Milo’s hands are bunched into white-knuckled fists. Sweetness stole his thunder and left him seething.
Timo tries all our pistols, blasts off about a hundred rounds fast. He’s a pretty good shot. He practices, he says.
We set the targets up by the lake, careful to make sure the rounds will hit the water, and at a steep enough angle so they don’t ricochet off the surface and land in someone’s living room miles away. Moreau drives a stick in the ground, blows up some balloons he brought along, and attaches them loosely to the stick with string. We drive across the road and up the hill, about six hundred yards from the lake.
Milo takes out the .50 caliber Barrett sniper rifle, a cannon that can kill at two miles in the right hands, wants to show off his knowledge, starts reciting the user’s manual. This makes Moreau impatient. “Yes, yes, yes, an integrated electronic ballistic computer that mounts directly on the riflescope and couples with the elevation knob. Three internal sensors automatically calculate the ballistic solution.”
Milo shuts up. The shadows surrounding his eyes are dark and cloudy. The corners of his mouth turn down. He thought this would be his day to shine and he’s outclassed.
Moreau lectures on how to set the weapon up, and it’s complicated. He talks quickly and much of it is lost on me. He explains body posture, how to lie down and take pressure off the chest so breathing and heartbeat don’t interfere. He loads four rounds in it. He says it should take only three rounds to sight it in. He shoots three times, making adjustments. His fourth shot is a bull’s-eye. Each shot sounds like the crack of doom, and the recoil looks punishing.
He loads the clip full. “Now let me show you what is possible.”
He lies down and shoots. He cuts the stick and frees the balloons. They drift and bounce. He pops them all, never misses.
He turns the gun over to Milo. Much of the skill in using the Barrett depends on understanding the science behind it, and so it falls into Milo’s sphere of excellence. He sights it in with three shots and fires a few more rounds in a pattern as tight as driving a nail. I can see he’s had enough. He’s a small man. I’m guessing the recoil will leave him black-and-blue.
It’s Milo’s baby, and must be sighted in for an individual shooter. Sweetness declines to shoot it, so Milo won’t have to sight it in again. Also, he says he’s getting hungry. Sipping pontikka is building his appetite. I decline because that kind of shock doesn’t seem therapeutic for a post-brain-op patient. Timo blasts it a few times because it looks fun. He shoots a tight pattern lower and to the left of Milo’s because the gun isn’t sighted in for him, and he wears a big grin when he’s done, so I take it he enjoyed himself.
It’s getting late and the sun is setting, so we set off a couple flash-bangs. The noise and intense light are intended to incapacitate. Instructions: Pull pin, throw, turn away. Plug ears and close eyes. They blow in three seconds. They’re still bright and loud enough to slightly disorient, even out here in the open. In a closed room, they must be devastating.
We drive back over to Timo’s house. I’m starved and good smells emanate from the grill and sauna. We go around back and find Anni, Mirjami and Jenna relaxing in lounge chairs on the patio. I hear the sounds of retching. Anni has Anu in her lap. “Bad news,” Anni says and points. I walk over and find Kate on all fours, hiding in some bushes, puking her guts out. She manages to look up at me. She says it slow. “I sorry.”
I sit down beside her for a minute and put an arm around her.
She slurs, “Pontikka.”
I’m afraid she’s going to get puke in her long red hair, and so I pull it back and tie it in a loose knot to keep it away from her mouth.
“Please go away,” she says.
I’ve been there, know the feeling. “OK. I’ll come back in a little while and check on you.”