“What do I need it for? And if I do need to make a call, I’ll just drive up the road to town.”
“What are you going to eat?”
“I’ve got a generator, but I cook with propane and I rarely use the electricity.” Walters nodded at the Jiffy John set back from the trailer. “I put that in for my guests. Me, I just pee in the grass and shit in the woods.”
“That’s mighty natural, pardner. But you won’t think I’m a pussy if I use the toilet, will ya?”
“Do anything you like, Dimitri. I won’t think a thing.”
Walters killed his beer and tossed the empty into a box filled with empties that was lying in the bed of his truck. He grabbed a fresh beer from the cab.
“Feel like takin’ a walk in the woods?” said Walters.
“Sure. Maybe we could do that thing we talked about.”
“Okay. Shotgun or handgun? I got both.”
“Handgun.”
“Be right back,” said Walters, heading for the trailer.
Bernie Walters emerged from the trailer with a day pack slung over his shoulder. He got the box of rounds he had purchased from out of the pickup and put that and some of the empty beer cans, plus one unopened can, into the pack.
They walked into the woods. Walters pointed to a deer blind he had built in the branches of a tall oak as they crossed a dry creek bed. Karras followed him up a rise and into a clearing where an ancient, rusted tractor sat in tall brown grass. There was a row of upended logs along the far side of the tree line.
“We’ll set up the cans over there,” said Walters.
“You shoot out here yourself?” said Karras as they crossed the clearing.
“With my pistols, yeah.”
“What about your shotguns?”
“I used to hunt deer with ’em.”
“What did you do with the deer after you killed it?”
“Well, I used to clean it and take it home. Lynne would freeze the meat, and we’d eat venison stew all winter. Vance, he hated it. But I haven’t killed a deer in a couple of seasons. Mostly I just sit up in that blind I showed you. Sitting up there, listening to the woods… it’s peaceful. Like being in God’s natural church.” Walters’s eyes shot over to Karras. “You ought to try it sometime.”
Walters set the cans up on the logs. He and Karras walked back thirty yards, and Walters reached into the pack.
“Here’s the Colt,” said Walters. He handed Karras a. 45 automatic in a leather holster, along with the box of shells.
“Go ahead,” said Walters. “Release the magazine and load it.”
The magazine slid out into Karras’s palm. He got down on one knee and thumbed the rounds into the empty magazine. It took some time; his dexterity was hampered by the cold.
“This thing full?” he said.
“One more,” said Walters, watching closely. “Give it a little pressure now and feel the tension on that spring. That’s it. Now replace the magazine.”
Karras stood. “Just aim and fire, right?”
“Pull back on the receiver and put one in the chamber. Check your safety. There you go.”
Karras bent his knees deeply, steadying the butt of the gun with his left hand.
“You don’t need to crouch down like that, Starsky. This ain’t no TV show. But use both hands like you’re doing. And if you’re going to shoot more than one round, remember to space for the recoil. Otherwise, with that gun kicking, you’re just gonna be firing wild. That’s it, that’s my lesson. Go ahead.”
Karras fired out the clip, slowly and deliberately. The shots silenced the bird and animal sounds that had been there moments before. A steady tone sounded in Karras’s ears, and both hands were numb with vibration.
Walters squinted and wiped beer from his chin. “You hit exactly one.”
“I need more practice.”
“Go ahead,” said Walters, dropping the empty can to the ground and reaching into his pack for a fresh one. “I got nothin’ but time.”
Karras loaded the magazine more quickly than he had on his first attempt.
Walters watched him and said, “Why you want to learn to shoot all of the sudden?”
“You never know when you’ll need it, right?”
Walters regarded him closely. “You ever kill a man, Dimitri?”
“No,” lied Karras. A round slipped from his hand, and he stooped to pick it up.
“I have,” said Walters, feeling the start of a daytime drunk. “Course, you know that, seein’ as how I’m one of those Vietnam veteran, killin’-machine soldiers you’ve heard so much about.”
Karras palmed the magazine into the butt of the automatic. “Think you could ever kill again?”
“No,” said Walters. “I’ll never kill again.”
Karras turned to face him. “Not even if you came face-to-face with the men who killed your son?”
“No,” said Walters, “not even then. I do hate those men, Dimitri, I’m not gonna lie to you. But I’ve forgiven them. Only the Lord can decide their fates.”
Karras turned back to the targets. He closed one eye, extended his gun arm, and aimed. “Well, you’re a better man than I am, I guess.”
Karras squeezed off a round. He fired again and again, spacing the shots. He lowered the gun when it was empty.
“You got two that time,” said Bernie.
“I’m improving.”
“Course, you wouldn’t be firing at a little old beer can for real. I mean, you’d be aiming for a bigger target. We’re talking about a man here, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” said Karras.
“Always aim for the body,” said Walters. “Never the head. You’re not that good. Most men aren’t, no matter what they think.”
“Right.”
“Lead that body just a little if it’s moving.”
“Okay.”
“And keep firing your weapon until you’ve accomplished what you set out to do.”
Karras nodded. “Thanks, Bernie.”
“You about done?”
“I’d like to try it a few more times, if you don’t mind.”
“Fine with me.” Walters looked sadly into his beer can and made a swirling motion with his hand. “After that, maybe we’ll catch a little lunch.”
They drove up to Leonardtown in the pickup and had crab-salad sandwiches and chowder at a local dive. Walters drank beer, and Karras drank ginger ale. They returned to the property in the afternoon.
Walters and Karras went down to the dock with fishing rods, folding chairs, bait, and beer. A plastic owl had been nailed to the top of one of the pilings, but it had scared away no birds. Gull shit was splattered on the owl and nearly covered the planks of the dock. Walters and Karras put the chairs out facing the water and baited their hooks with bloodworms. Karras cast his line out into the creek as Walters cracked a beer.
“I’ll have one of those now,” said Karras.
“Now you’re talkin’,” said Walters.
Karras drank down a healthy swallow. “We just jerking off here?”
“Probably. You might snag a few perch. But it’s mostly therapy.”
Karras nodded at the water. “This part of the bay?”
“They call it a creek.”
“It’s wide as some rivers I’ve seen.”
“I know. And it’s a good fifteen feet deep out there in the middle. But they still call it a creek.”
Karras felt a chill and zipped his jacket to the neck. He looked at Walters. “You’re not cold?”
“Hell, no. I sleep out here on this dock some nights, Dimitri. I’m talking about this time of year, too.”
“You shittin’ me?”
“Nah. It’s been a mild winter, anyway; most nights have stayed in the forties the times I been down. I get out here in a sleeping bag, lay on my back, and look up at the stars… I sleep like a baby, man. I don’t come down here to lay up in some stuffy trailer.”
“What’re you, part bear?”
“I just like it here, that’s all.”
Walters used his Zippo to light a cigarette. They kept their lines out in the water, and after a while Karras noticed the bow of a wooden boat peeking out of the water in the middle of the creek.
“See that?” said Karras, pointing to the area marked by a small red buoy.
“Yep,” said Walters. “When you see that bow, it means the tide’s going out. You’re gonna see more of it the rest of the afternoon.”