Here Lies a Wicked Man – Snippet 23
“Booker, why are you reading this?” Littlehawk tossed Archery Basics on the grass. “Here I am, an expert at your service.”
With two hours to kill until his date with Roxanna, Booker knew he had to keep busy. Otherwise, he’d worry himself ragged, worry about making a fool of himself tonight, worry about Bradley. Quitter. The word ricocheted in his mind like a wayward arrow. He’d never realized how much he enjoyed being his son’s hero until he lost that status.
He’d hoped to find the Lakeside archery range empty so he could kill time and make mistakes without anyone watching. No such luck.
“You teach archery?” he asked Littlehawk, strapping on the leather arm guard.
“I am not half Choctaw for nothing, Booker. I am not half Blackfoot for nothing.”
Littlehawk could prove the Choctaw part. Booker had seen his genealogy posted near the restaurant’s bulletin board alongside the Native American status notification allowing government grants to help finance the Caribou Club. His Blackfoot heritage was more likely American melting pot, but that didn’t make as good a story. The only thing Littlehawk loved more than a good story was cash.
“What’s it going to cost me for a lesson?”
“Cost? You insult me. I offer to teach you, and you insult me. I’m hurt.”
“All right, I’m sorry. Look—”
“Booker Krane!” Emaline’s shout preceded her across the field. “What the devil are you up to?”
Headed toward the archery range, she picked her way among sunbathers around the club swimming pool. Meanwhile, Littlehawk corrected Booker’s stance and showed him how to mark a nocking point on his bowstring. Maybe he could use a few lessons, after all.
Booker nocked an arrow, the cock feather, in this case an off-colored plastic vane, at right angles to the notch as he’d learned from Spiner. He drew the string back.
“Sure-sure, that’s good. Now we mark an anchor, a spot where the hand points each time you shoot.”
Using Booker’s bow, Littlehawk showed where his third finger touched his chin at full draw. The bow was too long for the smaller man, but Booker got the idea. He tried it.
“Let your inner spirit guide you,” Littlehawk said.
Booker worked at it as Emaline finally approached.
“If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Is that the ticket, Booker? Figured I’d be old and gray before I saw you take up shooting.”
“You are already old and gray,” Littlehawk said.
“That’s beside the point. What possessed him to do this?”
“That is not our business. Am I right, Booker? If he wants to shoot, he has found the right teacher.”
Emaline hooted. “Booker Krane, you can’t listen to this guy. Neptune conjunct Mercury in his third house. Nobody can tell a bigger lie or get you more confused.”
Booker muttered a neutral grunt. He did not want to land in one of their sparring matches, which seemed to occur any time they came within ten feet of each other.
Littlehawk nudged him. “Even the loudest foghorn doesn’t clear the fog. Am I right?”
Booker had to swallow a chuckle at that one.
“Pete,” Emaline huffed, “you remind me of a toothache I once had.”
Booker’s arm muscle quivered with the effort of holding the fifty-five-pound pressure before he found a comfortable anchor point with his thumb at his earlobe. “How’s this?”
“Sure-sure, that’s fine. Keep your arm up.”
“Hope you’re sighting with your good eye,” Emaline said.
Booker paused. “Good eye?”
“Sight with your off eye, you’ll shoot crooked every time. You didn’t tell him that, Pete?”
“I was going to tell him.”
Booker eased off the bowstring. “Tell me now.”
“Point at something,” Emaline said. “Both eyes open. Now cover one eye and see if your finger’s still pointing to the same spot.”
He did what she said. “It moved.”
“Is that the eye you were sighting with?” Emaline said.
“No, that was my left eye. I’m right-handed. I was sighting with my right eye.”
“Then you are fine,” Littlehawk said.
“You’re certain it’s okay? I mean, do I need some kind of gadget to sight with?”
“Nah, you’re okay,” Emaline said.
Exasperated, Booker nocked his arrow and drew the string to his anchor point. “How’s this?”
“Good, good. Now concentrate on the center of the target, Booker.”
“Got it.”
“Release the string easy.” Littlehawk leaned close, staring hard at Booker’s hand.
Booker released the string. The arrow hit the target in the bottom ring.
“Pow! That’s good! Emaline, Booker’s going to be a fine bowman.”
“You shot low,” Emaline said. “Try again, only put some back muscle into it.”
Booker nocked, drew the bow string, sighted.
“Imagine the target is a seven-point white tail,” Littlehawk said.
Booker’s hand slipped. The arrow missed the target completely.
“Why would I want to kill a deer?” he demanded.
“I didn’t realize you were only interested in competition.” Littlehawk looked disappointed.
“I don’t know that I want to compete, either. What’s wrong with learning just for the exercise and discipline?”
“Kyudo!” Emaline hooted.
“The way of the bow.” Littlehawk nodded.
“What?”
“Zen archery, Booker.” Emaline pulled an arrow from his quiver and handed it to him. “Spiritual warrior wisdom from twelfth century Japan. You can’t practice it with this equipment.”
“In kyudo, the objective is not to hit the target,” Littlehawk explained. “You search for discipline, precision, and truth.”
“Precision means aiming high to compensate for gravity,” Emaline argued, pushing Booker’s arm up.
