Thomas Perry - Dead Aim

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?”