Chapter 18

It began with a very short, eerie whistle, more a chirp, which cut off with a THWOCK! The archery butt shuddered from the impact, an arrow suddenly blossoming like a weed from the target. If I hadn't moved when I did I would have been pinned there like a bug on display.

Dropping facedown on the grass I scrambled behind the butt. On my back I studied the half of the arrow sticking out on this side. It was tipped with a hunting head designed to drop a moose in its tracks.

Shit! Why would anyone bring a hunting arrow to a target range?

Three guesses, and the first two don't count!

You gotta be kidding!! I told The Stick, feeling a chill.

I never kid.

I had to admit she didn't, but still not believing her, I stuck my head out for a look. Another arrow whistled past my ear.

That literally scared the piss out of me. Since all I had on were my quiver and bow at least I didn't have to change my undies.

I hate it when you're right, I told my alter ego.

You thought they'd give up after one try?

When Maria had warned me there were people after me I hadn't taken her seriously. GabFest had further roiled the waters, of course. The day after the show, as I rode Bessie home, a pickup truck crowded me close to parked cars. At the same time the driver of a van in a space ahead cracked open his door. It was the kind of thing I always watched for in tight traffic. Not so much the crowding as the door being opened. Taking evasive action I dodged the threat, the crunch of the pickup taking the van door off was enough to confirm my fears. If I hadn't zigged when I did Bessie and I would likely have wound up under the wheels of the truck, or smeared on the inside of the van door. It could have been an accident, one of the normal hazards of riding a bike in traffic. Only I'd seen the van driver watching me in his side-view mirror.

That had made me a believer in Maria's warning. But, not wanting to worry them I hadn't mentioned it to anyone.

I was thinking now that had been a mistake. As an accident avoided that had only scared me. What I felt now was real fear and confusion. Who the hell would want me out of the way badly enough to turn me into an archery target and why for chrissakes? I was a kid, and all I was doing was defending The Naked in School Program. Why would anyone be that pissed off over a bunch of innocent teens -- well maybe not all of them were all that innocent -- running around naked?

This was just not fair, not fair at all! I wasn't even old enough to drive a car -- or vote -- and they wanted me dead? Okay, I wouldn't die a virgin, small comfort. I had to admit my appearance on GabFest had stirred certain circles in the opposition to a froth, but prudes and hyper-conservative churchgoers are not usually assassins, are they? And besides, didn't they believe in "Thou shalt not kill?"

What about their stand on the death penalty? The Stick asked.

Hey, if you can't help, shut up and let me think. We're in deep doodoo here.

Shutting up.

Yeah, right.

It was all I could do to keep myself from taking off in a full-bore linear panic. I had to get a grip.

I'd told Maria I was coming here -- partner rule #1 -- so she knew where I was. But it was Sunday morning. As far as she knew no one had made a try at me yet, and operating under the theory that even bad guys took Sunday off she hadn't seen any reason to arrange cover for me. Besides, Eddie would be here to keep an eye on me.

Except I'd told him that I'd mind the store so it was okay for him to go out for his favorite double mocha latte which, for him, involved at least a half hour of flirting with the barista.

Shit!

Maria was at church, becoming godmother to her newest niece. Mom was hosting an open house -- yeah, even on Sunday -- and Elaine was tending to a laboring mother-to-be whose baby didn't care what day it was. There were no other archers or spectators, so I was very much alone on the range with a homicidal archer shooting big-game arrows at me. How this could be made to look like an accident I didn't know, or give a shit, for that matter. My concern was avoiding it. At least I had my bow with me and some target arrows, so I could sorta fight back, but this guy was literally armed for bear.

I could see the headline. "Girl Found Dead on Archery Range; Foul Play Suspected."

Well doh!

Dammit, that would really upset Mom! I hate upsetting her.

