staring at his gimpy knee.
“Got this in Desert Shield,” he said. “Took shrapnel and a 7.62 mm round courtesy of Saddam’s Republican Guard. Jake will tell you. Him and me go way back.”
I nodded.
“So something happened to one of Jake’s birds, huh? And I’m guessing since you’re here you’re thinking someone shot him.”
“That’s pretty much the situation. But this is not a slow bird. If he was in a stoop when they shot him, we’re talking over two hundred miles per hour.”
Simmons scratched his chin. “Be like shooting a missile diving straight down. Not many folks could make a shot like that.”
“No, sir. And we couldn’t help but notice when we were in Dr. Clayton’s office out at his farm earlier this afternoon that he had a competitive marksman’s patch on his windbreaker.”
Simmons nodded. “Clayton’s a marksman, no doubt about that. He and some of the people from his farm are out here a couple of times a month for practice. Sometimes he even brings his wife along. He likes shooting sporting clays, too, from what I hear.”
“So you think he could’ve made such a shot?”
“Probably. But he’s not the only one around here might’ve pulled it off. Hell’s Bells, with the right rifle I could’ve maybe hit the thing myself.”
“You have a lot of folks coming in here who could’ve made it?”
“Now, I didn’t say that. You’ve got to be in top form to pull off something like that. What I hear, Clayton doesn’t just shoot here. He’s got his own private range over there on his farm, too. Guess he comes over this way because he like the socializing and the variety. If he shoots over there, too, well, I’d say he’s in pretty top form.”
“So we should still consider him among our top suspects.”
“Assuming your bird was shot, I’d say so.”
15
The tractor-trailer tanker bore down on Nicole and me as we drove back to Toronto’s. We were on the two-lane highway that curved around the mountain. I had the Ford at the speed limit, maybe even a couple miles per hour more, a reasonable speed. The big rig appeared in my rearview as if from nowhere. The cab was a Peterbuilt, but in the late afternoon glare from the sun, I couldn’t make out much more in my mirror. Whoever was driving the rig must have really been pushing the edge on those curves.
“Dad,” Nicole said, a note of concern but not panic in her voice, as she glanced in her side mirror.
“I see him.” We’d hit an empty stretch of road still a couple of mile out of town. The roar of the tanker’s powerful engine rumbled in on us like an approaching freight train.
I pressed down on the accelerator and watched the speedometer climb. The Ford jumped out ahead for a few moments.
But the tanker driver wasn’t through. As we rounded a curve into a half-mile straightaway, the tanker came barreling on behind. Once he hit the straightway, the driver must have shifted down a couple of gears. The tanker closed the distance between us. A small car approached in the opposite lane.
This was going to be close. The tanker must have been doing at least ninety as it grew larger and larger, filling my mirror, and the driver laid on his horn. A deafening wail. The small car was growing ever nearer. I could either speed up, trying to outrun the big rig, and take my chances of causing a wreck, or find a way out.
The shoulder looked wide enough. I waited until the last possible moment, angling my truck onto the shoulder out of the tanker’s way as the tanker blew on past. The driver kept blowing his horn and the small car passed safely on the other side.
Braking to a stop in a cloud of dust left in the tanker’s wake, I lifted my hands off the wheel. “That was interesting.”
“That was not fun,” Nicole said. We watched the big truck recede into the distance.
“The guy was nuts. You think he was running late for a delivery?”
“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes.
“You get a look at the
“Got this in Desert Shield,” he said. “Took shrapnel and a 7.62 mm round courtesy of Saddam’s Republican Guard. Jake will tell you. Him and me go way back.”
I nodded.
“So something happened to one of Jake’s birds, huh? And I’m guessing since you’re here you’re thinking someone shot him.”
“That’s pretty much the situation. But this is not a slow bird. If he was in a stoop when they shot him, we’re talking over two hundred miles per hour.”
Simmons scratched his chin. “Be like shooting a missile diving straight down. Not many folks could make a shot like that.”
“No, sir. And we couldn’t help but notice when we were in Dr. Clayton’s office out at his farm earlier this afternoon that he had a competitive marksman’s patch on his windbreaker.”
Simmons nodded. “Clayton’s a marksman, no doubt about that. He and some of the people from his farm are out here a couple of times a month for practice. Sometimes he even brings his wife along. He likes shooting sporting clays, too, from what I hear.”
“So you think he could’ve made such a shot?”
“Probably. But he’s not the only one around here might’ve pulled it off. Hell’s Bells, with the right rifle I could’ve maybe hit the thing myself.”
“You have a lot of folks coming in here who could’ve made it?”
“Now, I didn’t say that. You’ve got to be in top form to pull off something like that. What I hear, Clayton doesn’t just shoot here. He’s got his own private range over there on his farm, too. Guess he comes over this way because he like the socializing and the variety. If he shoots over there, too, well, I’d say he’s in pretty top form.”
“So we should still consider him among our top suspects.”
“Assuming your bird was shot, I’d say so.”
15
The tractor-trailer tanker bore down on Nicole and me as we drove back to Toronto’s. We were on the two-lane highway that curved around the mountain. I had the Ford at the speed limit, maybe even a couple miles per hour more, a reasonable speed. The big rig appeared in my rearview as if from nowhere. The cab was a Peterbuilt, but in the late afternoon glare from the sun, I couldn’t make out much more in my mirror. Whoever was driving the rig must have really been pushing the edge on those curves.
“Dad,” Nicole said, a note of concern but not panic in her voice, as she glanced in her side mirror.
“I see him.” We’d hit an empty stretch of road still a couple of mile out of town. The roar of the tanker’s powerful engine rumbled in on us like an approaching freight train.
I pressed down on the accelerator and watched the speedometer climb. The Ford jumped out ahead for a few moments.
But the tanker driver wasn’t through. As we rounded a curve into a half-mile straightaway, the tanker came barreling on behind. Once he hit the straightway, the driver must have shifted down a couple of gears. The tanker closed the distance between us. A small car approached in the opposite lane.
This was going to be close. The tanker must have been doing at least ninety as it grew larger and larger, filling my mirror, and the driver laid on his horn. A deafening wail. The small car was growing ever nearer. I could either speed up, trying to outrun the big rig, and take my chances of causing a wreck, or find a way out.
The shoulder looked wide enough. I waited until the last possible moment, angling my truck onto the shoulder out of the tanker’s way as the tanker blew on past. The driver kept blowing his horn and the small car passed safely on the other side.
Braking to a stop in a cloud of dust left in the tanker’s wake, I lifted my hands off the wheel. “That was interesting.”
“That was not fun,” Nicole said. We watched the big truck recede into the distance.
“The guy was nuts. You think he was running late for a delivery?”
“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes.
“You get a look at the
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