“We’re not going to be able to have a conversation wearing ear protection,” I said.

“That’s the plan, Stan.”

“Come on, Jewett. I just want to ask some questions, and then I’ll leave you alone to take out your anger at humanity at your paper people. This can all be over in ten minutes.”

“Paper people?” The turn of phrase provoked an actual smile from him. “I’ll give you your interview—but only after we each take a turn. I want to see how poorly you wardens are trained.”

He removed a military surplus ammo can from the locker and dropped it at my feet. The metal rattle of loose rounds rose from the container. “You guys still use .357 SIG cartridges, right?”

“Yes.”

“Figures the state would pay extra for the most expensive, least necessary caliber out there.”

Inside the can I found loose frangible rounds, designed to reduce ricochets. This kind of ammo was standard issue at shooting ranges.

I couldn’t recall what the regulations were for the use of a service weapon in this situation. We were certainly permitted to practice with our guns as needed. And if it was necessary to get Jewett to speak with me, I doubted Colonel DeFord would mind my taking a turn with the targets. In truth, I’d always enjoyed shooting and wanted to disprove Jewett’s low opinion of me.

While Jewett attached a paper target to one of the retrievers and sent it whirring to the back of the barn, I unloaded one of the mags in my pocket and reloaded with his cartridges. The target was printed with a vaguely human silhouette. You scored extra points for head shots and bull’s-eyeing the center mass.

I barely had a chance to get my noise-canceling headset on before Jewett drew his pistol from the holster. The Glock 17 comes with a magazine that holds seventeen 9 x 19 mm Parabellum rounds (hence the name). Jewett’s shooting technique was the old-school power isosceles stance; he stood with his legs apart, his arms extended, making himself a human triangle.

Hot cartridges bounced down and rolled around the floor. Blue smoke wafted at me. As it cleared, I saw that he had shredded the heart out of the target. And he’d put one in the forehead in case I hadn’t gotten the message. Bruce Jewett was a deadeye marksman.

But I was too pissed to compliment his shooting. “You were supposed to tell me the range was hot,” I said, meaning that he had a pistol ready to fire.

“Oops.”

He hit a button and the paper target trolled back to us. Up close, his clustering was even more impressive. He’d brought me here to show that his skills were superior to mine. Insecure men were always quick to engage you in a topic or pursuit where they held an advantage. They needed these dominance displays to bolster their fragile egos.