Prodigal Son (Orphan X #6) - Gregg Andrew Hurwitz Page 0,104
Her skull felt fragile and soft.
She kept her eyes closed. “We never … I don’t know, just like get lunch. Go to a movie.”
“You want to go to a movie?”
“That’s not the point,” she said. “The point is, what are we? You’re not my dad. You’re not my uncle. You’re not my big brother.” She opened her eyes, and as always he was taken by the depth of their green. “So, like, who are we? What are we good for?”
He kept stroking her hair. He knew what he was good for. He just wanted to be good for something else.
She arched her spine, lazed back into a fetal curl. “This isn’t real life.”
Evan pictured Cammy’s dark room, the bills piling up, her chipped pink nails, the way she’d looked at him from the threshold of the bathroom.
He said, “Maybe this is better than real life.”
But Joey was already asleep.
49
A Nobody
The Fresno Valley Shooting Society was sunk in a vale between two desiccated hillsides in Visalia, far enough from society and Route 216 that no one could be bothered by the snap, crackle, and pop of gunfire from the outdoor ranges. Queenie parked the Avis Corolla at the edge of the parking lot, pointing downhill.
The location was remote and discreet, features becoming to a firing range.
For once Declan was dressed down, a pair of Ralph Lauren jeans and an untucked navy-blue T-shirt, the better to fit in.
They’d parked here a few minutes after sunrise, staking out the best surveillance position. Sure enough, their target had strolled in at 8:00 A.M. sharp, military punctual for his weekly outing.
They’d watched him disappear into the pro shop to check in and were waiting for him to emerge.
“The doctor’s pretty unhinged,” Queenie said. “I guess someone showed up yesterday asking questions about Hargreave.”
“You know the doctor,” Declan said. “He prefers playing offense to defense.”
Queenie laughed a throaty, womanly laugh. “Don’t we all.”
“We have to figure out who the hell is helping Duran.”
“Duran.” Queenie shook her head. “It is weird that guy could get any kind of backup. I mean who the hell is he anyway?”
Declan shrugged. “He’s a nobody.”
“A nobody with a zero in his bank account and a job at an impound lot.” Her sigh smelled of Big Red chewing gum, cinnamon and sugar. “God, what a life most people have.”
Up ahead their target emerged from the pro shop, clutching his gun case and a few fresh boxes of ammo. Nodding at the range master, he headed up the walkway toward the open-air ranges, the Padres symbol showing on his backward baseball cap.
Queenie reached across and adjusted Declan’s hair, smoothing a wayward lock down around his ear. Time to go now, little brother.
Declan got out, the firecracker fury of gunfire suddenly louder. A revolver pop-pop-popped and then was drowned out by someone unloading a semiauto. He strolled toward the shower of noise.
Rather than head for the main walkway, he cut behind the toilet shack. The men’s-room door was open, a waft from inside carrying a swirl of black flies and the fish-and-iodine stink of well-used urinal cakes. A sign warning of lead poisoning hung crookedly from the warped planks.
Declan emerged past a kink in the walkway, out of view of the range master, who he could hear giving instructions, his voice raised to be heard through ear protection.
All the shooters stood parallel on the firing line, sealed off on either side by sound-absorbing transmission barriers that blocked their view of one another. Declan drifted behind them, unseen and unheard. Each of them faced away, focused on the plastic Corflute targets affixed to bales of hay. A sloped sandbag backstop rimmed the retaining wall. The pistol ranges here were shorter, targets positioned from ten to twenty-five meters. Oblivious to Declan’s movement behind them, the shooters fired away, cases spinning to the dirt below.
Simple tepees of shingles roofed the firing points, providing shelter from the San Joaquin Valley heat. Gunfire thundered all around, punctuated with the flat thwack of rounds punching plastic and hay. Bright orange wind flags flopped lazily from thin flexible poles. The air smelled of gun oil and burning nitrocellulose. Declan turned his face to the sun. It was a beautiful day.
He found the target in the seventh firing lane, his back to the walkway.
Rafael Gomez stood in a modified Isosceles Stance, torso square to the range, knees slightly flexed to absorb recoil. Declan watched him shoot, watched the recoil shudder his shoulder blades and blur the Padres logo on the turned-around cap.