Swan Dive (10 page)

TEN

(Day #4 – Sunday Afternoon)

I flipped open the protective cover on my phone and saw a missed call and a text message, both from Matty. He canceled our shopping date. Still handling the whipped topping debacle from last night’s dance. Parents to be called, damages to be assessed. And school let out for the holiday break in a matter of days.

I was secretly relieved to not have to go shopping. I’d much rather shoot down my list as if on a game show where the contestant who finishes first advances to the bonus round. I always bought thoughtful gifts, mind you. It just didn’t take me all day to do it.

Oh! Speaking of shooting. I had just passed the exit for the only gun club within a hundred miles. I hit the gas, changed lanes and took the next exit. After a quick u-turn, I was in the lot seven minutes later. Rory may have jumped to the top spot on my suspect list, but Vigo was the next name down.

Newly built in the last year, the Summerton Gun Club boasted over forty-thousand square feet of indoor shooting luxury. I’d personally never been there, but it could be seen from the highway in every direction. The building itself was imposing with a stucco exterior trimmed in fieldstones. Automatic doors whisked open as I approached, and a girl at the counter greeted me before I got both feet on the entrance rug.

“Welcome to the Summerton Gun Club. How are you doing today?” She wore a hunter green polo with an elaborate SGC crest embroidered on front.

“I’m fine, thank you.” I looked around. Wood-beamed rafters two stories above, a gourmet coffee café near the lobby, and a solid ten-thousand square feet of retail space. “I don’t know where to start.”

“I’m happy to set up a tour,” she replied. “Or you can walk around on your own. We also have range masters available to answer questions.”

“I’ll look around first, if that’s okay.”

“Take your time. I’m here if you need me.”

Racks of shirts, pants, and bags dominated the center of the store. All with the gold SGC logo emblazoned on them. There was even an entire row dedicated to children, including gun cases and carryall bags. In splashy pinks and blues. The store was mostly empty except for a handful of green polo-ed employees, all friendly and clean-cut in a former military, off-duty cop kind of way.

Glass cases filled with firearms lined three of the walls. On the left and back walls were the handguns, on the right were the long guns. Special glass cases set to the side held even more. I browsed, but stood away from the displays, not getting too close. I’d never fired a gun, never wanted to own one, either. I’d once had a gun pointed at me during a case and it still unsettled me.

I ended up in the far corner near a wall of windows overlooking a block of shooting lanes. Tables and chairs were set up for observers alongside racks of accessories like goggles and fanny packs and earplugs. Several people stood in the shooting booths, firing handguns. Targets hung from clips at different distances down the lanes in the concrete room. Kind of crowded for a Sunday mid-morning.

I wandered toward a check-in counter, not sure how to get the information I needed. Perhaps Vigo wasn’t such a great shot. Perhaps anyone could hit the target. No one said you had to place your paper target at the farthest distance.

“May I help you?” a young man in a green uniform shirt asked me.

“I hope so. I’ve never been here before, but a good friend of mine recommended it. Said you’re the best facility in the state.”

“You’re not a member?”

“A member of what?”

“We’re a membership club, but we’re also open to the public,” he said and handed me a brochure.

Memberships started at two hundred dollars a month and went up to seven grand. For a shooting range? It included access to their VIP lounge and exclusive restaurant. Like a country club, but with guns.

“You can bring your own firearm or rent one of ours,” he said, barely interested in our conversation.

“I can rent a firearm? For how long?”

“By the hour. You need to buy your own ammo.”

“How much does all this cost?”

“Depends on the firearm. For you, probably a nine mil Glock. It’s fifteen an hour, plus rounds. The lane is twenty an hour.”

I’d never once considered owning a gun, even though many private investigators carried them. I thought a concealed weapons permit only required a class and a fee. Maybe a qualification test. I made a mental note to check with SLED, the South Carolina Law Enforcement Division.

“Okay, I’ll start with that,” I said. I took my PI pursuit seriously. Probably a good idea to try one before I took the class. And it might help me get over my trepidation from my last encounter with a gun to actually hold one.

“Driver’s license?”

I handed him my license and took out my credit card. I wondered if I could expense it to the Ballantyne. I didn’t see why not, since my training was part of the program. 

“My friend comes here all the time. The one who recommended you,” I said. “Maybe you know him? Vigo Ortiz?”

