Before Sunrise

“He’s a little abrasive,” she agreed.

“A little abrasive,” he muttered. “Right. And the Smoky Mountains are little hills.” He traced the rim of his coffee mug. It was faded, like most of her dinnerware, but serviceable. “Obviously you’ve met him before.”

She nodded. “He’s a sort-of friend,” she said evasively.

“He knew you were here before he ever came to investigate the murder,” he said abruptly.

Her eyes widened with surprise. “How?”

“He didn’t say. But he’s worried about you. He can’t seem to hide it.”

She didn’t know how to take that. She stared at her coffee cup.

“Most people who come to small towns like this—people who aren’t born here—are trying to get away from something that hurts them,” he said slowly. “Marie and I figured that’s why you’re here.”

She lifted the cup to her mouth and took a sip, ignoring the sting of heat.

“And now I understand the reason,” he added with pursed lips. “It’s about six foot one and has the cuddly personality of a starving black bear.”

She laughed softly.

“I could think up lots more adjectives, but they wouldn’t suit the company,” he mused. He shook his head. “Damn, that man goes for the jugular. I’ll bet he’s good at his job.”

“He was a federal prosecutor when I knew him,” she revealed. “And he was good at it.”

“He went voluntarily from a desk job to beating the bushes for lawbreakers?” he asked, surprised. “What would make a man do that?”

“Beats me. Maybe his wife didn’t like living in D.C.”

He was still for a few seconds. “He’s married?”

She nodded.

“Poor woman!” he exclaimed with heartfelt compassion.

She laughed in spite of the pain.

“That explains the kid, I guess,” he mused.

“What kid?” she asked, feeling her heart break all over again.

“He’s got a little boy with him. They’re staying in a motel in town. I noticed a woman going in and out—the baby-sitter, I suppose. He didn’t treat her like the kid’s mother.”

“A boy or a girl?” She had to know.

“A boy. About two years old,” he replied. “Cute little boy. Laughs a lot. Loves his dad.”

Phoebe couldn’t picture Cortez with a child. But it explained why he might have married in such a rush. No wonder he hadn’t been interested in going to bed with her, when he already had a woman in his life. He could have told her…

“I brought a target with me,” he interrupted her thoughts. “I thought we could draw Cortez’s face on it.”

She laughed.

“That’s better,” he said, smiling at her. “You don’t laugh much.”

“I’d given it up until you came along,” she replied.

“Time you started back. Come on. The coffee was good, by the way. I’m particular about coffee.”

“Me, too,” she agreed. “I live on it.”

He led her to his truck. He reached in and pulled out a wheel gun, a .38 caliber revolver. “This is easier to use than an automatic,” he told her. “It’s forgiving. The only downside is that you only get six shots. So you have to learn not to miss.”

“I don’t know if I can hold a pistol steady anymore,” she said dubiously.

He pulled out a target shaped like a man’s head and torso. “We’ll work on that.”

She frowned. “I thought targets had circles inside circles.”

“In law enforcement, we use these,” he replied solemnly. “If we ever get into a shootout, we need to be able to place shots in a small pattern.”

The target brought home the danger she was in, and the unpleasant thought that she might have to put a bullet in another human being.

“In World War I, they noticed that the soldiers were deliberately aiming over or past the enemy soldiers when they shot at them,” he told her. “So they stopped using conventional targets and started using these.” He stuck it in the ground in front of a high bank, moved back to her, opened the chamber and started dropping bullets in. When he had six in the chamber, he closed it.

“It’s a double action revolver. That means if you squeeze the trigger, it fires. The trigger is tight, so you’ll have to use some strength to make it work.” He handed it to her and showed her how to hold it, with the butt and trigger in her right hand while she supported the gun with her left hand.

“This is awkward,” she murmured.

“It’s a lot to get used to. Just point it at the target and pull the trigger. Allow for it to kick up a little. Sight down the barrel. Line it up with the tip on the end of the barrel. Now fire.”

She hesitated, afraid of the noise.

“Oops. I forgot. Here.”

He took the pistol, opened the chamber, laid it on a fallen log. Then he dug into his pocket for two pairs of foam earplugs.

“You roll these into cones and stick them in your ears,” he instructed. “They’ll dull the noise so it doesn’t bother you. Honest.”

She watched him and parroted his actions. He picked up the pistol, closed the chamber, and handed it back to her with a nod.

She still hesitated.

He took it from her, pointed it at the target and pulled the trigger.

To her surprise, the noise wasn’t loud at all. She smiled and took the pistol back from him. She squeezed off five shots. Three of them went into the center of the target in a perfect pattern.

“See what you can do when you try? Let’s go again,” he said with a grin and began to reload it.