We came to accept women at the range about ten years ago. There never were many there: Alice came usually with her husband, Carl; Mrs. Dagliesh still comes about once a month even though her husband Claude passed. Ms Laura Fletcher is a regular every Thursday evening – most of us think she’s lesbian. The other regular Thursday lady is Diane Moore. She’s a head shrinker… like a psychologist or psychiatrist or something. I don’t know the difference. She’s divorced from a Marine officer who got her interested in shooting.
I admit I was interested in her. So was every other single guy in the club, but all of us were a bit afraid to speak to her. We’re just a bunch of country boys, y’know, and none of us talks classy like Diane does. I can call her Diane ‘cause I went on a date with her.
I was afraid to hit on her, just like the others. I guess I just wanted to know her more than any other guy. Then Frankie, at work, pointed out that it won’t kill me to ask her. What’s the worst that could happen? Would she pull out her Colt .45 and blow your face off? Not likely, but she might get me from a long ways away with her Winchester. I’ve watched her score at the range, and she’s really too good. She shames me.
Something told me she was using target practice for more than relaxation. I just had a hunch that she might be up to something. That’s part of the reason why I went after her, sort of. I wanted to see if she was up to no good. She drove a BMW to the club, so I expected she’d have dough, but when she invited me back to her place I almost flipped. It’s a big house on the edge of the bluff overlooking the lake. It’s completely surrounded by dense forest. Diane said she bought up all the surrounding acreage to assure she’ll never have objectionable neighbours.
I asked her one time why she wanted to be so perfect with her weapons, since she never entered competitions. Without any change in her face, she simply sipped her coffee and said, “There are some people that need to be killed”.