“Andy, you’re disturbing the entire neighborhood.” She spoke with quiet calm. “Let’s go home.”

Brazil stared defiantly at her. “I want to make a difference.”

She nervously scanned their surroundings. “Believe me. You are.”

More lights turned on, and someone had come out on his porch to see what crazy person had wandered into his quiet neighborhood. Briddlewood had fled in his Cushman minutes earlier.

“Which is why we need to go,” West added, pulling Brazil along as they started walking back. “You want to help. Okay. Tell me what you have to contribute besides tantrums and words.”

“Maybe we could plant something in one of my stories to trick him.” He had an idea.

“I wish it were that simple,” she said, and she meant it. “And you’re assuming he reads the paper.”

“I bet he does.” Brazil wished she would have an open mind, as he flew through possibilities of what subliminal propaganda he might plant to ensnare this monster.

“The answer’s no. We don’t plant stories.”

Brazil hopped ahead again, excited. “Together we could get him! I know it.”

“What’s this together stuff?” West said. “You’re just a reporter. Hate to remind you of that fact.”

“I’m a volunteer cop,” he corrected her.

“Uh huh. The gunless wonder.”

“You could give me shooting lessons,” he then said. “My dad used to take me out to a dump in the country. . . .”

“He should have left you there,” she said.

“We’d shoot cans with his .38.”

“How old were you?” West asked when they were in Brazil’s driveway.

“Starting when I was seven, I think.” He had his hands in his pockets and was looking down as he walked, a streetlight lighting up his hair. “Seems like I was in the second grade.”

“I mean, when he died,” she gently said.

“Ten,” he said. “I had just turned ten.”

He stopped, and did not want West to leave. He didn’t want to go in and face the way he lived.

“I don’t have a gun,” he told her.

“Thank you, Jesus,” she said.

SEVEN

Days went by. West had no intention of furthering the cause of Andy Brazil. His problems were his own, and it was time he grew up. When the following Sunday rolled around and Raines was interested in brunch, she called Brazil because she was a certified firearms instructor. If he needed help, it was only fair that she offer. He said he could be ready in ten minutes. She told him that unless she flew the Concorde to Davidson, she would not be picking him up for at least an hour.

She drove her personal car for this, a Ford Explorer with dual airbags. It was a white sports utility vehicle with four-wheel drive that ate snow for a snack. She roared into his driveway at three P.M., and he was out the door before she could open hers. The obvious range would have been the one at the police academy, but this she could not do because volunteers were not allowed, nor were guests. West chose The Firing Line on Wilkinson Boulevard, just past Bob’s Pawn Shop, and a number of trailer parks, the Oakden Motel, Country City USA, and Coyote Joe’s.