(2008) Down Where My Love Lives (46 page)

Bates continued, his voice falling slightly. "We tried to rehabilitate him. Tried therapy, drugs, electroshock, you name it. Anything we thought would help, we offered. Finally he left to face his demons alone. I guess he's been facing them ever since."

"You make him sound like Rambo."

"I wish it were that simple."

Caglestock spoke up. "Would you describe him as having post-traumatic stress disorder?"

Bates tilted his head and shook it. "If that were the extent of Bryce's problem, I'd be jumping up and down. The military can handle that. Bryce could too."

"If there's been a change in Bryce, why now?"

"If I knew the answer to that, I'd get my own talk show. In my experience, men like Bryce are ticking time bombs. Some just take longer than others to go off."

I didn't know what to say.

Bates looked at me. "I can see it on your face, so let me spell it out. Bryce can kill you or any other human a thousand different ways with his thumb. Give him this pencil, and he can kill you from the other end of the room. Give him a weapon, and, well ... if Bryce cracks or has already cracked, as we've seen in a few others just like him, I don't think you're safe going up to his place." He waited while the gravity of his words settled in. "Actually, nobody within hiking distance is safe."

"What's hiking distance?"

He sucked through his teeth and calculated. "Bryce has covered a hundred miles without sleeping."

"What do you intend to do?"

He shook his head. "I can't tell you that. But if he contacts you, you'd do well to keep your distance. And under no circumstances should you take your wife or any other female up there."

"Why? I mean, what's the-"

He held out his hand like a stop sign. "If he's in the state I suspect he's in, the sight of a female might trigger some things you don't want to trigger." He sat back and placed both hands on his thighs as though he were ready to leave. "I've said enough." He stood and extended his hand. "I thank you for all you've done."

I nodded and shook his hand, and Colonel Bates walked out to the click of hard heels on tile floor. Caglestock led him to the door, said a few words in hushed tones, and then returned to the conference table, shutting the door behind him.

John took a deep breath as if he were still trying to digest the story. He poured us each a cup of ice water and sat back down. "What do you think we ought to do?"

I didn't hesitate. "I have no doubt that Bryce can kill me a hundred different ways from Sunday, but I'm leaving here, making one stop, and then going by to check on him."

Caglestock nodded. "You want me to go with you?"

I shook my head. "No. No offense, but I think I'd better go alone."

He nodded. "Call me if you run into him."

I stood to leave. "And if I find him, and call you, are you going to call him?"

I nodded out the window at Bates's car backing out of the parking lot.

Caglestock followed the red taillights with his eyes. "I don't know." He shook his head. "I don't know."

I DROVE THROUGH AN OLDER SECTION OF WALTERBORO AND passed the hardware store where Papa had bought me the Model 69 so many years ago. I parked along the street, grabbed Papa's Model 12 shotgun, slid the chamber slide open so that it not only was unloaded but also looked unloaded, and walked into the store-barrel down.

This would have seemed abnormal except that I carried it in my left hand, and folks were always carrying weapons in here. Vince, a crusty Korean War veteran and one of the best gunsmiths in South Carolina, worked here three days a week. Guys came from all over the South just to pass him their valuables across the countertop and hire his magic touch.

Vince had been working on firearms since the military taught him how in Korea. He could and would work on most anything, but he was partial to fine custom shotguns and double rifles. He also did all the custom work for most of the police and SWAT teams in two or three of the surrounding states. He and Amos were on a first-name basis, and because of that, so were he and I.

In the far corner of the store, the gun counter was usually dotted with men leaning against it like a bar. Mostly they talked about guns they wanted, or if they got tired of that, they talked about guns they had-which only led them back to ones they wanted. Vince seldom responded or initiated the conversation. He just nodded, lit another cigarette, and stared out the window of the store.

I walked up to the counter. "Hey, Vince."

"Dylan." He eyed the Model 12, and I passed it across the counter.

Vince, hanging the cigarette from his lip, took the shotgun and started looking it over. He worked the action, eyed the receiver, clicked the safety back and forth, slowly cracked the trigger, and then slid the action open once again. He said nothing, but the smile on his face told me he liked the feel of a fifty-year-old shotgun, and his eyes asked, Can I help you?

I looked over both shoulders and leaned closer. "I, uh ... I think I want to change the choke on that."

The choke of a shotgun does just what it sounds like. It chokes the flow of shot. Think of a brass hose nozzle with a twist stream. Squeezing it down makes for a tighter stream. Opening it wide makes for a spray. What I handed Vince was a squeezeddown stream. What I'd come to get was a wide-open stream.

There was only one way to get this. I knew this, Vince knew this, and he knew that I knew this.

He eyed the tip of the thirty-inch barrel. "It's full now." He moved the cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other. "With this barrel, even screw-in chokes won't make much of a difference."

Screw-in chokes were a development in late-model shotguns that allowed a shooter with a fixed barrel, or one shotgun, to screw in varying chokes to suit his or her hunting needs. The determining factor was the distance to be shot. In short, quail and skeet, usually close-in game, required a "skeet" or "improved cylinder" choke. Doves, a bit farther out, required more of an improved cylinder, while geese and turkey, sometimes shot from as far as forty or fifty yards, required a "full" choke.

I looked over my shoulder again and wrestled with what I wanted to say.