I guess he got bored with waiting for me to come out of hiding. With a WHOOMP! his next shot punched completely through the butt, dusting me with bits of the foam insulation it was made of. One blade of the arrowhead scratched my naked ass. I made like a gopher. A minute later the next arrow came whistling down out of the sky to bury its point in the turf about five yards behind me with an emphatic CHUNK! In addition to being razor sharp those steel points were heavy!

Great! Now he was lobbing them at me, either to smoke me out or hoping for a lucky drop.

Fuck! Archery was my release. Swimming and diving were competitions. I love 'em but they have their stresses. I shot arrows into targets just for fun. The range was my retreat, my escape from all the shit; from the homework and tests, the memories of The Worm, the fear of screwing up SACNISP and all the crap that went with it. I came out here to let off steam and escape into innocent fantasies. I sometimes pretended I was Robin Hood, with lots of naked Merry Men and, being bisexual, a nude Maid Marian by my side, with the Sheriff of Nottingham in my sights. This sonofabitch had invaded my fantasies.

The more I thought about it, along with being terrified I began to get angry. Being angry became being furious, and from furious it was only a short step to being completely, thoroughly, and totally pissed off.

I wanted to kill the bastard!

So? Go get him! The Stick whispered in my ear.

And just how do you suggest I do that, armed with nothing but target arrows and my puny -- by some standards – forty-pound bow?

I don't know. You're the brains of this outfit. You'll figure out something.

Thanks!

Another arrow dropped in with the same distinctive whistle -- it was a very evil whistle -- closer this time. Fighting the urge to curl up in a ball to minimize his target I took inventory. I had my bow and eleven target arrows. I was seriously out-gunned, and he was no novice. Sooner or later either I'd have to come out or he'd come after me.

I assumed he was a hired bow. Where the fuck did the scum who wanted me dead find an expert archer to off me?

The obvious answer was that by definition a hit man was a hunter, one who, in his days off, would probably go after whatever was in or out of season with whatever weapon was appropriate. A gun going off on a Sunday morning in the park might just attract attention and a bullet hole was even less likely to be seen as an accident, so he'd decided to get in a little time doing some bow hunting.

Why not? I was a defenseless kid. To him this was probably nothing more than a carnival game. Nail the girl and win the prize! I wondered how much I was worth. Probably more than was in my piggybank, so buying him off wasn't an option. I didn't suppose he'd take an IOU, either.

Another arrow dropped in on me, close enough to make me retract my landing gear. What was that, number five? For some reason counting them seemed important, so I thought back. No, that was number six.

Maybe he was just playing with me. In any case his shots were getting uncomfortably close, and I needed help. Unclipping my cell phone from the strap on my quiver I debated calling 911. I'd have a lot of explaining to do to get them to believe me, and then they'd come with sirens screaming, giving William Tell out there plenty of time to put an arrow through my apple and get away.

I speed-dialed Maria instead, and got her voice mail. Great!

"Maria! Help! Archery range." Disconnecting, I put the phone back on the quiver's strap.

If I was going to fight back I needed heavier ammo. Squirming around I gathered up what I could of his arrows, leaving the first one through the butt rather than let him know what I was doing.

Now. How could I figure out where that motherfucker was without sticking my neck out? When I'd risked a look and almost gotten my head ventilated he hadn't been on the firing line. This time I peeked through one of the many arrow holes in the butt, but all I saw was where that particular arrow had come from. So I tried the one his second hunting arrow had left. It was a bigger hole, but all it showed me was the patch of shrubs to the right of the gate into the range. Damn! Where was he?

I was about to give up when I saw a flash of light -- reflection off binoculars maybe? -- and he suddenly seemed to pop out of the leafy background. He was right in front of the shrubs, wearing camouflage, probably staying by the gate for a quick getaway. As I watched he raised his bow, loosing arrow number seven skyward.

Seconds later I heard its whistle and I wanted to dig a hole to hide in. Jeez that was a powerful bow! He was a good sixty yards away and he was lobbing them God knows how high to let them drop on me. Counting the one still in the butt and one that was out of reach in front of it meant he'd fired nine so far. Assuming he'd brought a dozen of the monsters he only had three left.

