about it. It impressed him that it could reload itself so quickly, before the bullet got to the target, it seemed. Actually hitting the target was the hard part. Even at only twenty feet away, when he got the sights lined up, all it took was a split second to be aiming someplace else — the slightest breath or random thought and the gun barrel jumped far off course. So Ted held his breath but Kerry, speaking loudly through the gunfire and protective headgear, told him, “Don’t do that, just squeeze the trigger on the exhale and it’s both eyes open, Ted, don’t close that left eye of yours, you need them both to shoot well.” Nine shots later Ted had hit Zombie Steve’s body four times, and the white paper outside the body twice, and missed the target altogether with the other three. For a split second Zombie Steve became Evelyn Anders’s campaign poster and this led to one of the body shots. Then Zombie Steve became Edgar and Ted hit the target again.

“Not bad for your first time,” said Kerry. “That Model Twenty-two in your hand is lightly used, so you’d save a good chunk of change.”

Ted bought the gun and put the ammunition in his truck. He felt more capable now, and empowered by the idea that in ten days the Glock would be his.

A few minutes later he was back in Fallbrook, heading up Main toward home. The many poster faces of Evelyn Anders looked down on him with smug condescension. The face of Walt Rood struck him as caring and reasonable. He liked the slogan, “Small Government that Works.”

Ted caught the red light at Alvarado and saw that Vince Ross Village Square on the corner was crowded. People were talking and drinking canned sodas and there was a long table with a red, white, and blue tablecloth set out with what looked like brochures and DVDs. A banner facing the street proclaimed: CARRY FREEDOM! He saw both men and women and there was something unusual about them. It finally dawned on Ted that they were all wearing holsters. No guns, just holsters. Some wore leg holsters like Old West gunmen, others had detective-style shoulder rigs, some had holsters attached to their belts. Ted saw a man wearing shorts with a large holster strapped to his calf. Some even had empty rifle scabbards slung over their shoulders. They moved with an exaggerated ease, pretending too hard that they were not doing anything unusual. Ted wondered if nudists did that. He stared until the light changed, then rounded the corner, U-turned, and parked on Alvarado.

Through the window glass he saw a man, head and shoulders above the crowd, apparently standing on one of the park benches. He wore twin leather six-gun holsters and bandoleers thrown over his shoulders. His arms were spread in oratory. Ted recognized him immediately as Cade Magnus. He hadn’t seen him in ten years and he was heavier, but had the same stocky build and bushy brown hair. He remembered that Cade Magnus had eyes just like Cade’s father — blue and clear. He had talked to them years ago, down at Pride Auto Repair, back when he was interested in the White Crusade. Now here was Cade, back in Fallbrook, a city that had rejoiced when he’d moved away.

Two sheriff’s cars pulled up and parked in the red along Vince Ross Village Square. Ted watched the four deputies get out, recognizing the black man as the one who had pulled him over for the brake light and given him the sobriety test in broad daylight, though his most recent drink had been half a year ago. One of the deputies was older, one was a stocky Latina, and the other a young white man. They strolled casually toward the square. Magnus seemed to stop what he was saying, then smiled and acknowledged them. Many of the bystanders turned as the deputies worked their way into the crowd.

Ted felt his indignation march in, and his vision beginning to constrict, and his heart rate climb. He trained his gun-barrel vision on the deputy who had written him the fix-it ticket — the black one, hiding behind the sunglasses. Anger overtook indignation. Ted felt that he had to do something. Should he go tell the deputies that this was a peaceful demonstration? Should he ask them why it takes four of them to raid Village Square when not one showed up when he was robbed at gunpoint two days ago? Should he tell Magnus he respected his right to stand up to the government and exercise his constitutional rights?

Ted got out of his truck and locked up and headed up the sidewalk toward the square. As he walked past, Cade glanced at him, as did two of the deputies and some of the crowd. Their eyes were hard on him and with every step Ted felt less protected — no layer of glass to shield him — and his anger and indignation fled. In their place he felt a constricting panic, almost like being lost. He thought of the box of.40 caliber shells in his truck. Was that a crime? Without breaking stride he passed the square, turned the corner, and kept going. When he felt safely past it all, he turned for a look behind him and saw a tall man in a black suit standing on the sidewalk, looking into the front window of the candy shop. From this distance, he looked like the man from Open Sights just an hour ago. Impossible, thought Ted.

