A Stillness in Bethlehem(88)

Out in the yard, a string of cans was set up on a disintegrating wooden fence for target practice, but Stuart ignored them. He went into the barn and came out again with what Gregor recognized as a folded-up police practice target, the kind that works on a modified tripod. Stuart unfolded it, reached into its back and came out with a sheet of paper drawn to look like the head and torso of a man. He tacked this securely to the target and stepped back.

“There,” he said. “Now let me show you something.” He hurried back through the door they had all come out of and reappeared a few moments later with a rifle Gregor thought was close to identical to the Browning that had been used in the killings of Tisha Verek and Gemma Bury. He walked to a place about forty feet in front of the target, loaded the rifle and aimed. “Watch me,” he said.

They watched him. He hit the target square in the heart.

“There,” he told them. “I can aim. And this isn’t a bad test, either. I don’t know where my mother was or what she was doing when she was hit, but Gemma Bury was sitting close to stock still on a bleacher and Tisha Verek was standing in her own driveway. These shootings have been a lot like target practice from the beginning. Now I need Ms. Hannaford.”

“For what?” Bennis Hannaford asked suspiciously.

“This is what we brought you out here for,” Gregor said soothingly. “It’s what I meant back at the Inn when I said we needed you for target practice.”

“You knew he was going to pull this?” Bennis didn’t believe it.

“They knew I wanted a small-sized person to fire a gun,” Stuart said. “This is something else. We’ll get back to the other thing later if we have to, which maybe we won’t. Come up here and hold this thing.”

Stuart had the barrel cocked. Bennis took the rifle out of his hands and held it away from her body, at arm’s length, as if it were contagious. Gregor had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

Stuart walked up behind Bennis, put his arms around her shoulders and gripped the gun. Then he brought it closer to both of them and put the barrel back in place. Bennis definitely didn’t look happy with the situation.

“I’m going to kill somebody,” she warned. “I’ve never had one of these, things in my hands before in my life.”

“You’re not going to kill anyone,” Stuart said. “You’re going to shoot at the target. Let me show you how to aim.”

Stuart showed Bennis how to aim. Then he stood back and nodded encouragingly. Bennis had let the barrel’s nose drop toward the ground. Now she pulled it up again and sighted along the barrel. Gregor thought she looked like she felt ridiculous.

“Now,” Stuart told her, “aim for the heart, and pull on the trigger.”

“I don’t want to aim for the heart,” Bennis said.

“It’s just a piece of paper,” Stuart said patiently. “Just aim for the middle there. I want to show your friends an important point.”

Bennis sighted again, and then closed her eyes. She fired in the direction the gun was pointing in without looking at what she was firing at. Then she opened her eyes again and said, “Nothing happened.”

“Something did happen,” Stuart said drily. “You hit the side of my barn. Couldn’t you feel the recoil?”

“My shoulder still hurts.”

“Exactly my point.”

“I don’t get it,” Franklin Morrison said.

“It would be easier if Ms. Hannaford here would keep her eyes open long enough to hit something,” Stuart Ketchum said, “but in theory it’s very easy. Maybe Ms. Hannaford could try again and keep her eyes open this time.”

“I don’t want to try again,” Bennis said. “I’m a nonviolent person.”

“Aim.”

Bennis looked appealingly at Gregor Demarkian and then at Franklin Morrison, got no help—Gregor wasn’t going to give her any; he wanted to see what this was all about—and raised the rifle again. This time, she didn’t look so afraid of it. She positioned the stock against her shoulder and sighted down the barrel again. She bit her lip and tensed her finger on the trigger. Gregor thought she was deliberately holding her eyes open, the way people will when they’re talking to a very important bore. She pushed her feet a little wider apart, braced herself and fired. Then she pointed the barrel’s nose at the ground once again and looked confused.

“Something happened,” she said.

“You hit the target,” Stuart told her. “A little to the side. You got the appendix instead of the heart. Still, it wasn’t my barn.”