The Devil's Opera(88)
Gotthilf held up three fingers. The range officer nodded. “Three targets in lanes six, seven and eight.”
The target spotter ran out from behind his barrier, posted three man-sized targets side by side, and scurried back to his safe spot.
The range officer looked around. “One shooter,” he yelled. “One shooter only.”
Gotthilf put his earplugs in. He looked to the range officer, who nodded and announced, “Range is hot!”
Picking up the big revolver, Gotthilf swung the cylinder out one last time for a check, then returned it to its seated position with a click. He took a two-handed stance, focused on the center target over the sights, and began squeezing the trigger.
Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!
Gotthilf hadn’t just pulled the trigger as fast as he could. There had been aim involved, even though he was shooting quickly. He popped the cylinder out of the frame, triggered the release into his left hand, snatched a fresh cylinder off the counter and loaded it, then swung it back into the frame. In a moment, it was lined up with the left target, and he began squeezing the trigger again.
Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!
The smoke from the black powder was getting thick around his position, despite the electric fans that were blowing air into the space. Gotthilf repeated the drill to replace the cylinder, even faster this time, and took aim at the right target.
Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!
He laid the revolver down on the counter, smoke wisping from the barrel. The ranger officer blew his whistle again. “No shooting!” After a moment, he blew it again. “Range is cold. Clear the targets!”
The target spotter ran out, grabbed Gotthilf’s targets and ran them up to him, then ran back to his place behind the barrier.
Everyone gathered around as Gotthilf laid the targets out side by side. Byron whistled.
“Good shooting, partner. Twenty-one shots in less than a minute, and most of them landed in the center of mass, except for this one,” he pointed to one that grazed the head outline of one of the targets, “which probably took off an ear, and that one,” Gotthilf winced at the hole in the groin area of the outline, “which I figure has the guy singing soprano now.”
Laughter and ribald jests broke out around them. A couple of the other shooters clapped him on the back before they headed back to their own positions, talking about what they had seen.
“…got to get me one of those…”
“You know how much they cost?”
“…don’t care…give up beer if I have to…”
“So that’s a lot of firepower,” Byron said over the background conversations, nudging the big revolver with a finger. “You really think you need that much?”
“That and more,” Gotthilf said, pulling three more cylinders out of his pockets and setting them on the counter. “I have a bad feeling about what’s brewing in Magdeburg.”
Byron whistled.
* * *
Amber Higham strode down the hall accompanied by Andrea Abati and Hermann Katzberg. She arrived at the knot of her people milling around in the hallway, and said, “What’s going on? Why aren’t you in the room getting ready for rehearsal?”
“Someone else is in the room,” Dieter said. “Listen.”
And when she stopped and paid attention to the noises floating through the hallway, sure enough, she could hear the sounds of the rehearsal room piano being played. Played loudly. Being hammered, actually.
“Classical stuff,” she remarked. “Not Bach. Doesn’t sound like Chopin. Liszt? Brahms?”
“No,” Hermann said with a grin. “The last movement of Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata.’ And by the piece I know who’s in the room. Go ahead and go in. She will not notice.”
Amber opened the door and stuck her head through the opening, whereupon she glimpsed the back of Marla Linder, ponytail swaying behind her as her hands flashed up and down the keyboard, alternating rolling arpeggios with crashing chords. She opened the door wide and motioned everyone into the room. They all gathered in the back of the room behind the piano, and simply watched the artist at work. Amber remembered Mary saying something about when Marla practiced the piano she shut out the entire world. Sure seemed like she was this morning.
In another minute or so, the piece came to its ending as Marla played arpeggiated runs up and down the keyboard, leading into the final statement of the theme of the piece, followed by several percussive chords. She took her hands off the keys, but held the sustain pedal down and let the final chord resonate in the room.
The clapping started as soon as Marla released the pedal. Her head jerked around, and Amber thought she blushed. She stood quickly, edged out from between the piano and the bench, and said, “Oh, come on now, stop it. I was just practicing.”