seconds. I might have said it, too, but I knew better in this case. Hiding behind the clear plastic glasses that were supposed to protect him from stray shell casings was the face of Scott Byerly – solemn, determined and serious.
I approached Scott slowly from behind, taking my time as he ran through another magazine, managing to land only his first couple shots inside the silhouette. The most he could have hoped for was that the proximity of his fire would cause the perpetrator to suffer from a fearful case of soiled pants, because the bullets were unlikely to stop him unless he somehow leapt in front of one of them in a panic.
When he was finished, Scott stepped back and laid his gun down on the counter in front of him, barrel pointed downrange. If he’d known much about how to use a firearm, or if he’d been paying more attention during Parks’ lessons, he probably would have treated it more gingerly. He didn’t, though, and his face was stormy as I approached. He heard me, I knew, because his shoulders slumped as I came up behind him.
“Hey,” I said, pulling my ear protection down to rest around my neck. I pulled the ear plugs out and put them in my pocket, the little pliant pieces of foam only slightly larger than the first knuckle of my pinky finger. “How are you holding up?”
He didn’t answer, but stepped back to the gun, slapped another magazine into it and ran through the whole thing in about ten seconds, one shot after another. I barely had time to get my earmuffs back on before he loosed it, and when he was done, he still gave no indication that he’d seen or heard me. Of course, I knew he had. He was tense, his posture unnatural, stiffer than the usually laid-back Scott. He never took anything seriously. Or almost anything, I thought, remembering back to the time we’d met and clashed because I’d been responsible for the deaths of friends of his, then members of his family.
I sat there as he fiddled with the gun, reloading a magazine from a box of 9mm bullets sitting next to him. I waited, wanting to see if he’d even acknowledge me, wondering if for some reason he blamed me for something I had nothing to do with. After a moment, I turned and started away, my earmuffs back around my neck, hugging the sides of it snug.
“You think she fought?” Scott asked. I turned, and saw he was still loading the magazine, pushing the bullets into the clip with fumbling fingers. One dropped and it pinged against the concrete floor. He stooped to pick it up. “You think your mom hit her? Knocked her out? Or do you think Kat just went along with her?”
I had to think about it. What we’d seen of the car my mom had been driving gave some clues. The interior was bloody, and there was a bullet hole in the car’s upholstery. The fact that she’d used her hands to drain the memories of our agents that had been riding with Kat was a sign that she had probably done the same with Scott’s girlfriend. “I think my mom took her,” I said, stating an opinion I could only back up through conjecture, “because she realized she was a Persephone-type, and that…tends to be useful.”
“Yeah, I get that,” he said, almost snarling, and jammed another bullet into the magazine with savagery, pushing hard against the spring as if he could throttle it into giving Kat back to him. “What I’m asking you is if Kat just went along or if she fought your mom.”
“I think she fought,” I said, answering without thinking about it. I knew what he wanted to hear, and I sensed that anything else I said could be dangerous. Not for me, because I had all the confidence in the world that I could flatten him before he could so much as raise the gun at me (not that he would), but for him and his fragile state of mind. “Kat’s not the sort of girl that would let a stranger abduct her without putting up a fight.” After a second of reflection, I realized that this was probably true; no lie needed, even though I
I approached Scott slowly from behind, taking my time as he ran through another magazine, managing to land only his first couple shots inside the silhouette. The most he could have hoped for was that the proximity of his fire would cause the perpetrator to suffer from a fearful case of soiled pants, because the bullets were unlikely to stop him unless he somehow leapt in front of one of them in a panic.
When he was finished, Scott stepped back and laid his gun down on the counter in front of him, barrel pointed downrange. If he’d known much about how to use a firearm, or if he’d been paying more attention during Parks’ lessons, he probably would have treated it more gingerly. He didn’t, though, and his face was stormy as I approached. He heard me, I knew, because his shoulders slumped as I came up behind him.
“Hey,” I said, pulling my ear protection down to rest around my neck. I pulled the ear plugs out and put them in my pocket, the little pliant pieces of foam only slightly larger than the first knuckle of my pinky finger. “How are you holding up?”
He didn’t answer, but stepped back to the gun, slapped another magazine into it and ran through the whole thing in about ten seconds, one shot after another. I barely had time to get my earmuffs back on before he loosed it, and when he was done, he still gave no indication that he’d seen or heard me. Of course, I knew he had. He was tense, his posture unnatural, stiffer than the usually laid-back Scott. He never took anything seriously. Or almost anything, I thought, remembering back to the time we’d met and clashed because I’d been responsible for the deaths of friends of his, then members of his family.
I sat there as he fiddled with the gun, reloading a magazine from a box of 9mm bullets sitting next to him. I waited, wanting to see if he’d even acknowledge me, wondering if for some reason he blamed me for something I had nothing to do with. After a moment, I turned and started away, my earmuffs back around my neck, hugging the sides of it snug.
“You think she fought?” Scott asked. I turned, and saw he was still loading the magazine, pushing the bullets into the clip with fumbling fingers. One dropped and it pinged against the concrete floor. He stooped to pick it up. “You think your mom hit her? Knocked her out? Or do you think Kat just went along with her?”
I had to think about it. What we’d seen of the car my mom had been driving gave some clues. The interior was bloody, and there was a bullet hole in the car’s upholstery. The fact that she’d used her hands to drain the memories of our agents that had been riding with Kat was a sign that she had probably done the same with Scott’s girlfriend. “I think my mom took her,” I said, stating an opinion I could only back up through conjecture, “because she realized she was a Persephone-type, and that…tends to be useful.”
“Yeah, I get that,” he said, almost snarling, and jammed another bullet into the magazine with savagery, pushing hard against the spring as if he could throttle it into giving Kat back to him. “What I’m asking you is if Kat just went along or if she fought your mom.”
“I think she fought,” I said, answering without thinking about it. I knew what he wanted to hear, and I sensed that anything else I said could be dangerous. Not for me, because I had all the confidence in the world that I could flatten him before he could so much as raise the gun at me (not that he would), but for him and his fragile state of mind. “Kat’s not the sort of girl that would let a stranger abduct her without putting up a fight.” After a second of reflection, I realized that this was probably true; no lie needed, even though I
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