Gardner, Lisa - Alone by Gardner Lisa

Author:Gardner, Lisa [Gardner, Lisa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Rich people, Judges, Police, Boston, Family violence, Police - Massachusetts - Boston, Fiction, Boston (Mass.), Judges - Family relationships, Suspense, Massachusetts, Family relationships, Thrillers, Mystery fiction, Police shootings
ISBN: 9780553802535
Publisher: New York : Bantam Books, c2005.
Published: 2005-01-11T05:00:00+00:00

T HE FIFTY-FOOT INDOOR shooting range at the Massachusetts Rifle Association in Woburn, Massachusetts, was slow for a Sunday afternoon. Bobby rolled two spongy orange plugs between his index finger and thumb, fit them into the canals of his ears, then adjusted his safety glasses. He'd brought his Smith & Wesson .38 Special, and just for the hell of it, a .45 Colt Magnum.

When Bobby took his proficiency test each month with his rifle, he never took more than one shot. That was it. You took up to an hour, you set up your shot, and then you fired one single bullet. The cold-bore shot. That's because the very first shot out of any gun had the slug traveling down a cold barrel. That slug heated the barrel, which led to slightly different ballistics for every other shot fired.

As a sniper, the assumption was that he'd never fire any of those other rounds. One shot, one kill, so all that mattered, day after day, training exercise after training exercise, was that single, cold-bore shot.

Now, Bobby plunked down six boxes of ammo. The brass casings jingled inside the containers. He opened the first box and loaded up.

He began with the .38, starting at ten feet to loosen up, then moving the target back to twenty-one. Studies claimed that the average police shooting occurred within twenty-one feet, making it a favorite distance for marksmen. Bobby always wondered who did these studies, and why they never bothered to mention if the police were winning or losing in these infamous shootouts.

He started out horribly. Worst damn shooting of his life, and positively embarrassing for someone who'd earned the NRA classification of High Master. He wondered idly if some private investigator was already waiting in the wings to pluck this target for Bobby's upcoming trial. Guy could hold it up on the stand, with its wildly scattered spray of shots: “See this, your honor. And this is from a guy that State says is an expert.”

Maybe he couldn't shoot paper anymore. Maybe once you'd shot a real person, nothing else would do.

That thought depressed him. His eyes stung. He was sad. He was mad. He didn't know what the hell to feel anymore.

He set down the .38. Picked up the .45. Set it down and, for a long time, simply stood there in the cavernous space, pinching the bridge of his nose and fighting for composure against an emotion he couldn't name.

Down at the far end, the MRA's gun pro, J.T. Dillon, was firing away. After a moment, Bobby stepped away from the shooting line and, receding into the shadows, watched the older man work.

This afternoon, Dillon was firing a .22-caliber target pistol that didn't even resemble a real gun. The handle was a huge wooden grip that appeared less like a handle and more like a rough-hewn slab of tree. The barrel was squared off and edged in silver. The capping scope was bright red. All in all, the piece looked like something out of a Star Wars movie.

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