The Night Crew

place.’’
    He stopped in a gravel patch in front of the garage. As they got out, a car passed on the road at the bottom of the hill, honked twice, and Harper waved. ‘‘Widow-lady neighbor,’’ he said.
    ‘‘Hmm,’’ Anna said. ‘‘Attractive, rich . . .’’
    ‘‘Blonde, and got the big, you know . . .’’
    ‘‘Ears . . .’’
    ‘‘Exactly the word I was groping for.’’
    ‘‘Yeah, grope,’’ she said. The house was cool inside, and a little dim after the glare of the sun on the semi-desert; it was bachelor-neat, the neatness of a man who’d lived alone for a long time, and learned to take care of a house; not precise, not tidy, but most things in their own places, less a couple of socks next to the couch, a couple of beer cans on a table next to a couch that faced an oversized television.
    ‘‘Gotta get some clothes.’’ He fished a half-dozen golf shirts out of a drier, plugged in an iron. ‘‘There’s a gully out back, if you want to take a look,’’ he said. ‘‘Take some beer cans out . . . watch out for snakes.’’ She’d brought a box of cartridges with her; and with the pistol in her jacket pocket, and a half-dozen empty beer cans in a sack, crunched through the short dry weeds behind the house, fifty yards out to the mouth of the gully. She found a spot where she could prop the cans against the dirt gullywall, put them down, and backed off about eight paces.
    ‘‘All right,’’ she said. She had the gun out, barrel down, and she said, ‘‘One,’’ and the gun was up, the heel of her right hand cupped in her left, and she fired a single shot.
    The gun bucked, and the muzzle blast was like a slap on the side of the head; her ears rang like a distant phone. Damn; forgot her earmuffs. But the slug had bitten into the dirt not four inches from the target can. Not too bad.
    She looked around, finally walked back to the house and got some Kleenex, ripped off enough to make marble-sized wads, and pushed them into her ears as she walked back out.
    The Kleenex helped, and now she started running through the routine she’d been taught in her gun classes: two shots, one-two. Then three, one-two-three. At twenty feet, she’d hit the target can with one shot out of every four or five. That was fine, the cans were just aiming points: hearts. While she missed with the other shots, she was always close—inside a man’s chest. She moved closer, and the number of hits went up. Eventually, she was shooting from six feet, hitting the cans almost every time.
    She didn’t see Harper coming, but she felt him, turned, took one of the Kleenex wads out of her ears and said, ‘‘ ’Bout done.’’
    ‘‘You’re not bad,’’ he said. He was wearing a fresh blue golf shirt and faded jeans.
    ‘‘Always had guns around,’’ she said. ‘‘Out in the country. Want to try?’’
    ‘‘Nope. But let me see a quick two-tap.’’
    She nodded, put the wad of paper back in her ear, and did a quick two, one of the cans spinning away up the gully.
    ‘‘But it’s much easier when you’re shooting at a target, nothing’s moving, you’re not frightened, you’ve got no handicaps . . .’’
    ‘‘Yeah, yeah, they told us all that—and they also said, you gotta do what you can.’’
    ‘‘Go ahead and do another double-tap,’’ he said, moving up behind her. He put his hand flat against her shoulder blade.
    ‘‘Don’t push, I might shoot myself in the foot,’’ she said. ‘‘And I’ve only got one round left.’’
    ‘‘So shoot the one round, and don’t worry—I’m a highly trained veteran of police combat,’’ he said. ‘‘I know what I’m doing.’’
    ‘‘All right,’’ she said, doubtfully. ‘‘Say when.’’ ‘‘Take it slow, make an aimed shot . . . whenever you’re ready.’’
    ‘‘Okay.’’ She squared herself to the target. ‘‘Ready?’’
    ‘‘Yeah.’’
    She focused on the cans, then lifted the gun. As she did, she tightened her legs, expecting a push, or a pull. Instead, he slipped both hands around her, catching her with a lifting motion just under her breasts, and at the same time, kissed her on the neck.
    Anna felt like she was coming out of her shoes—liked it— and at the same time, focused on the target and squeezed off the shot.
    ‘‘Jesus,’’ Harper groaned, reeling back, hands over his ears. ‘‘I think you blew my eardrums out.’’
    ‘‘That’s what you get,’’ she said, primly. She dumped