The kid slid my license through the plastic reader attached to his computer screen, then stuck it in a slotted tray. He handed me a pair of goggles, massive earmuff noise protectors, and a paper target. “Don’t know him.”

“Maybe this isn’t the shooting range he was talking about,” I said and inspected the equipment. I squinted behind him to the bin he pulled them out of. I could barely make out three words, though I noticed one of them was “clean.”

He put a gun on the counter with a box of nine millimeter rounds. I knew that because it said so on the box. “Lane thirteen,” he said. “Through the first door, then the second, through that room, all the way down on the right. Check out on your way out.” He went back to tapping on the keyboard.

“Could you look him up in the computer? My friend? It should say whether or not he comes here, right?”

“Sorry, ma’am, we don’t give out personal information. We’re a private club.”

“But it’s also public.”

“Not the information.”

I gathered the gun paraphernalia and dropped it at a side table near the range entrance. I discreetly slathered hand-sani on the puffy ear muffs and goggles. Not everyone’s definition of clean matched mine. As it dried, I realized the kid just handed me a gun and bullets and told me to go shoot. No instruction, no training, no supervision. I didn’t know how to hold a gun properly, how to load it, or where to find the safety. I’d seen training videos during my ballistics classes in college, but that was twenty years earlier, and we studied the bullets after they were fired, not before. I didn’t even know what to do with the target.

I opened the folded paper. It was nothing like the one in Vigo’s room. His was a person outline, this one had two black round targets, one on the left, one on the right, each with three concentric circles. Like the Target logo, only black. Maybe Summerton wasn’t the shooting range Vigo went to.

I picked up my gear and headed back to the check-in counter. The kid was gone. I hung around for a few minutes, but he didn’t return. I wandered to an alcove around the corner from the range door. On one side was a bank of observation windows overlooking another set of shooting lanes. On the opposite wall were eight different targets hanging in frames. Different shapes, circles and squares, and bright colors like lime green and hot pink. Each frame had a price sticker ranging from one to three dollars. The last target on the bottom row was identical to the one in Vigo’s closet, minus the bullet holes. It was three bucks.

Below the target frames, several sheets of paper were pinned to the wall. A competition practice roster. I looked closer. A hall of fame of sorts. Initials with some kind of score system. Number two in the under-twenty category: V. Oritz with a target symbol next to his name, the same shape and color as the one I saw in his closet.

“Hey, Lieutenant,” a voice said from around the corner. “You teaching a class today?”

“Not today,” a familiar voice said. “I’m here to see someone.”

I peeked. The counter kid had returned and was chatting with Ransom, who was walking my way.

I ducked back, my arms still loaded with gun supplies, and tried to act casual.

“Well, Elli Lisbon,” he said. “What a surprise.”

“Who ratted me out? One of those employees wandering around is Sea Pine police, right?”

“Yeah. A range master. He got skittish when he saw you rent a gun.” Ransom looked down at the bundle in my arms. “The Glock. Nice choice. You plan on shooting it?”

“That’s why I rented it. Figured I should practice before I take my CWP class.”

He nodded toward the target wall. “Thinking of trying something fancy your first time out?”

“Actually, I was. Then I noticed something interesting.” I gestured with my elbow to V. Oritz on the competition score sheet. “Name number two. He’s Lexie Allen’s boyfriend.”

He glanced at it. “Oritz? You mean Vigo Ortiz?”

“Close enough, and notice there’s the—” I stopped before I mentioned the target I’d seen. “Pointing out it’s unusual. Lexie gets killed and her boyfriend happens to be an excellent marksman.”

“She was accidentally poisoned, not shot.”

“Still going with accidentally?”

“You’ll need a better suspect if you’re going to convince me otherwise.”

“I’m working on it,” I said.

“So I hear. I’ve received calls from Chef Carmichael at the Wharf, Olga at the QuickClean, and Inga Dalrymple from the dance studio.”

“Inga? Why?”

“She noticed you hanging around the theatre parking lot after hours.”

“Apparently I’m the only one on the island who believes in discreet.”

“With you getting that much notice, I wonder how discreet you’re being, and what you’re up to.”

“I’m discreet and I’m onto something good,” I said and shifted the awkward bundle still in my arms.

“Have you ever shot a gun, Red?” He took the gun and ammo from my arms, set them on the table. Then the goggles, ear muffs, and paper target.

