Bond With Death by Bill Crider

paper target with both eyes open. When she felt as relaxed as she was going to get, she pulled the trigger. The target jumped, and she fired again. And then again, until she had fired eight times.
    The figure on the target was that of a heavyset man wearing a hat. Sally paused to reload as the target moved toward her, wondering how long it had been since she’d actually seen a man wearing a dress hat. Her conclusion was that it had been a long time.
    When she inspected the target, Sally wasn’t pleased with the grouping. Her shots had been all over the place, proving that she was still upset from her visit with Fieldstone and Talon. She’d thought maybe her quiet time with Lola had helped calm her down, but she’d been wrong. She signaled for the target to be moved out again, this time to fifteen yards. She was confident that she could do better even at the greater distance.
    She was right. When she inspected the target again, she had a nice tight group in the crudely drawn figure’s chest. She smiled and settled down to do some more shooting.
    Â 
    Leaving the firing range, Sally was taken aback by the stifling humidity outside. The range was air-conditioned and quite cool, but there had been a brief rain shower while Sally was in the building, and breathing was like sucking air through a steamed towel.
    The hot and humid air wasn’t doing much for Sally’s hair, either. She often thought that women in dry climates didn’t really know what a bad hair day was. Living near the Gulf Coast, Sally was guaranteed at least three hundred and fifty bad hair days a year.
    She locked the pistol in the trunk of her car, feeling pretty good about just about everything except her hair. The e-mail that had been sent out was, she felt certain, nothing more than a prank perpetrated by some student who was unhappy with a grade. Probably it had been sent by someone in her American literature class, since they were the ones who’d most recently been discussing witchcraft. Sally
thought immediately of Wayne Compton, but she knew it couldn’t have been Wayne. He was kind of a pest, but he didn’t have a malicious bone in his body. She was going through a mental list of the other students as she got behind the wheel of the Acura, oblivious of anything going on around her, which explained why she jumped and banged her head on the roof when a loud horn sounded nearby.
    Sally rubbed her head, further frizzing her hair, and looked around. A black Lincoln Navigator was pulling to a stop beside her. Vera Vaughn was the only faculty member who had a Navigator. It wouldn’t have been out of character for her to own something even bigger, like a Hummer, though Sally thought that even a Hummer might not have ten cup holders. But the Navigator did. Sally had counted them once.
    The passenger-side window of the Navigator slid down, and Jack Neville leaned out.
    â€œWe tried to call you,” he said, “but you must have your cell phone turned off.”
    Sally seldom turned on her cell phone, and certainly never in the firing range, where she didn’t like distractions.
    â€œI thought you might be here taking out your frustrations,” Jack said, “considering the kind of day you must have had.”
    Sally thought that Jack knew her better than just about anyone at HCC. She wasn’t sure that was a good thing.
    â€œVera and I would like to talk to you,” Jack went on. “If you have time.”
    â€œRight now?” Sally said.
    â€œNow, but not here. We could meet you somewhere. How about the Adobe Hacienda? We could have a margarita.”
    Sally checked her watch. It was five-thirty, not too early for a margarita, and she wouldn’t mind having Mexican food for dinner later.
    â€œAll right,” she said. “I’ll meet you there.”
    The window slid up and the Navigator made its way out of the parking lot. Wondering what Vera and Jack had to say, Sally