Thomas Perry - Dead Aim

She had looked distressed for half a second, but the way he had said it had been the right way. She had understood that once she had a night scope and a rifle, she would be nearly invincible. But nearly was not good enough. There was still one strategy that could ruin everything. If Mallon could stay out of her sight and motionless until she passed him, he might be able to kill her before she found him. Debbie had understood this, and she had understood why the only possible companion was Ron Dolan, the other martial arts instructor. She had nodded and said, “Okay, Michael,” and waited while Dolan had prepared.

Now, if Parish read the sounds right, Debbie and Ron had probably succeeded. He had not heard the distinctive crack of Mallon’s rifle, but he had heard the pops of a couple of pistol rounds, first one, then a delay, then the other. That, very likely, had been the pistol Debbie had brought out there with her being fired into Mallon, and then someone-Ron, probably-firing the coup de grace into Mallon’s head to be sure he was dead. Those were the two kinds of people Debbie and Ron were, and it was another reason why he had insisted on their going together. He felt an upwelling of affection for them. They were like a pair of dogs that he had chosen from different litters and raised. He knew exactly what each of them could do, and he knew that they would do it.

As Parish passed the crest of the first hill and looked down at the range, he admitted to himself that he had mishandled Robert Mallon: he should not have considered him sport. There had been old students begging Parish for a second or third hunt, and he had decided this would get them all off his mind at once. He should have used his staff as trackers and scouts to lure Lydia Marks and Mallon somewhere together, and gotten rid of both of them himself. Then he would have been free of worry once more, and been able to arrange safe hunts for a few carefully selected amateurs in his own time, maintaining the orderly schedule of new self-defense classes and keeping his staff rested and happy and well paid. He had learned that much from this experience.

There was still one other thing that nagged at him, and that was the stubborn refusal of the human mind to be fully revealed and understood. He had made a terrible mistake with Catherine Broward. He had asked Catherine all of the right questions, made her tell him all the details of the relationship with her boyfriend from the first day. Parish had made her describe the period when she had been in love with Mark Romano and waited in their apartment each day for him to come home and ask her to marry him. Talking about that period had, strangely, seemed to make her more uncomfortable than the final phase, the one that had taught her what her boyfriend had really been like. The end she had narrated in a bored monotone, as though she were talking about someone else.

After hearing her talk for hours, Parish had been satisfied. Now he knew that he should not have been. He should have known that something was wrong, because she had talked with such feeling about the good times, and none at all about the bad. She had not felt the right kind of anger or hatred. She had fooled him.

Catherine had gone through with the hunt very smoothly and efficiently. She had politely thanked Parish for the training and for making it possible for her to kill her boyfriend. Then she had gone away. He had sometimes thought about her. He had even considered that she might be one of the young self-defense students who would come back soon, asking for more advanced training, or for a specialized apprenticeship with one of the instructors, all the while hungering for the next hunt.

Parish felt a dull jab in his right palm and realized his fingernails had been digging into the skin. He rubbed the open hand against his thigh. He had been wrong about Catherine Broward, wrong about Markham and Coleman, wrong about Tim Hillis and Kira Tolliver. They had all been weak. Parish had also misjudged Diane Fleming. Diane was another disappointment. Since Mallon was here and she was not, she too must have done something stupid.

Parish’s course intersected with the dry arroyo he had converted to a combat firing range. He moved down the bank into the channel, where he would be difficult to see, and cautiously made his way toward the blockhouse. As he approached the building, he could see that the door was open, and there was a man’s body lying on the ground outside it. Parish smiled: they had gotten him in two shots.

He stepped closer to the body and bent down to look. It was Dolan. He straightened instantly, raising his eyes to scan the hillside and the woods beyond as he stepped backward to get into the deep shadows under the eaves, and place his back against the cinder blocks.

“Who’s there?” It was a scared voice, the voice of a woman who was in pain. It was Debbie’s voice.

“It’s Michael,” he called softly. He took another look around him, then slipped inside. He reached into his pocket and took out the small Mag-lite he carried. When he turned the crown to switch it on, he kept the beam wide and dim, but what he saw was confusing. He moved the beam around the room, saw a big opening in the roof, and then saw a jumble of things on the floor: tools, wood, rifles. He kept moving it, and then found Debbie. She was sitting on the floor with her legs extended and her back leaning against the wall, her left hand clutching her belly. She seemed to have no gun, but there was one lying only a dozen feet away on the open floor.

“Michael?” she said weakly. “Thank God you came out here. I’m hurt.”

“Where is he?”

“After he got Dolan I disarmed him, but he had another gun.”

“It’s going to be okay,” Parish crooned softly. “Where is he now? Which way did he go?”

“I… I don’t know,” said Debbie. “Out there somewhere.”

Parish blew out a breath to keep the anger out of his voice, then said in gentle reproof, “You should have paid attention.”

Her voice was plaintive, almost a little girl’s in this darkness. “I’m hurt bad, Michael. He shot me in the belly. I’m bleeding a lot. I’ve got to get to a doctor.”

“The sooner I find him, the sooner I can get you out of here. Think. What did you see that will help me? What guns did he have? Just a pistol?”

“Yes.”

“When he stepped out the door, did he turn right or left?”

Her voice became quieter, calmer. “He’s gone. He ran away. You could bring the Land Rover up here. I could be in a hospital in a half hour.”

“I can’t risk him shooting you again,” said Parish. “You know a car door is no protection against a rifle bullet. Just relax your muscles, keep your heart rate low, and rest. I’ll be back for you as soon as I’ve cleared the way.” He patted her cheek gently, then stood.

“You’ve got to take me now,” she sobbed. “I can’t hold out.”

He said in an urgent whisper, “Keep your voice down, Debbie. He’ll hear you and know I’m here with you. Just sit tight.” He stepped toward the doorway.

“Michael!” This time it was a wail, a high-pitched shout that made him bob his head from one side of the doorway to the other to see if it had attracted Mallon. He could detect no sign of movement.

He stepped backward into the darkness again, leaned his heavy rifle against the wall beside the doorway, and instead took out his pistol. He twisted the crown of his flashlight to turn it on again, this time into a thin, bright beam that illuminated Debbie’s feet. In the dimmer glow around the small bright circle he could see that her pretty face was squeezed into a rubbery parody of its flawless structure, the big eyes narrowed to slits, the upper lip puckered, and the lower one protruding. He raised the flashlight’s bright beam up to shine on her face. As he had expected, she turned her head to the side to avoid the glare, and he fired the shot into her temple.