“I have not.” I prepared for battle. When it came to my discreet investigations, no way he wanted me shooting guns. He didn’t even want me talking to the dry cleaner.

“Let me help you. I’ve got some time.”

“You’re going to help me?” I asked with so much incredulity in my voice, it cracked.

“Unless you’d rather I didn’t.”

“No, no, I’d love it. Thank you.” I was grateful and relieved. I wasn’t sure I could gracefully return the gun five minutes after I rented it, without even firing a single shot, in front of Nick Ransom. But no way was I going to waltz into a shooting range and figure it out on my own.

Ransom picked up the gun, slid the top part back, showed me the empty chamber. “If it was loaded, the round would’ve popped out. But you can see it’s empty.” He squared my shoulders until I faced the wall. The observation windows on my right, the target display on my left.

“Left foot forward, right foot back, knees slightly bent,” he said. “Wait, you’re left-handed, right?”

“Yep,” I said and switched my stance.

He put the gun in my hand. “Keep your finger flat on the side, off the trigger until ready to fire. Hold your arm straight, right hand cupped on the butt.” He moved my hands into position and stood directly in front of me. “This is for stability.” He smacked the end of the gun and I stumbled back. “That’s what it’s going to feel like when it fires.” He hit the front of the Glock several times until I stayed planted. He stood behind me, put one hand on my hip, the other pointed to the sight on the end of the barrel. “Center it between the two markers on the back of the gun. Now gently pull the trigger.” He waited while I lined everything up. I hesitated, then pulled the lever until it clicked.

After about five minutes of gun-smacking and sight-aligning, he put the goggles over my eyes, the big muffs over my ears, and picked up the target. “Let’s see how you do on the range.”

The muffs made me feel as if I were underwater. Sound was muffled, but it also echoed. It was disconcerting. He opened the first door for me, waited for it to close, then opened the second, as per the posted instructions.

The acrid air hit me first. Tangy, sharp and unmistakably gunpowder. I’d never smelled it before, but recognized it immediately. Like burning firecrackers. Discarded shells littered the concrete floor. A gun went off and I flinched. Even with my ears fully covered, the shot was ridiculously loud. Four men stood in separate half-booths, feet planted, firing down their lanes. I jumped at every single shot.

Ransom went into an adjacent room. Smaller, only six lanes, but just as occupied. Two men and a couple. We entered booth thirteen. Ransom tapped on the clear glass dividers. “Bulletproof.” He sounded distant, as if we were in space wearing astronaut helmets. My breathing sounded labored, deliberate and loud in my head.

He placed the gun and ammunition on the table at the front of the booth. He took my handbag and hung it from a hook underneath the table. He clipped the target to a shot-up white rack. Nothing fancy, just regular black binder clips, one on each side, then pushed a button on a keypad mounted to the sidewall. The target zoomed backward five yards.

A bright muzzle flash startled me. The guy next to us started shooting his rounds in succession, blowing holes in his target, every two seconds, one after another. The constant explosions rattled me, put me on edge. Like in a haunted house, waiting for the next ghoul to jump out.

Ransom placed the bullets into the clip, then hit it against his hand. “To settle them,” he said and put the magazine into the gun. “This doesn’t have a safety.” He leaned in close. “It’s live. Keep it pointed down range and your finger off the trigger until you’re ready.”

I lifted the gun. It was heavy. My entire body started to shake, deep inside. The gun had no safety. Why no safety? What if I accidentally turned and it fired? Another round of gunshots blasted in succession, this time from farther down the lane. Then the man on the other side of us started to shoot.

“Why no safety?” I shouted at Ransom.

“It’s okay. Just point it at the target, finger on the side like I showed you.” He took a large step back, standing behind me and to my right.

I faced the target, arms outstretched. Left finger resting on the barrel. Right hand gripped beneath the gun. Markers lined up with the left target. I stood and stared. The gun grew heavier with each second. Finger on the trigger. Pull.

The force blew the gun toward the ceiling and I stumbled backward. Ransom steadied me and I quickly set the gun on the table. The blast was five times more powerful than Ransom’s hand-smacking the barrel.

He looked at the target. “Very good. Especially for your first shot,” he said and rubbed my arms. He gently squeezed my shoulders and leaned forward. “BRASS. Breathe, relax, aim, stop, squeeze. Watch me.”