“The sound of a kyudo string being plucked strikes fear in the hearts of evil spirits.”
Handy, Booker thought. Maybe as a kid he could’ve used kyudo to keep the monsters in the closet. He adjusted his draw.
“Watch the string doesn’t creep forward,” Emaline said.
His arrow hit close to the bull’s eye. Littlehawk frowned. Emaline sniffed smugly. Booker could see a real feud developing if he took advice from both of them. He decided to change the subject and practice what he’d already learned.
“Do either of you know an auto mechanic in Masonville named Ramsey Crawford?”
“A bad mechanic,” Emaline said. “A drunk hell-raising cheat, and that’s his good points.”
“Yes, I agree. Remember, I told you that mechanic was bad news, Booker. Everything Emaline said is so.”
Emaline snapped around to stare at Littlehawk. Agreeing with her, Booker figured, was a ploy the club owner hadn’t tried before.
“This man Crawford,” Littlehawk said, “he is not your friend, I hope.”
“Never met him, but I heard he and Fowler got into it over Melinda.”
“Venus squared Uranus, that woman makes trouble everywhere she goes,” Emaline said. “Been looking for a husband since the day she hit town, and isn’t particular about whose.”
“Grrrrrr!” Littlehawk’s grin spread like a shark’s as he elbowed Booker’s ribs. “What a woman, though. Am I right?”
Emaline glared. “Pete, if you ever see a mind reader, don’t let him charge you more than half price. What put you on to Crawford, Booker?”
He’d shot most of his twelve arrows. The ones that hit the target were clustered low left.
“Aaron Fowler,” he said.
“Aaron?” Littlehawk’s eyes widened. “You should have seen it, Emaline. What a drama, right there in the club. Pow! Got a picture of Booker for the wall, and now they’re best friends. Booker bought a truck!”
Now it was Booker’s turn to stare at Littlehawk. “I only bought it a couple hours ago. Guess you called Aaron for your commission.”
The club owner’s eyes widened. “Business is business.”
“What’s all this got to do with Melinda?” Emaline asked.
“Aaron says she wasn’t the first woman Sarabelle had to contend with,” Booker said. “Only the first to interfere with the marriage. Apparently, Fowler took his fiftieth birthday pretty hard.”
“What the devil’s wrong with fifty? I had some good times at fifty.”
“Sure-sure, but women live longer than men, Emaline. Look how long ago you were fifty. For a man, forty is the ideal age.”
“Your memory can’t be that good, Pete. You passed forty a few corners ago.” She guided Booker’s bow hand out straighter. “Now that you mention it, Chuck did get the grouches around January.”
“The end of hunting season,” Littlehawk agreed.
Booker loosed the arrow and watched it plunk into the lower left quadrant again. “Did something unusual happen last season?”
Littlehawk’s wide grin busted loose. “I took the Grammon Whitetail trophy.”
“If I remember,” Emaline said, “Chuck accused you of shooting that deer out of season.”
The grin faded. “Jealousy.”
“So Sarabelle asks Chuck, ‘What do you want for your birthday?’” Emaline straightened Booker’s shoulder. “And he says, ‘A divorce?’”
“Divorce is not so bad,” Littlehawk said. “I’m divorced. You’re divorced, too, Booker, am I right?”
Emaline snorted. “You can bet Chuck wanted custody of the money.”
Booker studied his grouping, trying to figure out what he was doing wrong. “Aaron did say his father had tightened the purse strings.”
“Right there in the club,” Littlehawk said, “Aaron and his father, a big blow-up over money.”
“Half the Estates heard it,” Emaline added. “Aaron wants to buy a piece of the dealership. Saved forty thousand of his own and wanted Chuck to match it.”
From what Booker had seen, and without auditing the books, it sounded like a fair investment. Aaron certainly had enough enthusiasm to make the business work. Scrutinizing the bull’s eye, Booker tried to recall what Archery Basics said about shooting low left. He headed for the target to reload his quiver. “Sounds like Fowler was stockpiling cash.”
“Like he expected another recession,” Emaline agreed. “And guess which real estate agent in her mid-flirties with the initials M.M. was planning to make Chuck’s money disappear?”
Even knowing Melinda as little as he did, Booker figured Emaline was right, and Aaron clearly resented his father’s interest in the “gold-digging barracuda.” Booker hoped he was wrong about Aaron, but the boy did have a temper.
Taking his shooting position again, Booker carefully angled his body ninety degrees to the target.
Emaline took hold of his elbow. “Keep your bow arm up as you release.”
“Sure-sure. Watch your follow-through, Booker.”
“Pete, you’re like the fizz on an Alka Seltzer, a bunch of noisy air. Betcha a nickel you won’t get him hitting the bull’s eye inside a week.”
“A nickel?” Littlehawk’s entire body came to attention. “What kind of bet is that, Emaline? Fifty dollars says I will have Booker shooting like a champ inside a week.”
Booker shook his head at the pair. Maybe he should mount a target in his back yard. He considered packing up. He could kill the time before his date by taking a nap. But the word “quitter” had stuck in his brain.
He shot the next arrow, and the next and the next, wondering how many of Chuck Fowler’s friends were as skillful at bow-hunting and as competitive as Gary Spiner and Pete Littlehawk.
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