The Reflecting Pool by Otho Eskin

The Reflecting Pool by Otho Eskin

Author:Otho Eskin [Eskin, Otho]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781608094110
Publisher: Oceanview Publishing
Published: 2020-06-15T00:00:00+00:00


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

ARORA IS WAITING for me in a beat-up Datsun when I pull my Jag into the pullover in the shade of some trees.

“What’s the drill?” Arora asks when we meet between our two cars.

“We’re going to a place called Geoff’s Shooting Range and Gun Club. It’s up the highway about a mile. You go ahead and register. Pay your fee and establish yourself as an avid shooter. I’ll follow in a few minutes. I don’t want us to be seen together.”

“I got it.”

“Maybe you could be a helpless girl who needs advice about her new gun.”

“I don’t do helpless.”

“Okay. Meet some local enthusiasts. Tell them you want to get in some practice. See if anybody’s seen a left-handed sniper. Then shoot the shit out of some targets. Have you fired sniper rifles?”

“I qualified on an M 21 and SR 25.”

I open the trunk of the Jag and remove a leather rifle carrying case. We stand in the shade of the trees where we can’t be easily seen by passing motorists and I open the case and hand her the weapon.

“I don’t think I’ve seen a gun like this.”

“It’s a Dragunov SVD.”

“A Russian sniper rifle? It’s a little exotic for a Virginia shooting club. Isn’t this going to draw a lot of attention?”

“That’s the point. The gun guys will be curious. Most of them have probably never seen one. Certainly, never fired one. They’ll swarm around you to get a look.”

“You talking about my tits or your rifle?”

“Whichever works.”

“How come you happen to have a Russian sniper rifle?”

“Never mind.”

We return the Dragunov to its case and put it and three boxes of 7.62 ammunition into the back seat of Arora’s car.

“I have something for you.” She retrieves a manila envelope from the passenger seat of her Datsun and removes a glossy photograph. “This is a picture of Tony Wilcox,” she says, passes me the photo. “Courtesy of the Department of the Army.”

“You just got this? Just this one picture?” I ask.

“The Army is not being very cooperative.”

The young man is maybe twenty, in military fatigues. Hair cut close to the scalp. He wears no unit insignia.

“This is an old photo,” Arora tells me. “The Army claims they have nothing more recent.”

“The Army is lying.”

“Of course, they’re lying. They’re shutting me down.”

I head for my Jag. “Let’s go find my partner.”

The parking lot of Geoff’s Shooting Range and Gun Club is almost full when I arrive a few minutes later, Arora having gone ahead. I expected to find pickup trucks and RVs but mostly there are late-model luxury cars, including Mercedes and BMWs.

The reception area is clean and well maintained. Near the door is a bulletin board covered with scraps of paper and business cards offering a variety of services and activities in the area. To one side there is a long counter above which hangs a sign listing prices and hours: outdoor pistol, outdoor rifle, trap, skeet, etc. I hear the pop, pop, pop from the firing range beyond.

On the range a dozen men and a couple of women are shooting rifles and shotguns.



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