Page 4 of In Cold Blood
A bright sunshine bore down on those competing through an almost perfect blue sky. Wearing loose, cream-colored khaki bottoms, a black polo shirt, a black ballcap, and safety glasses, Noah felt a surge of excitement. Twenty-plus years of shooting experience and it was still as fresh as the first day the military put a gun in his hands. Eight years of the Marines, followed by four with a sheriff’s office and then it was on to take a position with BCI — the State Bureau of Criminal Investigation — who had allowed him to hone his marksmanship.
“This is stage eight; we are going into hyperactive. Are you ready? Stand by!” an instructor bellowed, holding up a shot timer. A beep resounded and a boom of gunshots erupted. Noah moved through the course firing off a full magazine, hitting every one of his targets. He ejected the empty magazine to the ground and quickly palmed in a new one in a fluid motion while continuing to move around barriers. The cacophony of fire was deafening but he loved it.
Adrenaline rushed through his system.
Excitement spiked. He was in his element. No matter how good he had gotten, there was always room for improvement. Small adjustments in aim, grip, breathing, and follow-through. As he finished and tugged out safety earplugs, Jackson, the local instructor, observed his work.
“Damn, your shooting is precise. What did you say you did for a living?”
Before he could answer, a familiar voice did it for him. “Oh, he didn’t tell you? So modest, that boy.” The instructor turned. A black woman dressed in a form-fitting tidy grey suit, with a white blouse and short black heels, stood behind the safety line, a smile dancing. Her outfit looked hot and out of place. “He’s an American sharpshooter, part of the Wild West Show that travels around the country. Isn’t that right, Pawnee Bill?”
Noah grinned, removed his baseball cap, and ran a hand through a head of black hair. “Excuse me while I speak with my friend.” He patted Jackson on the arm and crossed the range to collect his jacket, eyeing his colleague, Savannah Legacy. “Only you. How did you know I was here?”
“I’m a State investigator. It’s why they pay us the big bucks, right?”
“Remind me to check my paycheck when I get home.”
She chuckled as she fell in step.
The smile faded as quickly as it came. He wasn’t stupid. Seeing her only meant bad news. Noah worked his way through the enthusiastic crowd. Several old-timers, wearing bright shorts and brand-name golf shirts, and smoking cigars, patted Noah on the back and congratulated him. He had no idea why; he hadn’t won anything.
“I thought you were meant to be on vacation,” Savannah said.
“I am.”
“No, Noah, vacation entails sitting beside a pool, working on your tan, drinking a margarita, and dropping a line into the water.”
“I don’t fish anymore.”
“That’s what disturbs me,” she said with a grin. Noah kicked up white sand as they worked their way past a cluster of lignum vitae trees, each one covered in a gorgeous array of luminescent blue flowers.
“This is about the case, isn’t it?”
“No.”
“Then do you want to get a drink?” he asked. “There’s a great little bar a few minutes from here.”
“Probably best we head back to your place.”
“Ah, a woman who likes to cut to the chase. Always found that refreshing about you, Legacy. I’m glad to see I finally swung you back to the other team.” Savannah shook her head in amusement as she made her way over to her rental, a modest SUV. “Follow me. I’m not far from here.” He hopped in his dusty Jeep Wrangler and within minutes they were roaring down a sandy narrow road hedged in by thick green brush and mangroves.
A salty breeze blew his hair around as he donned aviators and glanced at the glistening water in the distance. He could get used to this. It certainly beat the weather of New York State.
Noah had rented a small Airbnb. It was located off Shoreland Drive less than ten minutes from the shooting range. Nearby was a cluttered boatyard full of work sheds and trailered boats and beyond the house, palm trees and turquoise water.
The off-yellow weathered beach house emerged. He parked beside a neighbor’s 45-foot Catalina propped up on blocks. Hopping out, Noah removed his sneakers and socks and slipped into a pair of flip-flops while he waited for her. Her blue FordEscape rental curved in behind his Jeep, the grit of white sand crunching beneath its tires.
“I thought they put these homes up on stilts?” she asked as she got out.
“Not these.”
The abode was a two-bath, four-bedroom, concrete block split-level structure. The second floor, which was the main house, had two bedrooms and there were another two on the ground level. Nearby was a detached garage and storage area full of kayaks and boating equipment. “Come on in,” he said, leading her up a series of sandy steps to the second level. He unlocked the door and crossed a modern custom kitchen full of stainless appliances to open the windows. A refreshing coastal aroma filled the air.
“Very nice,” she said, running her hand across the dark granite countertop and pointing to the appliances. It was all high-end. No expense had been spared. “I figured you would go cheap and get a motel.”
“And miss these views?” he said, opening the French doors that led out to a wraparound balcony. A gentle breeze blew the white drapes and he felt the tension in his shoulders relax. “I thought if I was going to be here for a couple of weeks, I might as well be comfortable. Nothing worse than climbing into a hotel bed full of pubes.”
Savannah grimaced as she perused the room, picking up a custom car magazine, and showing him the front. “Midlife crisis?” He chuckled as he opened the fridge and took out two bottles of non-alcoholic IPA and handed her one.
