The big man shifted in his enormous boots and then walked around to the far side of the rack, bending to retrieve a black shotgun from the sea of weapons. He hefted it, then nodded. “This’ll do what you need. Mossberg 590A1, twelve-gauge pump. Holds six shots and it’s easy to aim and shoot. Now, I’m not saying you won’t need to practice up a bit—not ever having fired a gun before—but this should work just fine for home defense.”
Stub racked open the slide of the black gun, revealing its emptiness, and handed the gun to Lance. Lance took the weapon from the large man and instantly liked how it felt. The stock fit well to his shoulder and both hand-and fore-grip seemed to be made for him. He turned the gun over a few times, and then, looking at the storeowner, he grinned.
“Can you put a light on it?”
Stub’s smile seemed to stretch from one end of the shop to the other.
After Stub fitted the Mossberg with a small flashlight below the barrel and told him the finer points of having a white light on a gun, Lance took his new purchase out the rear of the store and into an enclosed shooting range, which was eerily empty. Stub pressed upon him the importance of safety more than once as he showed Lance how to load and operate the shotgun. After getting the go-ahead from his new mentor, he took several shots at a man-shaped target downrange. Stub had been right. The gun handled beautifully, and although his shoulder began to throb with its recoil, within half an hour he felt comfortable loading and unloading the fat red shells Stub had provided.
“Now just remember, always assume it’s loaded. There’s been more than one man that lost his foot or head because he didn’t check the chamber,” Stub said as Lance followed his hulking mass back into the lonely shop. The storeowner reached behind the glass case and brought out a new zippered gun case. “On the house,” he said, opening the padded interior to accept the shotgun.
“I don’t mind paying,” Lance said as he placed the gun within the folds of the dark material.
“I know you don’t. A man as talented at writing as you are shouldn’t be in want for money.” Lance looked up from the zippered case in surprise. “I’ve read all your books,” Stub continued. “Recognized you when you walked in the door.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” Lance asked.
“I figured you got that enough, didn’t need another slobbering fan drooling after you, wantin’ an autograph.”
Lance laughed and shook his head. The big man had grown on him during the past hour they’d spent together going over the finer points of gun handling and ownership, and he now looked at him in a new light. “Thank you. I appreciate all your help, you’ve been great.” Stub waved his hands in a gesture to repel the gratitude as if he were allergic to it.
“I do have one question for you, though,” Stub said, his jolly face growing serious as he leaned over the counter toward Lance. “Who would want to hurt you?”
Lance thought of the lineup of people that were not pleased with him at the moment. Ellen sprung to mind for a second and then disappeared. His publishing house was next in line, but the prospect of someone from New York infiltrating his personal life and resorting to scare tactics seemed laughable in the morning light of the gun store. That left John. The caretaker’s serene face and even-keeled words replayed in his mind before fading away.
“I really don’t know,” Lance said at last. He watched Stub’s face take on a thoughtful expression before the big man spoke again.
“I’m assuming you came here to write—wouldn’t be anything else keeping you in a little town like this?”
Mary’s face flashed through his mind but he shoved it away, feeling like an embarrassed teenager. “You’re very intuitive, has anyone ever told you that?” Lance asked.