I stood two large steps behind him while he stood at the booth table. Explosions continued from the other lanes. Spent shells flew through the air, bouncing onto the floor. A man at the far end looked at me, then back at his target. He fired. Again and again. The acrid smell never left the air.

Ransom lifted the gun. He waited a beat, then fired. Three times. Three hits.

The couple two lanes over switched places. They leaned close to talk. The man pulled a long gun from his bag.

Ransom waved me over. “Try again. Remember to breathe.”

I reached for the Glock. No safety. How many guns in this room didn’t have safeties? It bothered me. The gun again heavy in my hand. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like any of it. It was awful. A crazy person once threatened me with a loaded gun. It wasn’t half as frightening as this. 

I breathed in. I breathed out. I tried to relax. Waves of trembles rolled from my shoulders to my hands. I was surrounded by strangers. Mostly men, mostly alone. Shooting guns. Loading, aiming, firing. All to perfect their shot.

Why does someone need to be a perfect shot with a handgun?

I aimed. The explosions around me continued. So did my trembles. I started over with B.

Breathe.

Relax. Practice. It’s only practice. Target practice. As in practice makes perfect.

Aim. Guns kill people versus people kill people versus people with guns kill people.

Stop. People who shoot at target practice makes perfect.

Squeeze.

The bullet exploded from the barrel. I worried the gun would fly from my hands. I gripped it tight as I stumbled into Ransom.

“You’ve got five shots left,” he said. “Breathe.”

The dampened sounds made me feel as if I was drowning. From deep underwater to far outer space to now I was drowning. The man next to us looked over while he loaded his clip.

I set the gun on the table next to the box of ammunition. “I don’t like this,” I said to Ransom.

“What?” he said and leaned in.

“I’m done,” I shouted. “Too loud.” I gestured to the observation window. “Outside. You finish.”

I calmly unhooked my handbag and left. Through the door into the next room, through the next door, waited for it to close, then out the range door. I whipped off the ear muffs. Ripped off the goggles. Took two very deep, long breaths. I placed the gear on the rental counter with shaky hands and walked to the observation glass viewing Ransom’s lane. I sat on a stool and watched.

It was quiet. Safe. Like watching television or a movie. Removed from the reality, the actuality of the action. The brass casings flew haphazardly over Ransom’s head with each shot, harmlessly falling to the floor. After firing the remaining bullets, he swept up the spent shells using a thin broom propped in the corner. He packed up and turned to leave. He stopped to talk to the range master. They watched the other shooters for a moment, shook hands, then Ransom left.

By the time he returned the gun and unused ammunition and found me at the table, my shaking had all but stopped.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“Sure,” I said. “Just loud in there.”

He grabbed my hand and helped me from the tall stool. “Let’s go outside.”

Fresh air never felt so delicious. Clean pine and moist soil. I felt lighter, more at ease, with each step I took. We walked along the sidewalk around the side of the building to our cars. Side by side. My ice blue Mini convertible, his silver Mercedes McLaren racer. Apparently he was much better at investing than I was.

He leaned on the hood of his car. “Bad memories?”

“Some. I know how serious that situation was. How close I came to getting shot. But that gun did not seem nearly as dangerous as the one did today. I can’t explain it.”

He pulled me closer until I stood between his legs. He tucked my hair behind my ear. “Talk to me, Red.”

I breathed in through my nose, out through my mouth. “It was the noise. Those repeated blasts. And the smell. It was everything. I’ve never been so uncomfortable, so unsettled.” The tremors started again and I tried to shake them off. “Anyone could turn and shoot you. Shoot me. All those loaded guns. No safeties. I don’t know who’s standing next to me. Maybe I look like his ex-wife or his boss, both of whom he hates, by the way.”

Ransom wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close. “I admit I didn’t like seeing you with a gun. I like you better out here. In the sunshine.”

“Me, too.” He felt strong, and I felt safe and protected. I rested my head on his shoulder.

“Christmas is next week,” he said. “I think Mimi is going to invite you to dinner.”

I was happy my face was still hidden in his hug. Mimi Ransom, his mother, intimidated the crap out of me. She was a lovely Charlestonian who rode horses at the stables and raised funds for the charities and she’d recently helped me out of a jam, for which I was grateful. But the last time I ate a meal in her home, I knocked a pan of sugared carrots onto her gorgeous silk dining chairs. And that was before I fell over. On my way out, I drove through her prize roses and into the mailbox. I may have been nervous to meet Ransom’s parents.