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We were driving through Highland Park, approaching the bridge over the Raritan River. We were out of leads again, but at least we'd gotten some information. We didn't know where Evelyn was now, but we knew where she'd been. And we knew she no longer had the Sentra.
Ranger stopped for a light and turned to me. “When was the last time you shot a gun?” he asked.
“A couple days ago. I shot a snake. Is this a trick question?”
“This is a serious question. You should be carrying a gun. And you should feel comfortable shooting it.”
“Okay, I promise, next time I go out, I'll take my gun with me.”
“You'll put bullets in it?”
I hesitated.
Ranger glanced over at me. “You will put bullets in it.”
“Sure,” I said.
He reached out, opened the glove compartment, and took out a gun. It was a Smith & Wesson .38 five-shot special. It looked a lot like my gun.
“I stopped by your apartment this morning and picked this up for you,” Ranger said. “I found it in the cookie jar.”
“Tough guys always keep their gun in the cookie jar.”
“Name one.”
“Rockford.”
Ranger grinned.
“I stand corrected.” He took a road that ran along the river, and after a half mile he turned into a parking area that led to a large warehouse-type building.
“What's this?” I asked.
“Shooting gallery. You're going to practice using your gun.”
I knew this was necessary, but I hated the noise, and I hated the mechanics of the gun. I didn't like the idea that I was holding a device that essentially created small explosions. I was always sure something would go wrong, and I'd blow my thumb clear off my hand.
Ranger got me outfitted with ear protectors and goggles. He laid out the rounds and set the gun on the shelf in my assigned space. He brought the paper target in to twenty feet. If I was ever going to shoot someone, chances were good they'd be close to me.
“Okay, Tex,” he said, “let's see what you've got.”
I loaded and fired.
“Good,” Ranger said. “Let's try it with your eyes open this time.”
He adjusted my grip and my stance. I tried again.
“Better,” Ranger said.
I practiced until my arm ached, and I couldn't pull the trigger anymore.
“How do you feel about the gun now?” Ranger asked.
“I feel more comfortable. But I still don't like it.”
“You don't have to like it.”
It was late afternoon when we left the gallery, and we ran into rush hour traffic going back through town. I have no patience for traffic. If I was driving I'd be cussing and banging my head against the steering wheel. Ranger was unfazed, in his zone. Zen calm. Several times I could swear he stopped breathing.
