Helen held the revolver in both hands and pointed it at the target’s forehead. Instinctively, she squeezed her left eye shut, and the index finger of her right hand hovered over the trigger until . . .

She fired without thinking. Once, twice. Three, four, five, six times. Then she lowered the .44 Magnum, whipped off her goggles, and walked forward until she could survey the results. The pattern wasn’t her best. Two shots between the eyes, a couple on the chin, one on the left temple, and one just under the left nostril. Still, she had hit the face six times from twenty-five yards out. Six kill shots, she thought, nodding her head in satisfaction. That was good shooting under anyone’s gauge.

She replaced the target sheet with a clean one and returned to her spot at the end of the range. At 8:00 p.m., she was the only person here, and in truth, the facility had been closed for almost an hour. But Doug Brinkley, the owner of the place, had been a friend ever since Helen’s days as a deputy in the sheriff’s office, and since he lived only a quarter mile from the range, he didn’t mind opening it for her.

“Big trial tomorrow, huh?” Doug had asked after turning the lights on and giving her several target sheets.

Helen nodded, anxious to burn the stress of the day off.

“Well, I hope you put that bastard under the jail,” Doug said. “I know what he’s done for the town, but I don’t like him. And I don’t trust anyone from New York City.”

The popular rumor was that Michael Zannick hailed from Manhattan, but his last address prior to Pulaski had actually been in Boston. Regardless, Helen didn’t correct her old friend. Instead, she simply said, “I’ll do my best.”

“Your best is usually more than enough,” Doug said before giving her the key. “Stay as long as you want and then lock up. You can put the key in my mailbox on your way out.”

Despite the anxiety she felt, she smiled, grateful for good people like Doug Brinkley whom she’d spent the last thirty years of her life earning the trust of.

What will Doug think if Butch drops the bomb tomorrow? Helen asked herself once she was alone in the facility. As she began to shoot—starting with twelve warm-up shots at three yards and gradually moving to twelve more at five, seven, ten, fifteen, and finally twenty-five yards before starting over at three again—more questions dogged her mind. Will he still unlock the shooting range for me after hours? Will he even vote for me in November? Could thirty years of goodwill be erased by one awful mistake? And then there was “the nut cutter,” as she so eloquently labeled the most critical question in any case.

Am I willing to find out?