“Of course,” said Spangler.
Parish continued. “What happened today was that you, as scout, had to step in to protect the rest of us, because the amateur hunter fell apart. You had to fire from two hundred yards out standing on a moving boat in a heavy sea. When Emily and Mary told me what had happened, and that you had shot Altberg twice under those conditions, I was planning to congratulate you on your fine shooting.”
Spangler looked surprised. “What? Why?”
“I figured you must have made the determination to drop the client and scrap the hunt. Once he’d had his chance and ended up grappling with the target for the gun, it was a perfectly reasonable decision.” He smiled. “I didn’t suspect that the first hit was a wild shot until I asked where you were and Mary told me you had gone off alone.”
Spangler shook his head and chuckled sadly. “When I squeezed off that shot and saw the wrong one go down, I was paralyzed for a few seconds. Mary kept her head and brought the boat around, and all I could think of was to fire a second round into him on the way in, rather than leave him wounded and ready to talk. I hauled Emily up over the side and fired once at Mallon on the way out to sea, to no purpose. It was a balls-up debacle. I made a bloody ass of myself. After thirty years of shooting, I was useless.”
Parish began to pace the floor. “I won’t deny that I’m speaking as your friend, and I certainly won’t deny that I’ve owed my life to you on more than one occasion. If you were past usefulness, I admit that I would surely try to find you something to do around here where you wouldn’t hurt yourself. But it isn’t that way. You’re the best sniper I ever saw, and the only combat pistol instructor I would have around me. I don’t want to lose that. I can’t run this place with teachers who’ve done nothing but shoot at paper targets and beat up punching bags. I need a professional soldier who stood when the blood flowed. You know that. You also know that David Altberg isn’t the first friendly-fire casualty either of us has had. There were times in Africa when I would send my men into the bush, set my rifle on full auto, and kill anything that came back at me.”
“Michael, it’s not remorse or something,” said Spangler. “It’s a different kind of feeling.” He looked anxious, tormented. “You’ve seen it, just as I have. A man’s luck will be wrapped around him like a coat. Then one day, it’s gone. He seems to wake up one morning, and the day looks different to him. The next thing anybody else knows, his mates are toting him back in a body bag.”
“Are you getting superstitious?” asked Parish.
He shook his head. “All I know is that things have started to go wrong.”
“Paul, you’ve devoted years to this business. You and I built this building we’re standing in. I’m sure you were right before when you said you had a supply of dollars, because God knows, you’ve never stood any man a drink. But now is when it’s starting to pay off. You can’t walk away now. You’ll be rich in a year.”
Spangler said nothing for a moment. He knew he was being manipulated. He had seen Parish do it to other people many times before. He always did it in a respectful, distinct, earnest voice, looking and sounding so sincere that it seemed to the listener as though the words were forming in his own mind. Michael’s alert eyes were unblinking, watching the listener’s face to determine which themes provoked signs of resistance, and which caused the impervious will to weaken. When Michael talked about money, he did it in a way that made Spangler’s chest tighten with greed, and his heart sink at the thought of revenue forfeited. When he invoked loyalty, Spangler found himself gripped by a surge of it. Even when Parish said something badly, a listener would not resist him, but feel sympathy for him, convinced that he was simply a soldier after all, and capable only of plain speech.
“You remember what it was like in the old days, Paul. We would see those rich bastards like Bill Finney pass us by in their sports cars, and just marvel at the way the world worked, that it would put scum like them on top. Well, it’s our turn now. They’re lining up to come here. If you’ll stay on a little longer, you’ll be as rich as any of them.”
“Michael, what happened today was a mistake,” said Spangler. “If we make mistakes, it’s over. I just don’t want to ruin this for you and the others.”
“Don’t worry. It’s safe. We’ve been doing the hunts for years without trouble, haven’t we? I almost never agree to do one in this state-until Mark Romano, they’ve been spread over the country, everywhere except California. And he was more than a year ago.”
“And because of him, this Marks woman, and now Mallon. All of those hunts had problems,” Spangler reminded him.
“And all of the problems have been solved-or they will be soon.”
“Well-”
“They have,” said Parish. “And you’ve been part of that. The truth is that I need you. I’ve always thought that you deserved more, and I’ve intended to be sure you got it. You should be rich, and I don’t want you to leave until you are. It would kill me to see a man like you going off with your hat in your hand, knocking on doors looking for a job. When you retire from this, I want you to never have to work another day.”
“If I get us caught, that’s about what will happen.”
“We should get a medal for this. We’re just giving rich bastards permission to kill other rich bastards. We’re purifying the race, getting rid of the weak and credulous.”
Spangler chuckled as he thought, This is what makes it work. It’s the fact that Michael can persuade people that they are deserving, that they must do everything they can to protect and preserve their precious selves. He could convince them that they were too important, too valuable, to have to tolerate the existence of enemies. As Spangler listened, he felt calm. The best argument for staying with Parish was Parish. He could convince people that whatever resentments they had were righteous indignation. The slights and insults they had suffered were capital offenses. Spangler had no problem with that. He had become a soldier at seventeen because he had felt that killing people was not a big price to pay for being freed from a life of farm labor.
He looked once more at Parish, his misgivings gone. “Thanks, Michael. You don’t need to spend the whole night telling me this. If you want me to stay, it’s good enough for me.”
Parish clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m glad.” The two shook hands once, hard. Then they turned away from each other. As Spangler faced the bed to begin unpacking, he heard the door open and close, and Parish was gone.
Parish walked on the damp grass away from Spangler’s cabin, into the field, where the flow of the lights did not reach. He came to the edge of the woods, where thick bushes had begun to grow in to replace the trees that had been cut. The forest was always trying to expand onto the clear-cut hillsides. He said, “Let’s go.”
There was no rustling as Mary stood up. She held one of the new rifles that Spangler and Parish had been sighting in all week on the range. She said, “I assume Paul has decided to stay?”
Parish answered, “Yes. He hasn’t lost his nerve. He was just upset with himself for hitting David Altberg on his first shot when he was aiming for Mr. Mallon. He’ll be fine. He’ll probably be on the range every spare moment for a time, giving himself the illusion that he’ll never miss again.”
They walked in silence, moving along the ridge toward the firing range. Mary asked quietly, “Would you do this to me?”
Parish looked at her blankly. “What?”
“If you thought I had lost my nerve and wanted out, would you let me go, or would you kill me?”
Parish took the rifle in his right hand and put his left around her waist as they walked. “I didn’t tell you to kill him.”
“You sent me out there to watch for your signal. And it’s exactly the way he was supposed to shoot Mallon when he missed.”