Thomas Perry - Dead Aim

Parish was patient, and Parish never compromised. He observed, and then he waited until the right students came to him and tried to persuade him to give them the chance they wanted. After he was convinced that they were the right ones, he did not assume that they were ready. He had to impress upon them the seriousness, not only of the act they contemplated but also of sharing knowledge of the act. Anyone who knew of a kill was dangerous to the others and, therefore, was in danger if he seemed unreliable.

Parish had not yet failed in choosing clients who would not compromise the hunt. He had also prohibited hunting anywhere near the self-defense school. Almost every hunt had taken place in some distant part of the country. Over the years, he had permitted only two expeditions anywhere within the state of California, neither within eighty miles of here.

The clients were satisfyingly malleable. They were so egotistical that they could easily be made to believe that what they wanted was their birthright, simply because they wanted it. The logic was irresistible because it was familiar to the rich. They believed they had more of everything than other people because they-or more often, their ancestors and consequently they themselves-were superior. They had done more for society than their inferiors: they had tamed a wilderness into a sprawl of shopping centers, or created labor for the masses, or developed some innovation into a corporation. It was simply the law of nature that they should be richer, because they were better.

Parish professed to agree with their deeply held belief in their superiority. It made no sense, he repeatedly declared, that in the United States the upper classes should have to suffer offenses at the hands of nobodies. It was an outrage that such a perversion had been allowed to grip this country. In other parts of the world, these incidents were not tolerated. The authorities would simply have made these vermin disappear. Parish had traveled in certain circles with access to inside information, and take his word for it, even in some countries he could name that professed egalitarianism, the ruling class was not subjected to insult, insecurity, or harm. The authorities knew whom they were working for. They took care of such matters efficiently and quietly. Parish’s flattery always worked, because his customers were so convinced of their superiority, so cushioned from reality by their money, that they didn’t know they were being flattered.

The secret that Parish never revealed to anyone was that the reason he knew how to instill in his chosen students the taste for killing was that he had it himself. It was a kind of addiction, a gnawing need that had afflicted him since the Africa days. After he had come to this country, it had taken him years to find a way to feed it.

He had managed to do very well. Here he was, training his killers openly, without having to hide anything from anyone, because he was operating a legitimate self-defense school. He had little to fear from the authorities in the distant places where the hunting parties took place, because there was no connection to make between the targets and Michael Parish. There was nothing to fear from the authorities in California, because he and his people never did anything illegal here. As soon as his mind had formed the thought, he remembered the exceptions. He should never have allowed Catherine Broward to hunt in California.

He reached the end of the dry arroyo, opened the steel door of the storage building at the end of the firing range, and took out a rifle. He loaded it and fired a round at one of the targets placed at two hundred yards, then cycled the bolt. Dead aim was not just a matter of practice-of training hand and eye. It was a matter of calm, of control. It was character. He had, narrowly and provisionally, kept Emily and Debbie happy. But he would have to try to restore balance, and keep the other instructors involved. He had one more loose end to clip.

Parish stood at the side of the main lodge’s meeting room, his back to the night-darkened windows, holding his wine glass in his left hand. He kept his right hand empty so he could offer it to the men to shake, or put his arm around the women. The glass held an inch of red wine, and always stayed at the same level because he never drank any of it. He never approached anyone at these final-evening farewell parties, merely oversaw them as he oversaw everything else at his school. The students came to him-first in greeting, simply acknowledging him as they arrived, and then again singly, as they saw their chances-to smile and talk.

“I’ve loved my time here,” said Helen Corrigan. She had a habit of lifting her shoulders and compressing her face in an ingratiating smile during her pronouncements, then simultaneously releasing both sets of muscles in a gesture that signaled both her satisfaction and her intention to stop talking.

Parish bent his head lower to nod slightly. “I’m very glad. Tomorrow, as everyone in your class goes home, you’ll be given a questionnaire about your experience. Sometime in the next few weeks, maybe you’ll share any ideas you have for improving things: the courses, the accommodations, the food, or anything else. Now that this little group has spent a month with us, you’re all a very valuable resource.”

“We are?” She was flattered.

“You’re experts,” he said. “You’ve learned what we were intending to teach, and now it’s your turn to teach us by telling us what we could do better.”

As her face grew sincere, it went slack and allowed a few of the wrinkles that had been surgically erased to reveal their shadows. “I’ll try,” she said. “But this has been a life-changing experience I wouldn’t tamper with too much. I’ve always been a little afraid, without really being aware of it. That’s not entirely over, but the stupid part is, the part that’s almost like a superstition: you’re scared, but you don’t know what you’re scared of, and it doesn’t matter, because whatever comes along, you’re not capable of thinking of anything to do about it. Now I know there are some things I can do that will help.”

Parish lowered his voice and leaned down again. “I sensed that we were succeeding with you, Helen. I’ve kept an eye on you, and I’ve been very pleased with your progress.”

“So have I.” She giggled. “I’ve even lost fifteen pounds.” She raised her hands to her shoulders and half-jokingly twirled around.

Parish chose to take her seriously. “We’ve all noticed that, too. It’s not uncommon. Our guests eat a nutritious, balanced diet and get a great deal of exercise without giving either much thought.”

“After the first few days, I began to think of friends I’d like to talk into coming here. One look at the weight I lost would be enough for some of them.”

“I’d love to see a few of your friends here,” he said. “If the physical program is what attracts them, fine. Come back with them, and you can help them learn. As you know, we have to keep classes very small and personal, but with enough notice, we might be able to arrange something just for you and your friends.”

“I’ll think about that. I will.” She repeated her gesture of lifting her shoulders and tightening her facial muscles, then settling again, and moved on to let others pay their respects.

Parish let his eyes wander around the room without letting them focus on anyone. This class had consisted of six men and women in their fifties or sixties. Because the basic course at the camp took a month and started at forty thousand dollars, it was inconvenient to the lower classes: all of these people could afford to come back when they wished. He had seen on the first day that there was only one who had any potential whatever as a hunter, but the rest were useful in their way: there had to be some harmless self-defense students or it would be hard to account for Parish’s income, or the existence of this place.