Part 25 (1/2)

”I've got a generator, but I cook with propane and I rarely use the electricity.” Walters nodded at the Jiffy John set back from the trailer. ”I put that in for my guests. Me, I just pee in the gra.s.s and s.h.i.+t in the woods.”

”That's mighty natural, pardner. But you won't think I'm a p.u.s.s.y if I use the toilet, will ya?”

”Do anything you like, Dimitri. I won't think a thing.”

Walters killed his beer and tossed the empty into a box filled with empties that was lying in the bed of his truck. He grabbed a fresh beer from the cab.

”Feel like takin' a walk in the woods?” said Walters.

”Sure. Maybe we could do that thing we talked about.”

”Okay. Shotgun or handgun? I got both.”

”Handgun.”

”Be right back,” said Walters, heading for the trailer.

Bernie Walters emerged from the trailer with a day pack slung over his shoulder. He got the box of rounds he had purchased from out of the pickup and put that and some of the empty beer cans, plus one unopened can, into the pack.

They walked into the woods. Walters pointed to a deer blind he had built in the branches of a tall oak as they crossed a dry creek bed. Karras followed him up a rise and into a clearing where an ancient, rusted tractor sat in tall brown gra.s.s. There was a row of upended logs along the far side of the tree line.

”We'll set up the cans over there,” said Walters.

”You shoot out here yourself?” said Karras as they crossed the clearing.

”With my pistols, yeah.”

”What about your shotguns?”

”I used to hunt deer with 'em.”

”What did you do with the deer after you killed it?”

”Well, I used to clean it and take it home. Lynne would freeze the meat, and we'd eat venison stew all winter. Vance, he hated it. But I haven't killed a deer in a couple of seasons. Mostly I just sit up in that blind I showed you. Sitting up there, listening to the woods... it's peaceful. Like being in G.o.d's natural church.” Walters's eyes shot over to Karras. ”You ought to try it sometime.”

Walters set the cans up on the logs. He and Karras walked back thirty yards, and Walters reached into the pack.

”Here's the Colt,” said Walters. He handed Karras a .45 automatic in a leather holster, along with the box of sh.e.l.ls.

”Go ahead,” said Walters. ”Release the magazine and load it.”

The magazine slid out into Karras's palm. He got down on one knee and thumbed the rounds into the empty magazine. It took some time; his dexterity was hampered by the cold.

”This thing full?” he said.

”One more,” said Walters, watching closely. ”Give it a little pressure now and feel the tension on that spring. That's it. Now replace the magazine.”

Karras stood. ”Just aim and fire, right?”

”Pull back on the receiver and put one in the chamber. Check your safety. There you go.”

Karras bent his knees deeply, steadying the b.u.t.t of the gun with his left hand.

”You don't need to crouch down like that, Starsky. This ain't no TV show. But use both hands like you're doing. And if you're going to shoot more than one round, remember to s.p.a.ce for the recoil. Otherwise, with that gun kicking, you're just gonna be firing wild. That's it, that's my lesson. Go ahead.”

Karras fired out the clip, slowly and deliberately. The shots silenced the bird and animal sounds that had been there moments before. A steady tone sounded in Karras's ears, and both hands were numb with vibration.

Walters squinted and wiped beer from his chin. ”You hit exactly one.”

”I need more practice.”

”Go ahead,” said Walters, dropping the empty can to the ground and reaching into his pack for a fresh one. ”I got nothin' but time.”

Karras loaded the magazine more quickly than he had on his first attempt.

Walters watched him and said, ”Why you want to learn to shoot all of the sudden?”

”You never know when you'll need it, right?”

Walters regarded him closely. ”You ever kill a man, Dimitri?”

”No,” lied Karras. A round slipped from his hand, and he stooped to pick it up.

”I have,” said Walters, feeling the start of a daytime drunk. ”Course, you know that, seein' as how I'm one of those Vietnam veteran, killin'-machine soldiers you've heard so much about.”

Karras palmed the magazine into the b.u.t.t of the automatic. ”Think you could ever kill again?”

”No,” said Walters. ”I'll never kill again.”

Karras turned to face him. ”Not even if you came face-to-face with the men who killed your son?”

”No,” said Walters, ”not even then. I do hate those men, Dimitri, I'm not gonna lie to you. But I've forgiven them. Only the Lord can decide their fates.”

Karras turned back to the targets. He closed one eye, extended his gun arm, and aimed. ”Well, you're a better man than I am, I guess.”

Karras squeezed off a round. He fired again and again, s.p.a.cing the shots. He lowered the gun when it was empty.

”You got two that time,” said Bernie.

”I'm improving.”

”Course, you wouldn't be firing at a little old beer can for real. I mean, you'd be aiming for a bigger target. We're talking about a man here, aren't we?”

”Yes,” said Karras.

”Always aim for the body,” said Walters. ”Never the head. You're not that good. Most men aren't, no matter what they think.”

”Right.”

”Lead that body just a little if it's moving.”