Thomas Perry - Dead Aim

As she walked past the veranda in front of the lodge, Parish stepped out of the doorway, followed by a man and a woman she had never seen before. The man was maybe forty-five and tanned, like an outdoorsman. The woman was only a bit shorter and wide, not soft the way an overweight woman usually was, but big like a woman who did physical labor-or maybe a policewoman. Marcia wondered if they might not be new instructors. She stopped to drink from the water fountain near the door.

Parish’s eyes widened slightly as he saw her, and she knew she had surprised him, but for the moment he ignored her presence and spoke to the man. “I was very sorry to hear it, of course. Any person you’ve spent time trying to know and trying to teach becomes a special friend.”

The woman said, “Did she seem to be afraid when she arrived?”

Parish said, “Afraid?” He paused and squinted into the distance, as though that were where the past could be found. “No. She didn’t.” He focused on the man. “You met her, Mr. Mallon. Did she strike you as a fearful person?”

The man he had called Mr. Mallon said, “No. But I wonder if a young woman would spend that kind of time and money on self-defense unless there was a clear reason.”

Parish looked at him thoughtfully. “There is a reason. As a rule, the students come here because they want to learn something new. They want to improve themselves. Virtually all of the older ones have already achieved a great deal in their lives, some in business or the professions, a few in the arts. It’s a certain kind of person who does that. He works terribly hard for all of his life to be better than his competitors, but even more, to be better than he was yesterday. After the initial goal is achieved-he’s a success-he doesn’t stop. The need isn’t imposed by circumstance, it’s internal. It doesn’t matter whether we meet them at Catherine’s age or seventy, it’s still the same kind of person.”

The woman said, “It’s a lot of money to pay unless there’s a reason that’s a little more tangible, don’t you think?”

“Our guests are the elite, people who are used to certain standards. The surroundings are intentionally kept rustic, but the amenities are expensive.”

The woman persisted. “They must be, for over a thousand a day.”

Parish seemed surprised at her attitude. “Our students receive a great deal of individual attention. This isn’t just a guest ranch with a theme. We’re dedicated to teaching a discipline that’s difficult to learn properly, and can be terribly dangerous unless it’s studied under the strictest supervision.” His eyes were on their way to the man when they stopped. “Excuse me,” said Parish, and held up a hand. He quickly glided to Marcia’s side, leaned close to her, and murmured, “This isn’t on the way from the range. Is something wrong out there?”

Marcia smiled slyly and shook her head. “I decided to take a different way back, just this once.”

Parish grinned and gripped her shoulder. “Good instinct. Exceptional. I’ll talk to you about this later.” He glanced at his watch. “You just have time to beat them to the gym.” He launched her up the gravel driveway with a gentle pat on the shoulder.

As she strode off toward the gym, she heard Parish saying, “I apologize for not introducing you, but my policy is to protect my students’ privacy and anonymity to the extent that I can. What were we saying?”

As soon as Marcia was around the bend in the drive, she broke into a run. Five minutes later, she was lying comfortably on the thick mat, staring at the bare beams of the barnlike roof, when she heard the door open. Ron Dolan walked to her feet and looked down at her. When she met his eyes, she saw him smile. As he walked away, Marcia sat up. Debbie had silently stepped in the door after him. She was standing to the side of the doorway, contemplating Marcia with her eyes narrowed and the full lips she was so proud of compressed into a thin, pale line.

Marcia stared back at her for a few seconds, her eyes wide with false innocence and expectation. Finally, Debbie spoke. “Congratulations. You’re beginning to get the idea. Let’s do some stretches to warm up before the others arrive and we can get started.”

The fire in the fireplace had been allowed to burn out when the rest of the guests had gone to their cabins for the night, but Marcia could see the reflection of a row of red embers in Parish’s eyes as he turned toward her and began to speak. “Before we go out into the field, it’s essential that you understand how the hunt works, what everyone does.” Parish sat in a hard, straight-backed chair just like Marcia’s, his knees almost close enough to touch hers. He leaned his tanned face forward as he spoke, his light hazel eyes never blinking or straying from hers. She had sometimes thought she detected a faint remnant of a foreign accent when he spoke, and this felt like a foreign mannerism. An American would have placed a desk between them that had no function except to be between them.

“This is going to be your hunt, but with you will be a team to ensure that your hunt is successful and safe.” He paused, and she decided that during the second’s delay he was studying her to be sure that she had heard and understood the words precisely as he had meant them. That was another hint, just a small indication that he was not a native English speaker, did not have the native speaker’s certainty that his words had been the right ones, spoken perfectly. They had been.

Parish turned to look away for the first time, and glanced at Emily Lyons. “Your tracker will be Emily. She will be doing precisely what it sounds like. She goes out ahead, and finds the target. When she has, she signals the party to come ahead. She stays on the scene, keeping him in sight.”

Marcia looked at Emily Lyons, who nodded and gave a quick, businesslike smile. She was about thirty and small, with dark, curly hair and very white skin, and a compact body that looked as though she had done some gymnastics when she was young. Her face was pretty, and it made Marcia feel jealous and defensive, and that made her feel stupid. She had tried to break herself of the habit of looking at other women that way. Was she engaged in a competition with Emily Lyons over Michael Parish, for Christ’s sake? Hardly. She nodded at Emily Lyons and turned back toward Parish in time to see him point at the other woman in the room.

“Mary will be your scout.”

This one was, if anything, a bit scarier to Marcia, because Mary O’Connor was attractive in the same way that Marcia was. She was tall, thin, and athletic looking, with long red hair that had gone to strawberry in highlights from the sun. Marcia forced herself to stop thinking about her and listen to Parish.

“But it all starts with the tracker. The tracker finds your target and immediately signals the main party. While the main group comes up, the tracker stays with the target. She’s prepared to move with him, to note exactly where he’s going. He remains her responsibility all the way through. If he smells trouble and bolts, she stays on his trail. If the client takes a shot but only wounds him and he keeps running, she stays after him and follows him to ground. She never loses sight of him, if she can avoid it. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Marcia.

“Good. Now, the main party comes up. Its purpose is to bring the hunter-that’s you-into close proximity to the target so you can get a clear, unimpeded shot that will result in a clean kill.”

“The main party? How many?”

“Usually it’s just a scout and a professional hunter. The scout on this hunt is Mary. She stays a bit apart to watch and handle any external factor on the scene that might interfere with the hunt. If the target seems to be in a good place for a shot-say, alone in the middle of a field-but then a group of picnickers comes along and gets in the way, she would have to handle that. The easiest way to think about it is that the tracker’s responsibility is the target, and the scout’s responsibility is the place: seeing and averting external problems. She’s a lookout.”