“Which is why you’re practicing here in your own woods.”
“Well, there's a range over in Clay County that allows crossbows, but it costs as much as the Sherwood place does for nothing more than a big field. Cheaper and easier to practice here.”
“Show me how it works.”
He looked surprised for a second, and then shrugged. “Sure.”
As he loaded the crossbow and demonstrated how to hold it, I was astonished at the transformation. With the crossbow in his hand, Charlie was a different person. More confident, more articulate, and even slightly taller, since he stopped slouching and stood up straight when holding his weapon.
The crossbow surprised me, too. I was expecting something sturdy and wooden—a mechanical version of Robin Hood's longbow. Instead, Charlie's crossbow looked as if you’d sawed off the front foot or so of a rifle and replaced it with a small bow stuck sideways at the end of the truncated barrel. Everything was metal or some sort of composite material.
“Want to try it?” he said.
I hesitated for a moment, then took it, trying not to show how uneasy it made me.
“Don’t point it at anything you don’t want to shoot,” he said.
“Like a firearm; right,” I said. I noticed that he was keeping a careful eye on the crossbow. I’d gone to watch my cousin Horace take his annual marksmanship test once, and the range master had shown that same watchfulness around the shooters, even though they were all law enforcement officers and theoretically trained in handling firearms. A reminder, just in case I needed one, that this odd plastic-and-metal contraption was a lethal weapon, not a toy.
Charlie corrected my grip on the bow and guided my fingers to the trigger. I lifted it and looked for a sight, then realized that it had a little telescopic sight mounted on top. I peered into the sight and moved the bow a little, and the distant target appeared, startlingly distinct. I could see how many deep scars and holes the bolts had left in it.
I tried to imagine how it would look to have something alive in the scope. I couldn’t summon the image of a deer—they vanished from my mind as rapidly as they would flee through the woods if they’d spotted us. But I could call up Patrick Lanahan's face and figure easily. Too easily, in fact.
“Just pull the trigger,” Charlie said. He didn’t sound impatient. Just calm and reassuring, as if he’d talked a hundred new-bies past their fear that the crossbow would explode if they pulled the trigger.
“Okay,” I said. But I waited a few seconds until I could banish Lanahan's face from my mind and saw only the battered wooden target. Then I pulled the trigger.
The surge of power that followed surprised me—that and the loud thunk as the bolt struck the target.
“Good shot,” Charlie said. I’d hit one of the rings, the third from the center.
“Accidental, I’m sure,” I said. “And the telescopic sight makes it pretty easy.”
“Not as easy as you’d think,” he said. “That's another thing the bow-and-arrow hunters are always on about. How unfair the sights are. Still takes a good eye. You want easy—try this.”
He took the crossbow from me, set it down on the ground, and twirled a couple of screws a few turns until he could remove the telescopic sight. He placed it carefully in a nearby canvas case, pulled out another, slightly different piece of metal, and screwed it into place atop the crossbow.
“Check this out,” he said, handing the crossbow back to me.
I aimed at the target again. The new scope seemed a lot like the old—maybe with a little less magnification. Then Charlie touched something on the sight and a little red dot appeared on the target.
“Laser sight,” he said. “Aiming for idiots.”
“So you don’t use this too often?” I said. As I moved the crossbow, the little dot moved with it, darting across a tree trunk, disappearing into a tangle of shrubbery, and then reappearing on the next tree trunk.
“Never for hunting, actually,” he said. “But it's pretty cool for paintball. Psyches your opponent out. Guy thinks he's safe in the bushes, and then he looks down and sees that little red dot on his leg and splat!”
He laughed. I managed a weak smile in response, but I kept seeing the little red dot dancing across Patrick Lanahan's chest.
“Want me to reload it for you?” Charlie asked.
“No thanks,” I said, handing him the crossbow. “I should be getting back. Give me five minutes to get back to my car before you start up again, will you?”
“Okay,” he said, nodding.
I still set off at a slight angle rather than straight past his target. And I set a brisk pace, all the while wondering if I was stupid to trust him or stupid to worry.