His Last Shot

By John E. Miller

“His Last Shot” by John E. Miller. Copyright © 2006 by John E. Miller

Published 2009 at Smashwords

A Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

John E. Miller is the co-author of the following print books:

Bones of the Woods

Mind of a Mad Man

Dime Store Novel (available late 2009)

To view other e-books by John E. Miller at Smashwords, visit:

http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/mobius

In the early summer morning hours, Lance drove down the empty highway, the heater of his car turned down to low, in hopes that it would dry off his clothes. He didn’t need the warmth. It was one of those warm summer rains and as he drove, the windshield wipers kept time to the music on the radio. Every so often Lance caught himself watching the wipers swing back and forth across his windshield. Pay attention, he reprimanded himself. “Always keep your eyes on the road,” his grandfather had told him a long time ago when he’d taught him how to drive. Lance glanced over to the passenger’s seat briefly, not wanting to see the two-by-two foot red strongbox and the gold watch resting on top of it.

Lance thought back on what had happened at his job earlier that evening. It had started out routine. Disabling the alarm system and phone line was a breeze. He had a Master’s degree in electronics and he had written his thesis on security systems. The home was a nice suburban home, widely spaced from the neighbors by a large yard. As Lance had entered the home, he had noted that it was well kept. It was Lance’s habit to notice how the home was kept. Mr. Arthur Downs either had a wife who was a clean freak or they had a maid. Either way, someone was bound to be upset about the white carpet if things got messy. But then things rarely got messy. As he moved towards the steps leading upstairs to the bedrooms, Lance noticed a picture on the wall out of the corner of his eye. He recognized the man in the photo. It was a picture of Mr. Downs and a young boy who must have been his grandson holding up the catch of the day. Of course Mr. Downs was holding the smaller fish. Lance heard the chamber of a shotgun loading.

“Who the hell are you and how did you get in my house?” a loud, but frightened voice asked.

Lance looked up the stairs and saw Mr. Downs holding a shotgun in his hand. He had not put it up to his shoulder yet, but Lance knew he had only one chance to make his shot. He pulled his pistol from the shoulder holster inside his suit jacket and fired. The shot was silent, but hit its mark. Mr. Downs’ shotgun broke apart, as its firing pin fell to the ground.

Mr. Downs looked down at his gun. Lance smiled, remembering the surprise on the old man’s face.

“I did not come to rob you, Mr. Downs,” Lance spoke calmly. “I came here to kill you.”

Now

Lance saw a sign flicker alive up ahead. He could barely make it out between the raindrops, but he was pretty sure it read “Lady Queen.” It looked like some kind of diner. He pulled into the parking lot just as he saw the orange and white blinds roll up. It had been years since he’d been in a small hometown café, but he could still remember the smell of fried food, toast, bacon, syrup, and coffee mingled with stale cigarette smoke and freshly pressed newsprint. He remembered many Sunday mornings sitting at a diner, watching his grandfather read the paper. First the local news, then the obituaries, and then the front page news. “What’s going on in the world doesn’t matter much,” his grandfather would say, “but it doesn’t hurt to be educated about it.” He’d always saved the funnies for last.

Lance got out of his car and walk up to the diner’s door. The door was unlocked. Good, it was open. He stepped into a narrow entryway and wiped off his feet. Then he opened the second door and walked in.

“We’ve got coffee, but the iron isn’t hot yet,” a deep friendly voice called out from the kitchen.

“That’s fine, I’ll have some coffee,” Lance replied. “Coffee?” he thought to himself. He hadn’t had coffee in years. He’d always worried that it would make him jumpy. He walked to a window booth and looked out the window at the rain. He put the box and the pocket watch on the table and sat down.

A young waitress brought out a cup and a pot of coffee. She poured Lance a cup and walked away with a smile, leaving behind some sugar packets and a creamer of half and half. As she walked away, Lance thought how pretty her long brown hair was and how nicely she moved in her faded blue jeans. He wondered if the jeans were faded with age or if she’d bought them that way. He sipped his coffee and remembered a night in the early eighties.

1982 (or thereabouts)

A freshman at college, Lance didn’t know too many people. Well, really he just knew one, his friend Paul. Paul had invited him to a party at a friend’s house. Lance had said no at first because he didn’t drink, but Paul had convinced him to go, if only to make sure he’d make it home alive.

Once at the party Lance got himself a large glass of tea and sat at one end of the couch. He watched in silence as the people at the party drank and started acting silly. Suddenly his view was blocked by two pair of faded jeans.

“Which are real and which were bought faded?” a light voice asked.

“What?” Lance asked.

“The jeans! Which pair is faded by time and which was faded by the manufacturer?” the pretty girl with long flowing dark hair leaned toward him. Lance realized she was flirting with him.

“If I guess right what do I win?” he asked.

“Maybe a chance to get into one of the pair of jeans?” the young lady with the long hair giggled.

Lance looked at the girls. Both of them were very attractive to Lance; one had long flowing dark hair and the other had short red hair. Both were dressed nice, but Lance could tell that the long haired girl’s shirt was slightly out of date. The redhead wore a shirt that still smelled new. Factory-washed, not home laundered. Lance looked into the eyes of the long-haired girl and said softly, “I would say that yours are the true faded jeans.”

“You’re good,” she said and sat down beside Lance.

Lance smiled and put his arm around her. They hardly noticed the redhead move off to the dance floor.