A silly assumption, I know, but it gave me some comfort. Even if it was true, no way was I going to engage him in a shootout at sixty yards. I had a popgun compared to his cannon and while I was pretty good I wasn't that good.

Sooner or later he'd come to see if one of his lobs had gotten me, so waiting was not an option. Besides, I'd be damned if I'd stay here like a sitting duck. If I could get close enough I could pepper him with my legendary quick-draw. Even a target arrow can be lethal.

Maybe I could use the shorter-range butts for cover to work my way in.

Good luck! The Stick wished me.

Okay, so it's a lousy plan. I don't hear any better ideas.

I leave the thinking to you.

Then put a cork in it so I can!

Corking it.

Wise ass!

I nocked a target arrow and used my bow-hand index finger to hold it half drawn, keeping my right hand free for balance.

Thinking about what I was about to do made me water the grass again.

Hearing arrow number ten whistling down, while he reloaded I sprinted my skinny tail on a diagonal to a butt ten yards closer in. Arrow number eleven skipped along the turf about five feet behind me as I dove face down under cover, painfully scraping my nips in a flurry of grass clippings.

So much for my comforting arrow count assumption. No way did he have only one arrow left or he'd be saving his ammo instead of taking pot shots at me on the scamper. As if to confirm that conclusion his twelfth came through this butt like an artillery shell.

Okay, number of arrows left was not a given. For sure on my next dash he'd think to lead his target -- me -- but unlike a duck in a shooting gallery at least now I was close enough to fire back. If I was super-lucky I'd put out his eye. At the very least it might distract him or make him flinch.

I took off for my next destination, pausing briefly in my bobbing and weaving to let fly in the general direction of his shrubs. He wasted another arrow and I was under cover twenty yards from the firing line, within forty yards of him. His next shot blew through that butt like it wasn't even there. Fortunately he'd aimed high and I was flat on the ground, grateful for my lack of boobs.

Only now I was out of butts and this serpent knew exactly where I was. Shit! I hunkered down further, fully expecting him to shred my hiding place with a blizzard of arrows on the off chance a shot would get me. When nothing happened I dared to hope that maybe, just maybe, he might finally be running low on ammo.

It occurred to me that all this time neither of us had said a word, not even a "come out and I'll make it a quick, clean kill!" from him. Maybe he was the strong silent type.

Me? What was I supposed to say? "Hey, why are you trying to kill me?" didn't seem like much of a conversation starter, and "I surrender" wouldn't fly with him either.

I was dawdling. Like it or not it was showdown time. I sometimes practiced drawing, nocking and firing as fast as I could. If I didn't fumble I could get three shots off in about six seconds, though not very accurately. Maybe adrenalin would speed me up.

Go for it! The Stick urged.

Easy for you to say, it's not your ass on the line.

Oh? she asked, raising a philosophical question I was too scared to answer.

As I was resetting my quiver by my hip for a quicker draw my cell phone vibrated, a welcome distraction, so I grabbed it.

"I'm on my way!" was all Maria said. I heard horns and screeches. The spray of Latino that followed didn't bear translating.

I kept my voice low, rather than let him know I had help coming. "He's by the gate. He's got a bow, probably compound, not a crossbow. I haven't seen a gun. I'm behind a twenty-yard butt just left of Eddie's shop, about forty yards from him. Hurry!"

"Don' let heem get away!" Her accent gets thicker when she's excited.

"Like I have a choice?" I muttered, reholstering the phone. Nocking a target arrow I peeked through the big hole he'd just made in my butt. No, not MY personal butt -- oh you know what I mean.

