I’m not letting Mel win. Not ever.
I pull my hood down before I open the range door—simple courtesy, as well as caution—and nearly run into Javier, who’s standing in the way, back to the door as he pins something up on the bulletin board. This is the store area, where they sell ammunition, hunting gear, bow hunting supplies . . . even camouflage-colored popcorn. The young woman manning the counter is named Sophie, and she’s a seventh-generation Norton native. I know because she told me, at length, the day I signed up here. Talkative and friendly.
She takes one look at me, and her face closes up shop. No small talk here, not anymore. She has the tense, glassy look of someone willing to grab an under-the-counter weapon and blast away at a second’s notice.
I say, “Mr. Esparza,” and Javier finishes putting the last thumbtack into a poster and turns to look at me. He’s not surprised. I’m sure, with his excellent spatial awareness, he knew exactly who I was the second I opened the door.
“Ms. Proctor.” He doesn’t look unfriendly, like Sophie, just politely blank. “Better not be anything in that holster. You know the rules.”
I unzip the hoodie to show him that it’s empty, and sling the backpack off to show him the gun case. I can see him hesitate. He could refuse to allow me on the premises—it’s his right, as range instructor, to do that for any reason, anytime. But he just nods and says, “Bay eight at the end is open. You know the drill.”
I do. I grab hearing protection from the rack and move quickly past the turned backs of other shooters, all the way to the end. Perhaps not so coincidentally, bay eight’s overhead light seems darker than the rest. I usually shoot in the bays closer toward the door; this, I remember, is the spot Carl Getts was using that day Javi busted him for improper range procedure. Maybe it’s where he puts the pariahs.
I lay out my gun and clips and put on the heavy earmuffs; the relief from the steady, percussive explosions is visceral, and I finish loading with smooth, calm motions. This, for me, has become like meditation, a space to let emotions trickle away until nothing exists but me, the gun, and the target.
And Mel, who stands like a ghost in front of the target. When I’m shooting, I know exactly who I’m killing.
I destroy six targets before I feel clean and empty again, and then I lower the gun, clear the clip and chamber, and put the weapon down, ejection port up, pointed downrange. Exactly as I should do.
As I do, I realize the shooting has stopped. It’s silent in the range, which is shocking and weird, and I quickly strip off the earmuffs.
I’m alone. There’s not a single person left in the bays. There’s just Javier at the end by the door, watching me. Because of where he’s standing, I can’t see his face that clearly; he’s right under one of the spots, which glares bright on the top of his head, shimmering on close-cropped brown hair, and casts his expression into shadow.
“Guess I’m not that great for business,” I say.
“No, you’re fantastic for business,” he replies. “Sold so much ammo the past few days I had to restock twice. Too bad I don’t own a gun store. I could retire just on this week. Paranoia sells.”
He sounds normal, but something about this feels strange. I load everything into my gun case and lock it, and I’m shoving it back into the backpack when Javier takes a step forward. His eyes are . . . dead. It’s unsettling. He’s not armed, but that doesn’t make him any less alarming. “Got a question for you,” he says. “It’s pretty basic. Did you know?”
“Know what,” I say, though there’s really only one question he could be asking.
“What your husband was doing.”
“No.” I tell him the absolute truth, but I have zero hope that he’ll believe me. “Mel didn’t need or want my help. I’m a woman. Women are never people to someone like him.” I zip up the backpack. “If you’re going to do some vigilante justice here, get on with it. I’m not armed now. I couldn’t take you even if I was, and we both know it.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He’s just regarding me, assessing me, and I remember that like Mel, Javier knows what it means to take a life. Unlike Mel, the reason for his anger right now doesn’t come from selfishness and narcissism; Javier sees himself as a protector, as a man who fights for right.
It doesn’t mean I’m in any less danger.
When he does finally speak, it comes out soft, almost a whisper. “How come you didn’t tell me?”
“About Mel? Why do you think? I left all that behind me. I wanted to. Wouldn’t you?” I let out a sigh. “Come on, Javi. Please. I need to get back to my kids.”
“They’re all right. Kez is watching them.” There’s something about the way he says her name that clears things up for me. Kezia Claremont didn’t come just because of her father’s concern; her father had met me exactly once, and while he seemed a nice old guy, that hadn’t quite rung true for me. She’d mentioned Javier in a businesslike way. But the way Javier refers to her is more revealing. I can see the connection immediately; Javier likes strong ladies, and Kez is definitely that. “Thing is, I almost helped you get out of town right after that first murder. Doesn’t sit right with me, Gwen. Not at all. You sat in my kitchen and drank my beer, and I think, what if you did know? What if you sat in your own kitchen back in Kansas and listened to those women scream in the garage while your husband did his thing? You think I wouldn’t care about that?”
“I know you would,” I tell him, and slip the backpack over my shoulder. “They never screamed, Javier. They couldn’t. The first thing Mel did was cut their vocal cords when he abducted them. He had a special knife for it; the police showed it to me. I never heard them screaming because they couldn’t scream. So yes. I fixed lunch in my kitchen, I made meals for my children, I ate breakfast and lunch and dinner, and there were women dying on the other side of that fucking wall and don’t you think I hate that I didn’t stop it?” I lost control at the end of that, and the echoes of my shout come back like bullets, striking me hard. I close my eyes and breathe, smelling burned powder and gun oil and my own sudden sweat. My mouth tastes sour, all the breakfast sweetness curdled. I see her in a flash again, that skinless girl dangling, and I have to bend over and put my hands on my knees. The gun case slides forward and knocks me in the back of the head, but I don’t care. I just need to breathe.
When Javier touches me, I flinch, but he just helps me stand up and braces me until I nod and pull away. I’m ashamed of myself. Of my weakness. I want to scream. Again.
Instead, I say, “I used all the ammo I brought. Can I buy a couple of boxes?”
He silently leaves and comes back to set two boxes on the ledge of bay eight. Turns to go. I slide the backpack off and sit it at my feet, braced against the wall of the bay, and say, “Thank you.”
He doesn’t answer. He just leaves.
I go through most of the two boxes, shredding target after target—center mass, head, center mass, head, targeting extremities for variety—until my ears are ringing even with the hearing protection, and the noise inside me is finally still. Then I pack up and leave.
Javier’s not in the store. I pay for the ammunition; Sophie conducts the transaction in mutinous silence, thrusting me my change across the counter rather than handing it to me. God forbid she might accidentally touch the ex-wife of a killer. That shit might be contagious.
I exit, still looking for Javier, but his truck is gone, and the parking lot is pretty much deserted, except for Sophie’s conventional blue Ford parked in the shady spot.