Forty Words for Sorrow

While Keith was writing down his address, phone number, e-mail, and everything else he could think of, Edie and Eric conferred in whispers. He tore off the square of paper and handed it to Eric, who studied it closely before slipping it into his pocket. Then Edie said decisively, "We've got an extra room, Keith. Why don't you come and stay with us?"

"Oh, hey, I wasn't angling for a free room."

"No, no. We realize that."

"It's so nice of you, I don't know what to say. I don't want to impose. Are you sure it's all right? You're not just being polite?"

"We're not polite," Eric said, staring into his beer. "We're never polite."

Edie said, "It's easy to get into a rut up here, Keith. It would be interesting for us to have you. You'd be doing us a favor. It's just so interesting to hear your views about the country."

"Fascinating," Eric agreed. "Refreshing, even."

"You seem to have a special insight into people, Keith. Maybe because you've traveled so much. Or were you born that way?"

"Not born that way," Keith said, and raised a professorial finger. Oh, boy, listen to that Molson talk. He gassed on, couldn't help himself, about what an ignoramus he used to be- saying how it wasn't travel so much, but his experience with girlfriends, with teachers, with his high-school buddies, that was where he had learned so much about himself. Experience. And when you learn about yourself, he explained, you learn about everyone.

Eric suddenly leaned forward. It was a dramatic gesture after his stillness. "You have an artistic look about you," he said. "I'm thinking you're an artist of some kind."

"Pretty close, Eric. I'm a musician- not professional, yet, but I'm not bad."

"Musician. Of course. And I bet you play guitar, too."

Keith paused with his glass in midair; he set it slowly back down on the table, as if it were an object of extreme fragility. "How could you know I play guitar?"

Eric poured more beer into Keith's glass. "Your fingernails. They're long on your right hand, short on your left."

"Jesus, Edie. You're married to Sherlock Holmes, here." Were they married? He couldn't remember if they'd told him they were married.

"It so happens I've got some recording equipment," Eric said quietly. "If you're as talented as I think you are, we could make a tape. Nothing elaborate. Just a four-track cassette."

"Four tracks? Four tracks would be awesome. I've never done that."

"We can put you and the guitar on two tracks. Mix them down to one, and it would leave three for keyboard, bass, drums, whatever you want."

"Fantastic. Have you done a lot of recording?"

"Some. I'm not a pro."

"Well, me neither. But I'd love to do that. You're not just making a joke, are you?"

"Joke?" Eric leaned back against his chair. "I don't make jokes."

"He's very serious about it," Edie said. "He's got two machines. The cassette thing and a reel-to-reel outfit. When Eric makes a recording, it's really something special."

18

"IF you want them to die slowly, shoot them in the stomach. Put one low down in the belly. Takes them hours to die that way. And they die in agony. They'll put on a real show."

Edie gripped the Luger the way he had showed her, one hand bracing the other, feet apart, poised in a slight crouch. I feel like a little kid playing cops and robbers. But when the gun goes off there's nothing like it.

"Save your belly shot for special occasions, Edie. For now, just imagine he's coming over that hill at you. He doesn't want to talk, he doesn't want to arrest you. He has only one objective: your death. Your job? Stop the bastard cold. It's your right and duty to make the bastard dead."

His hands showing me the way to squeeze the trigger. Long bones rippling under the skin.

"A head shot is always first choice, got that, Edie?"

"A head shot is always first choice."

"You always try for a head shot, unless you're more than twenty yards away. Then you go for the chest. Chest is second choice. Repeat."

"The chest is second choice. Head is first choice. Second choice is chest."

"Good. And you always empty the magazine. Don't fire one off and hang around waiting to see how it turns out. You empty your load. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!"

I jumped a mile when he did that. I cried out, but he didn't hear, so intense he gets, when he's teaching me things. His spiky hair seems to bristle on his head. His eyes go absolutely black.

"Edie girl, you give them everything you've got. Bulletproof vest? Doesn't matter. Three of these will drop him flat- temporarily at least- giving you time to effect your escape."

"My arms are killing me." He ignores me. He's a marine. He's a taskmaster. He's a born teacher. I'm his born student. I'm weak, but he makes me strong.

"Take a breath, Edie. You take a deep breath and hold it, just before you squeeze one off. On your own time."

When Edie took too long, Eric said it again. "On your own time," then added with irritation, "you'd be stone cold fucking dead by now."