The Second Mouse - Archer Mayor [16]
They were driving through the steeply sloped woods northeast of Bennington, in the Green Mountain National Forest, along one of the barely visible roads used at various times of the year by poachers, game wardens, loggers, and recreational snowmobilers. These tracks wandered seemingly without purpose or direction, often ending after miles in a copse of trees or at the edge of a bog, or were sometimes simply reabsorbed by the wilderness if left too long without use. The one Mel had chosen, however, he traveled regularly to reach a rocky clearing in the middle of nowhere—his private retreat where he could shoot, drink, do drugs, or just get away from a world he didn’t much like and did his best to combat.
The combativeness was a constant, and of late had acquired an additional edge, but as his wife had just been reflecting, the mood accompanying it was key, at least for anyone nearby. And on this occasion Mel’s mood was up.
“There.” He pointed through the bug-spattered windshield. “You can stop your whining. Now we’ll have some fun.”
The truck lumbered out of the woods and shuddered to a stop where, untold years ago, a rockslide had tumbled from the mountain above and settled in an oddly flat scattering of large boulders, prohibiting the growth of all but a few gnarly plants. With the forest all around and the blue sky above, these sparse green sprouts squeezing up through the rocks provided a view suggestive of the bottom of a dirty fish tank. In contrast to that wet and cooling image, though, this place was airless, hot, and dry.
Which enhanced Mel’s sense of security, especially for what he now had in mind.
“All right,” he said, throwing open the door and sliding out with a flourish, “let’s hop to it. Nance, set up the targets. Ellis, get that shit out of the back.”
Ellis, for his part, was also finding Mel’s good humor infectious. In his element, in control, and in the company of those he considered his family—especially with a fun project in mind—Mel became the life of the party, one Ellis was happy to join.
Nancy took a garbage bag rattling with glass bottles and old cans—her husband’s version of recycling—and lugged it across the broken field of rocks to a distant spot already littered with the shards of prior outings. Even wearing shorts and a tank top against the heat, she’d known to wear boots for the day, although they hurt and made her feet sweat. The shattered glass was already thick enough on the ground to make it slippery as well as blinding, reflecting the sun as it did in a thousand sparks. Slowly, squinting, as the men set up the guns, the ammo, and of course the beer, she placed her targets across the scarred, burning surface of the tumbled granite.
After Nancy returned, Mel gave her a kiss and a beer, pressing a can on Ellis also, which the latter didn’t resist, and then broke out the two M–16s they’d stolen the night before and had spent the intervening hours cleaning and oiling. None of them had slept more than two hours, and that only because Mel had wanted to get his wife into bed.
There was laughter and an exchange of bad jokes, body checks, and false punches. Finally, Mel took first honors, looking, with his beard, large stomach, and bandy legs, like an oversize G.I. Joe doll constructed of rejected parts. He fired off the first air-splitting rounds, the shiny flickerings of spent brass shells flashing in the bright sun.
None of them wore ear protection, and the fully automatic gunfire filled the air, pierced their skulls, and stung their noses with its acrid smell. Nancy covered her ears with her hands until Mel handed her one of the rifles and insisted she give it a try. She did, tentatively at first, then with more comfort, and finally with abandon as she yielded to the gun’s steady thud against her shoulder, and the fascination