needed that gun.
The day was warm with hazy blue skies, a good day for a road trip, cross-country to Merkin, West Virginia, and the Merkin National Gun and Knife Show. There were gun shows all over the place, but Dunn decided to move away from the Virginia-Maryland-DC area, where federal agents were apparently raiding everything in sight.
They had hit a group called White Fist, according to the Washington Post, and more significantly, apparently had found his rifle and his sniper’s nest at the cemetery. They might, he thought, be able to get DNA from the rifle, but since he’d never been DNA-tested, they’d have nothing to compare it to. He’d have to be careful in the future. If he got caught in a spot that would require a DNA test, he’d have to shoot his way out.
Or something—the “something” not defined. He’d have to wait for the moment, if it ever took place, but he was now looking for a carry pistol, in addition to a new rifle. The good thing about West Virginia gun shows was that no background check was required on person-to-person sales of anything.
All the gun stuff was giving him a definite tingle: he should have explored guns earlier in life.
* * *
—
THE MERKIN GUN show was staged in the auditorium of the local National Guard Armory, a beige concrete building that looked like an oversized Quonset hut with its hemispherical roof. The show pulled in a few hundred people, mostly big happy people, both men and women, driving pickups, on top of the fifty or so exhibitors. A friendly woman sat at a card table inside the door, selling tickets. Dunn paid his five dollars and accepted a pink plastic wristband that “will let you get in and out the whole weekend, honey, so don’t go taking it off the minute you get outside, in case you need to come back for another look.”
Inside the auditorium, he drifted past the tables displaying dozens of different kinds of rifles and pistols, and scopes, ammo magazines, knives, hatchets, camo shirts and pants, targets of all kinds, books about guns, self-defense, and the Second Amendment. The distinct odor of Hoppe’s No. 9 bore cleaner, mixed with the scent of carnival hot dogs, hung over the auditorium.
Not an unpleasant smell, Dunn thought; like a whiff of WD-40 or the tang of road-trip gasoline.
At the first table, a group of beefy men were gathered around a Barrett .50-caliber rifle mounted on a heavy tripod, available for the bargain price of $9,999.99; on a stand behind the gun, a rack of .50-cal cartridges were mounted in a plexiglass rack, each cartridge bigger than Dunn’s middle finger. He’d seen similar-looking guns in movies—The Hurt Locker, maybe?—but never one in real life. Not something he needed, really. He kept moving.
Looking around, two-thirds of the men at the show had beards and were overweight and out of shape, going for the Papa Hemingway vibe; most of them seemed to be wearing khaki photographer’s vests. The other third were snaky-looking lightweights like himself, jeans and long-sleeved shirts, a bit of camo here and there, distant looks in their eyes. American flags on their rolled-bill hats.
At his first stop, a cafeteria-sized table covered with black rifles, with a few wooden-stocked rifles thrown in, the dealer, one of the Hemingway look-alikes, asked, “See anything you like?”
“I don’t want to burn ammo for the noise of it,” Dunn said. “I’m looking for precision. Out to a thousand yards or so. Starting to do that.”
“Huh. What’s your budget?”
Dunn shrugged: “Cash, up to a grand, maybe a little more.”
“You do look like the precision type,” the man said. He turned toward the back of the room and pointed: “See that POW/MIA flag? Will Gentry had a nice-looking Remington 700 Long Range last night. His table’s right under the flag. Don’t know if he’s still got it, but that’d get you out to a thousand yards for a dollar a yard. Depending on the barrel, of course.”
Dunn nodded: “Thanks.”
“Tell him Bunny sent you,” the man said.
* * *
—
GENTRY WAS ONE OF THE SKINNY KIND, blue suspicious eyes under a black ball cap, which coordinated with a black T-shirt and black jeans. The cap showed gray stars and stripes on the black background, in an American flag design, overprinted with the words, “GUN SAFETY—Rule #1: Carry One.”
He nodded at Dunn: “What can I do you for, my friend?” West Virginia accent, not quite Southern, but not midwestern, either.
“I’m a beginner thousand-yard shooter.