Breaking the Line

Second, I bought a gun.  In an odd way I suppose I thus honored Scott's memory, though that wasn't my intent.  I was scared.

The gun shop ran my fingerprints and paperwork through the required background checks.  I had time to think while I assembled the unfamiliar paraphernalia of the gun owner – shooting glasses, hearing protection, cleaning kit, targets, boxes of ammunition, and a holster.  Maybe I didn't need a piece.  Then again, the Allegres had found Scott and me pretty damn quick.  How hard could it be to track me down?  My suitcase carried my address on a hang tag, for Chrissake.  No, I had to take precautions.  Whether I needed a piece or not, I needed peace of mind, and this would help.

I still had some daylight remaining when I left the store, loaded down with a couple of weighty plastic bags.  so I headed to the range, read through the owner's manual of my new 9mm pistol, and ran a hundred rounds through the barrel.  I left satisfied that, even if I wasn't going to join the Olympic pistol team any time soon, I could still punch holes through a man-size target at ten paces pretty consistently.

I did not sleep well.

I realize that sufficient rest is essential to good health, but that night insomnia saved my ass.

I lay fretful and stressed, watching a moonbeam that peeked through a gap in the blinds inch along the wall, wondering if I should call Teresa and ask if she'd heard anything about the





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