Twice Bitten, Once Shy: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective #5

Chapter 20

Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. If the blast from that .22 packed enough punch to blow an exit wound that severe in Aaron's face, it should throw back the same amount of force at the shooter. That little gun would've broken into bits.

That means that the Beretta Bobcat couldn't have been the gun that made the shot.

That also means if the shot took place on board the Curd Queen with a more powerful firearm, I should've heard it through the vent. I didn't, though.

What's the next most likely scenario? Well, the shoreline isn't that far away, and there's plenty of cover in the trees.

It's possible, using a silencer or suppressor or whatever they're called, that the shot would've been both powerful enough and quiet enough to get the job done discreetly.

That suggests three things.

First, the murder was premediated. There was a plan. The ladder stand confirms it. I've never built a ladder stand, but it must take a good amount of time to haul the equipment into the woods, find the right tree, build the stand, and wait for the shot. Maybe Glenn followed the Curd Queen's route, and then put up the ladder stand? It wouldn't be too hard to follow the boat. Rivers only have two directions: upstream and downstream. Then again, he might've built the stand and waited.

Second, Aaron got himself into some serious shit. Not that I'm complaining about the outcome, but there's something more happening here.

Third, the shooter—Glenn, in this case—stuck around after the kill shot. He's not done yet.

And now he knows that I know he's here.

Fuck.

"The last time we talked, do you know what you did?" Glenn says from the top of the ladder stand.

Yes.

"To you or someone else?" Zandra says, thinking back to Gene Carey's untimely—or not—demise.

Glenn chuckles. "The scars thing. You fooled me twice, but that last time really sucked."

Zandra holds the pack of cigarettes out toward Glenn. She gives them a wiggle and says, "You want to come down and talk about it?"

"There's no way I'm letting you near me. Not this time."

"Good. I'm not feeling generous."

The rustle of a squirrel twisting itself along a branch jolts Zandra's nerves. The squirrel corkscrews itself through the leaves and jumps onto the platform at Glenn's feet. It leaps away just as quickly, as if the platform burned its feet.

"Aaron's spirit told me I'd find you here," Zandra says. "Whatever is going on, child, you might as well tell me. It's all going to come out the next time I make contact with him."

Zandra can see Glenn shake his head, despite the camo coverage.

"Nope. No. Stop. You're not going to mindfuck me, not this time," Glenn says.

"How about I tell you what Aaron told me after he died, child," Zandra says and puts the pack of cigarettes away. Lawnmower knife still in hand, she shuffles toward the maple tree until she's a few feet away from the ladder.

"What are you doing?" Glenn says.

A scope magnifies. It must be difficult to sight a target at this close of a range. If he's going to shoot me, my odds of a miss are better off if I'm closer, not farther.

The close distance also gives Zandra a chance to see the gear Glenn packed but didn't bring up the ladder, as well as the debris he dropped from above. A camo backpack rests beneath a blanket of empty water bottles and beef jerky wrappers. A sleeping bag sits beside the backpack.

Interesting.

Zandra turns away from the ladder stand, sheaths the knife, and starts walking. The brush tugs at her purple gown. She stops to pull a few fingers of vines away.

"Where are you going?" Glenn says.

"Fuck off, Glenn," Zandra says.

"What?"

"That's what Aaron's spirit told me to tell you," Zandra says. "And now I'm telling you the same thing."

Glenn stands and points the rifle at Zandra. Now that he's more exposed, Zandra can make out a thick, black cylinder screwed into the end of the barrel.

I wonder what that is.

"You know in the movies when someone uses a silencer, it's super quiet?" Glenn says.

Oh. That's what that is.

"Sure," Zandra says. She stays in place despite the threat.

"It's not actually that quiet, and it's not called a silencer. It's a suppressor. It suppresses noise," Glenn says. "A suppressor traps the gas that's released from the explosion of propellant, because it's the gas that makes the noise. Even the best suppressors, like this one, can't trap 100 percent of the gas. Even if they did, the bullet would break the sound barrier."

"And why do I need to know this?" Zandra says.

"Shut up and listen for a second. I know my shit, Zandra," Glenn says. He's not hunched behind the scope, but he does use perfect posture to keep the barrel aimed at Zandra. "I also know that one way around the bullet breaking the sound barrier is to use sub-sonic ammunition. You know what sub-sonic means?"

"Yeah," Zandra says, sounding bored.

It must get lonely sitting in that tree day and night. He's probably only had the squirrel to talk to.

"That means the bullet doesn't travel faster than the speed of sound. So between a high-quality suppressor and sub-sonic ammunition, just about all anyone would hear is the click of the firing pin when the shooter pulls the trigger," Glenn says. "The trade-off is that a suppressor can affect the ballistics unless you're thoroughly familiar with the set up. Sub-sonic ammunition doesn't shoot as flat, either. You've got to compensate, because that lead fucker drops. If you're someone who needs to stick a perfect shot, you've got to be good with your gun. Really fucking good."

And even the squirrel ran away.

"Are you going to shoot me now or can I leave?" Zandra says.

"I just think you should keep that in mind," Glenn says.

"Thanks. I will," Zandra says.

Glenn lowers the rifle. "Go back to the boat. Do whatever it is you're there to do. I'm only going to tell you this once: leave this Aaron thing alone. Just go with the flow. You'll be a lot better off."

And how does one exactly "go with the flow" of a murder?

"As I was saying, Glenn: fuck off," Zandra says and resumes walking back toward the shore.

I've got what I needed. It's clear what needs to happen next.

Back on the thin strip of beach, Zandra reseals the cigarettes and slips on the lifejacket. She spots Chad on the Curd Queen and "gives the signal."

"Hey, fuck stick. Reel me in," Zandra says, her hands cupped around her mouth.

Chad looks around like Zandra's words blew past on an airplane. He points a finger at his bony chest and mouths, "Me?"

"Yes, this is the signal," Zandra says.

Chad nods and starts pulling. It's too fast for Zandra's feet. She goes face first into the Wisconsin River in a waterspout of profanity.

Chad's pace is the least of her troubles. Halfway back to the Curd Queen, the rope breaks.

Shit.