Now

“My name is Alice. Are you ready to order?”

Lance looked up from his coffee at the pair of faded jeans, down at the white Formica table, then up again, remembering where he was. The young waitress stood next to him with a pencil and pad of paper.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know that you were lost in thought,” Alice said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Interrupt? No, that’s okay. I need to quit doing that. Now what did you say?”

“What would you like to order?”

Lance looked down at the menu and saw the Trucker Special in big bold letters. Only $5.95. “I’ll have the Trucker Special.”

Alice looked at him quizzically. “Okay, but if you don’t mind me saying, you don’t look like a man who would eat that type of meal.”

“You’re right,” he smiled. “I’m doing a lot of things today I don’t usually do.”

Alice wrote down the order and started walking off. “And a large glass of orange juice, please.” Lance called after her.

Alice nodded her head.

Lance took a sip of his coffee. For a small town restaurant, the coffee was quite good. Too strong for him, since this was the first cup he’d had in over twenty years, but good. He added a bit of cream. Evaporated milk was what his grandfather had put in his coffee. Not when they were out, but when he was at home. Lance remembered the white and red can covered with aluminum foil always in the corner of the refrigerator.

Two old men walked in from a different set of doors and sat opposite of each other without saying a word. Alice walked over to them, poured them each a cup of coffee, and wrote on her order pad. Not a word was exchanged.

“Regulars, I guess.” Lance thought to himself.

One of the old men noticed Lance looking their way. Lance smiled and gave a nod. The old man said something and his friend turned to look at Lance. Again, Lance smiled and nodded his head. The old men lost interest and turned back to face each other silently.

“Sorry to surprise you men,” Lance thought.

Lance remembered his grandfather telling him that he still went to the old diner with his friends. Every Sunday morning, just like he used to do with Lance before he’d gone away to college. So long ago.

Lance looked around the café and noticed little knick-knacks on the wall like you would see in an old 1950’s movie. Lance could not remember the last time he had seen a movie. His eyes traveled past the knick-knacks to a picture of a man sitting by a black bear. He held the bear’s head up with one hand and cradled a bow in the other. Lance grinned. Somebody must be a hunter. In a different life he and that man might have hunted together.

1982 (or thereabouts)

“Okay son,” the coach looked over the certificates and smiled up at him. “You say you want to join the archery club. I see you have won quite a few competitions.”

Lance smiled, “My grandfather loves to shoot a bow. One day, when he can spare the time off work, we plan to go bear hunting.”

“Hmmmm…” the coach shook his head. “Look, I’m sorry son, but you’re a freshman and you haven’t taken my class yet… I wish I could do something for you, but rules are rules.”

Lance looked sadly at the bows hung neatly on the wall, “I was afraid you would say that. Next year maybe?”

“Maybe,” the coach patted him on the shoulder. “Sign up for my course.”

Lance started to walk away. He felt hurt, but knew there was no reason for it. He was just feeling lost. He didn’t know anyone yet. That’s all. He’d meet people in his classes. Still, archery was one thing he knew he was good at. This other stuff, he wasn’t so sure.

A kid about his age with black hair ran up to the coach. “Coach… Coach… I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we take him out to the range and if he is as good as us or better, you let him on the team? You can get his P.E. class changed to yours.”

Lance stopped walking. His ears perked up hopefully, like a fox listening to the call of a guinea hen separated from her pack.

“Housener, you know I can’t do that. Class schedules are already set. Besides, he’s a freshman.”

“Coach. We lost Dead Shot when he graduated and Long Bow started his residency this year. So he will be at the hospital all the time.”

The coach thought for a moment. “Alright, we’ll try him. But if he does well and I let him join, he’s your responsibility. Got me?”

“Alright,” Housener hooted and walked over to Lance. “You heard the man! You’ve got one shot. I’m Paul Housener, by the way.”

“Lance Corporal,” Lance smiled. “Good to meet you.”

Paul Housener leaned over and whispered, “You fuck this up and you’re a dead man, Lance.”

Lance nodded and thought, “Great. First day here and I have either made a friend for life or a mortal enemy.”

The coach grabbed one of the new composite bows with pulls and weights.

“No…. Coach if he wants to be on the team he must do it the hard way, give him one of the old style composite bows.”

The coach shrugged and handed Lance one of the old style bows and some graphite arrows.

“You don’t have any with a wood shaft?” Lance asked.

Housener looked at Lance questioningly, “It’s your funeral.”

The three of them walked out to the range. They stepped up to the pad twenty-five feet from the target. Lance aimed and shot, hitting in the red zone.

“That was only twenty-five feet,” said the coach. “Let’s see what you can do at 50.”

Lance stepped out to fifty feet and shot again. Once again it landed in the red zone. Then 75 and 100. His final shot was at 300 feet.

The coach shook his head. “I don’t think that bow can reach a target that far out.”

“Let him try, Coach,” Housener was clearly excited and impressed.

Lance pulled the arrow back, angled it high in the air, and shot. The arrow seemed to hang in the air a long time, but when it hit, it was in the red zone.

The coach’s mouth dropped wide open. Lance smiled.

“How did you do that?” Housener asked.

“I’m used to the old bows and the wood shaft arrows. They’re all my grandfather would let me use. I started shooting when I was six.”

“Well?” Housener asked, nudging the coach.

The coach laughed, “Alright he’s on the team.”

The coach walked off shaking his head. The boys could tell he was smiling.