Jack_ Secret Vengeance - F. Paul Wilson [31]
“Come on, Dad. I’m in high school. Guys I know have been shooting since they were little kids.”
“Yeah. Hunting. Is that what you want to do? Hunt?”
“Well, no.”
Locals often gave his folks venison or game birds when they had more than they could use, and Jack enjoyed eating them, but centering a deer in his sights and pulling the trigger, or blasting a pheasant out of the sky …
He’d have to be really hungry before he could do that. And maybe not even then.
“I was thinking of just a twenty-two. You know—for target practice.”
“A rifle is a killing tool. You do target practice to improve your killing skills. If you’re not going to use it to kill, you don’t need target practice.”
“Come on, Dad. It’s an Olympic sport. I—”
His father held up a hand. “Let me save you some breath and both of us some time: No guns in my house. Ever.”
“But—”
“I repeat: No. Guns. In. My. House. Ever. Is there any part of that you don’t understand?”
“Not even for home protection?”
“That’s what we pay the police for.”
“But what if someone’s in the house and—?”
“No, Jack. No.”
“I heard Mister Bainbridge call you ‘Deadeye.’”
“When?”
“Back in the summer. That must mean you were a good shot and—”
His father gripped Jack’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze—not painful but hard enough to ensure his attention. He locked his blue eyes with Jack’s.
“Look, Jack, I understand that you think guns are cool and fascinating and maybe even fun. I suppose I did too when I was a kid. But you get older, you have some experiences—”
“Like what?”
He looked away. “Like seeing men die from having half their head shot off, or worse, slowly bleed to death.” He looked at Jack again. “Let’s not bring up the subject again, okay? When you’re grown and living on your own, you can buy all the guns your heart desires. Live in an armory if you want. But here? No. Never.”
Jack wondered what had happened in Korea to affect him like this. Mr. Bainbridge had been over there with him and he hunted at every opportunity, and always seemed ready to talk about the war. Not Dad. He treated it as if it never happened.
The answer, Jack was sure, lay in that lockbox in Dad’s closet. If he could just get past that crummy little lock.
He decided to change the subject.
“Hey, Dad. Do you have a guiding principle?”
His father glanced at him. “A what?”
“You know, an idea or something that guides your life.”
“You mean like a philosophy?”
Jack shrugged. “I guess so.”
Dad was silent a moment, then said, “I guess I believe that all men are created equal, with unalienable rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness—or something like that. Not original with me. You know where that comes from, right?”
“Sure. The Declaration of Independence.”
“Good. I think it pretty much says it all. A lot of good people have died to protect those rights. And I do believe they are unalienable. You know what that means?”
“They can’t be taken away.”
“Right.”
“But what if you’re a slave?”
“Just because some thug prevents you from exercising those rights, doesn’t mean they no longer exist. You have to—”
They both jumped as a bolt of lightning split the sky and lit up the inside of the car as it hit the top of the tree, loosing a shower of multicolored sparks. The immediate blast of thunder shook the car and rattled Jack’s teeth.
He slapped the dashboard and shouted, “Yes!” as his father whooped. They’d timed it just right.
Jack held out his hand for a five slap, but his father shook it instead.
“This was good, Jack. I’m glad we came.”
Except for the no-gun part, Jack couldn’t agree more.
THURSDAY
1
Jack pried at the window to the boys’ room. It moved a lot more easily this time. At least something was going right. For a while tonight he’d thought he wasn’t going to make it here at all.
The earlier thunderstorm had worried him. If it stalled and hung on through the night, he’d have to cancel his planned trip to the school. But it petered out shortly before midnight.
And so here he was in the wee hours of Thursday morning, standing