Vince read my face and asked, "You thinking about opening day of dove season?"

I shook my head.

He eyed the shotgun again. He knew no one in their right mind shot quail with a twelve-gauge, so he asked, "You taking up skeet shooting?"

I shook my head again.

He laid the shotgun on a velvet cloth laid out across the countertop. "You hunting something else close-up?"

I bit my lip and half-nodded. There was one choke wider than skeet. It was called cylinder bore and was used primarily by law enforcement. It gave the widest pattern in the shortest distance and really had only one purpose.

Vince looked at the shotgun. "Police and SWAT carry theirs down to fourteen inches." He ran his fingers along the blued steel. "But us normal citizens can't go below eighteen." He shrugged. "Unless you want to apply for a special permit, or your buddy comes in here and puts it on his books."

I shook my head. "Let's just go eighteen, maybe even eighteen and a quarter." I laid my hand across the barrel. "Legal, but..

Vince picked up the shotgun again and interrupted me. "You sure you want to do that to this? They don't make them like this anymore."

I nodded. Given the right machinery, cutting off a shotgun barrel took about thirty seconds. Vince had the machinery that could cut, sand, and polish it.

He stubbed out his cigarette and said, "Give me about ten minutes."

I shopped the aisles and then returned to the counter as Vince was pulling off his black apron and oiling the shotgun. He handed it across the counter.

"I saw a lot of those in the war."

"What do I owe you?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Nothing. But if your greens or watermelon come in this year, I'll take whatever you got."

"Will do."

I SHUT THE DOOR OF THE VAN, EYED THE NOWshorter shotgun, and decided to leave it behind the backseat. I shuffled under the fence and up the drive. I smelled smoke and saw the white cloud wafting up just beyond the trees. When I cleared the canopy, a trash pile was smoldering not far from Bryce's trailer. It was mostly ashes and soot, meaning it might've been lit sometime yesterday.

I walked up to the trailer and knocked on the door. No answer. I walked around to what was now Bryce's film library and projection house. No answer. I walked around back toward the obstacle course and whistled, then I walked back to the trailer, pushed open the door, whistled inside, and waited. Nothing. I turned around. And almost peed in my pants.

Not three inches from my face stood Bryce, and it took me a second or two to recognize him. He had lost weight. A lot of weight, maybe fifty pounds. He was chiseled, clean-shavenboth his face and head-and he wore military BDUs. They were camouflage, starched, and ironed to a crease. His black boots were polished to a mirror shine, and he carried what looked like an ivory-handled Colt 1911 in a shoulder holster.

He stood looking at me, studying my face and features as though we'd never met. While he studied, he reached into the pocket on his thigh and pulled out a pack of chewing gumthe kind with the little pockets protected by foil. He popped all twelve pieces out of the sheet of gum, tossed them into his mouth, and started chewing with great labor.

The smell of spearmint was overwhelming. Bryce chewed for several seconds, swallowing what was obviously extreme production by his saliva glands, and continued to study me while his eyes watered. When he had the gum in a manageable wad, he looked me over and said, "Dylan."

I stepped back. "Hey, Bryce."

His sleeves were rolled up and buttoned, exposing arms that were suntanned and rippling with muscle and veins. On the opposite strap of his shoulder harness he carried a large silver-handled, brass-butted survival knife. The thing was at least a foot long. The handle hung down toward his waist and could be slid from the sheath with a simple flick of the tab that locked it in place. Both the knife and the pistol were oiled and appeared to have had their fair share of use.

I eyed the weapons and Bryce, who was still chewing vigorously. Without a word, he turned with precision, hopped off the steps, grabbed a rucksack that I had not noticed, and hoisted it onto his shoulders. It was fully loaded, probably weighed a hundred pounds, and Bryce didn't even seem to notice it. He cinched down the straps and waist belt, nodded, turned toward the woods, and began what can only be described as a cross between a march and a jog.

"Bryce!" I managed.

He stopped, double-timed it back up the hill, and stopped once again just inches from my face. He was sweating, the vein along the right side of his brow was throbbing, and he looked magnificent.

"I just ... we just ... ummm, Maggie's pregnant."

Bryce stopped chewing, looked from me to the ground to the treetops and maybe to an image in his head. "Maggie?"

I nodded. His brow wrinkled a bit, then control took over once again. He stuck out his hand, and I took it. Or rather, he took mine.

I'd never felt a hand that strong. It was a vise. If he had wanted to crush mine, he could have. The muscles in the palm were thick and covered in callus. But like the rest of Bryce, his hand wasn't dirty. He was meticulously clean and smelled of deodorant and aftershave. He grasped my hand, shook gently, turned, and then disappeared into the trees. Within seconds, I couldn't even hear him walking.

AN HOUR LATER, I PULLED INTO THE DRIVE AND idled around back. I admit, I was growing accustomed to airconditioning and cruise control-but the minivan couldn't hold a candle to my truck. Maybe my identity was too closely linked to some rusted metal and a few working parts, but the absence of my truck had left a sour taste in my mouth. I missed it: I missed the musty smell of sweat mixed with oil, the way it sounded when I cranked it, the way it needed a few minutes to warm up in the morning, the way I knew when to add to or change the oil, the play in the steering wheel, the way the door sounded when I shut it, and the sound the window made when I lowered it.