His heart was racing by the time he got to Gulliver’s Travels on Main. Mary Gulliver had no customers and she stood and smiled at Ted when he came through the door. Behind her was a wall of travel posters for exotic destinations. She specialized in cruises. To Ted, Mary was a beautiful woman, full-bodied, fragrant, always groomed to perfection. He had seen her around town for years but had talked to her for the first time only two weeks ago.

“Hello, Ted.”

“Hi, Mary. Busy? I just came to... say hello.”

“Are you feeling all right?”

“Light-headed. I don’t know why.”

“Sit down, I’ll get you some water.”

He sat in front of her desk and looked up at a poster of Mykonos. He focused in on one small white building in the crowded cliff-top village. His carotid throbbed. She came back with a bottle and handed it to him, then sat down. “You might be feeling all that ash still in the air,” she said.

“Probably.”

“I’m so sorry to hear about the farm.”

The water bottle was cold in his hands and his thoughts were swimming. He took a deep breath and let it out in a long fluttering exhale. “Mary, may I take you to dinner at the Cafe des Artistes tonight? The food is wonderful and they have very good wines. I’d like your company. I’ll meet you there or pick you up, whatever’s best for you. It’s very French.”

She smiled a troubled smile. “That is so sweet of you. But I’m not dating, Ted.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be, there’s no—”

“You just never wear a ring and last week you mentioned going out with your sister. So I thought maybe you had some time on your hands.”

“You are so sweet, Ted. That is so sweet.”

“I’m really sorry.” He stood.

“No, I’m really sorry... I just... well, Ted, I’m easily twice your age.”

“I know. It was stupid. I’m stupid.”

“I’m flattered.”

Ted mustered a smile and saw the concern on her face. Her eyes were wet but nervous at the same time. “Maybe you can send me to Greece someday,” he said.

“I’d love to.”

“Do you like the Greek restaurant here in town?”

She was about to speak, then stopped herself. The phone rang. “I should take this.”

“Bye, Mary,” said Ted with all the good cheer he could pretend. “I’ll see you around.”

“Stop by anytime!”

He walked all the way down Main to the GasPro store, where he bought and drank a small, powerful energy drink. He talked briefly with the Iraqi-born manager, Ibrahim. Ibrahim was big and strong and usually good-humored and helpful. But today he looked at Ted with a piercing suspicion. Ted felt as if Ibrahim knew everything about him: his anger and fear, his new gun, his overpowering urge to... do something. Ted dropped his change into a Muscular Dystrophy collection jar. Standing outside, he leafed through a free pamphlet of cars for sale. Ibrahim looked at him through the window. Ted walked back toward his truck way down on Alvarado, keeping to the opposite side of the street from Gulliver’s Travels, pausing at some windows to look in. He saw himself and felt shame. His collapsed and graceless feet hurt again by then. When he passed Village Square there was no sign of Magnus or the protesters or the sheriffs.

Ted took a back way onto the Norris Brothers property. Bouncing along the dirt road he saw Patrick and his father two hillsides over, stooped to some task at ground level. He felt surprisingly secretive about having bought the gun and he certainly didn’t want them to know about it, or see the ammunition. He swung over the rise and down into a swale and parked by the bunkhouse and barn.

Ted hustled the plastic bag into the barn and looked for a good hiding place. He thought of stashing it inside one of the bags of the pole pickers, which were leaning against one wall. They wouldn’t be used again for three years. Or, with the fire, he thought, maybe never used again, period. He considered the fuel canisters and the many crates of fertilizers, soil amendments, vitamin additives, and pesticides. There were also vehicles and heavy machinery — two tractors, a flatbed Ford with fold-up sides for hay bales or crated fruit. Ted looked at the two dune buggies, the wood chippers, the Bobcat, and various tractor attachments — disks glinting faintly, a mower, a ripper, a front loader. Not here, he thought.

One shelf was taken up with his brother’s fly-fishing gear. It was all covered by a blue tarp that was cinched down by its grommets, but Ted knew exactly what was there: dozens of rods in their tubes and reels in their pouches and waders and boots and vests and so many fly boxes it seemed that every earthly insect and baitfish must be represented. Ted didn’t feel right about stashing his ammo there.

The quad runners were parked in the back, along one wall. This section of wall was Peg-Board with moveable hooks for sundry items — extension cords, shop lamps, rolls of Weedwacker line, hats, mechanics’ overalls in several sizes. Ted thought for a moment then hung the bag of ammo eye-high, between the shop lamps and the weed string. Here, he decided, a white plastic bag meant nothing.