SHIT! He was on the move and I couldn't wait for Maria. He was maybe thirty yards away, advancing slowly, and now I knew another reason he'd hung back. At about four hundred pounds he was built for intimidation, not mobility. He probably notched his ass for each victim he killed by just sitting on them. He didn't stalk anything or anyone. He lumbered on legs like tree trunks, his big feet spread to balance his bulk. He was a sniper, lurking, sucking down beer and cheeseburgers, waiting for Bambi or whoever to walk into his sights.

He had one of those damn compound bows woven with strings like a banjo and springs and cams and levers and whatnots that packed cannon power into a compact package. It even had some sort of sight -- like he'd need it at this range! He was holding his bow with both hands, an arrow nocked and ready, fully drawn. Another arrow was clipped to a gadget attached to the bow for an easy reload. Like he'd need it! One would be plenty if I let him get any closer.

The only thing in my favor was that he was safety-conscious, holding his bow low and pointing at the ground. Sweating bullets I popped out on the far side of the butt from him, no further than I had to, and started firing, trying to pretend it was a turkey shoot and he was a very fat Butterball.

Everything went into slow motion. I got my first shot off before he started to turn and raise his bow. He flinched, even though I'd only fired a target arrow. Getting bolder, stepping out further my second shot, one of his hunting arrows, literally whistled past his head, making him duck and hesitate, like he couldn't believe I was doing this!

Believe it asshole, my cheering section rooted for me.

My third, another target arrow -- I wasn't looking, just nocking whatever I grabbed -- should have done some damage but only bounced off his bloated belly. He started to aim. My fourth arrow, another target arrow, actually tore through the loose crotch of his cammies. Reflexively lowering his bow in an attempt to protect the family jewels his release slipped, burying that arrow in the dirt inches from my naked foot. Then his fat fingers fumbled the reload, dropping his last arrow. As he bent to reach for it I ricocheted one of my arrows off his hairless dome.

It started a trickle of blood oozing from his naked scalp and had to have hurt. Looking up he froze, Bambi in the headlights, because I was less than ten yards away, drawing my bow as I advanced, aiming right at the crease between his hairy eyebrows. It was another target arrow, but at this range with my bow even that would go right through his skull, and we both knew it.

As he dropped his bow and started to straighten up I drew my arrow back another inch, my thumb firmly nestled into the corner of my mouth, my aiming point still that same spot.

He was a dead man.

NO! The Stick shouted in my skull.

But he tried to kill us!

Don't do it!

He's a fucking killer!

But you're not!

My arms ached, my bow-hand was sweaty, my shooting fingers burned.

You're supposed to be on MY side!

I am. You know I am. I am always on your side.

Shut up! SHUT UP!

I was so tired of this! My target was sweating, I was crying.

Don't do it. The Stick said softly. It's over. Let him go. Let it go. Just let it go. Let it all go.

He turned to run, probably thinking I didn't have the guts to shoot him in the back.

Maybe my fingers slipped, I don't know, but the arrow got away and along with it went all the fury and frustration and terror built up over however long this waking nightmare had gone on.

He got it in the end. My aim had dropped -- tired arms? -- and the arrow buried itself in the right cheek of his massive ass. He squealed like a baby, stumbled and went down like he'd been harpooned. As he struggled to get up -- talk about morbidly obese! -- I stepped up on his back to pin him down. He subsided, blowing like a beached whale.

"Stay down," I warned. He stayed. Maybe it was my weight or the pain in his ass or the arrow I had loaded and digging into the back of his bull neck. I heard distant sirens. Maria must have called in the cavalry.

I was still mad enough to kill but I wanted information even more and I had to hurry. Not being a cop I didn't give a shit about legal niceties like Miranda warnings. Easing off on my bow I reached back to wiggle the arrow in his tail, asking him who had hired him. When that didn't work I gave it a harder stir and threatened to insert one of his hunting arrows up his ass. Whether I found the natural opening in his crack of doom I did not care.

By the time Maria arrived I had what I wanted. She was followed by a chorus of black-and-whites in full voice, their lights all flashing, with an ambulance bringing up the rear. Climbing down off Jumbo I bent over and puked my guts out.