Cold Blood Read Online Free Page A

aimed the barrel over the orange saucer and swung to the right, getting ahead of it. She counted to three in her head and squeezed the trigger. The disk exploded into a black cloud.
    â€œNice hit,” said her shooting partner. The crack of other guns and the smell of gunpowder warmed the cold fall air. A busy Saturday at the range.
    â€œYour turn,” she said.
    â€œPull!” he said. His pigeon flew to the left and seemed to hang in midair for a moment, as if caught in an updraft. He pointed the barrel over the target and squeezed. The shot nicked off a sliver of orange and the rest of the disk fell to the ground. “Finally. A hit,” he said.
    â€œBarely,” mumbled the teenage boy behind them. He was sitting in a chair keeping score. He ran the trap by pushing a button on a box he held in his palm. An extension cord connected the box to the concrete bunker that expelled the clays.
    The man looked over his shoulder. “What’d you say, kid? Working on your tip?”
    The boy grinned and started to say something, but it was lost in the rattle and whistle of a train crossing the nearby tracks.
    â€œA chip’s still a hit,” the woman said over the noise. She slipped a shell into the chamber and pumped it forward. “Pull,” she said. Another throw to the right. She started the barrel pointing behind the pigeon and swung it smoothly ahead until it was past the disk before squeezing the trigger. It shattered; another square hit.
    The man slid a shell into the chamber, pumped and raised his shotgun. “Pull.” He followed the target with the barrel. He closed his right eye and squeezed the trigger. A miss.
    â€œLost,” said the scorer.
    â€œWhat am I doing wrong here, Paris?”
    She took off her safety glasses and shoved them into the pocket of her shooting vest. “First off, are you shutting one of your eyes?”
    â€œYeah. Sometimes.”
    â€œDon’t. This is a shotgun, not a rifle.” She pulled out her earplugs.
    â€œOkay,” he said. “What else?”
    Paris Murphy walked over to the gun rack behind the teenager, leaned her gun against it and went over to her husband. A gust of wind rattled the trees on either side of the range and sent more leaves floating to the ground. Murphy regretted leaving her gloves at home and tucked her numb hands under her armpits.
    â€œYou’re behind the pigeon when you should be in front of it.” She stood behind him. Jack Ramier was tall, but his wife nearly matched his height. She was slender, with a narrow waist and hips, but had large breasts and a runner’s well-defined legs. She had long black hair, violet eyes framed by thick lashes and olive skin—traits from her Lebanese mother and Irish father. Her complexion was flawless except for a crescent moon scar on her forehead—a souvenir from her job as a St. Paul Homicide detective.
    â€œAnd your form is all wrong,” she said. She bumped the back of his legs with her knee. “Bend those knees, Jack. Relax. You’re not performing surgery.” Jack was an emergency room doctor at Regions Hospital downtown. “Put your left foot slightly forward. Keep your feet shoulder-width apart.” She put her hands on his hips. “Lean forward a little at the waist.”
    â€œYou’re getting me hot, wife.”
    â€œNot in front of the kid.”
    â€œThis isn’t fair. You handle a gun all day long.”
    â€œStays in my purse ninety-nine percent of the time.”
    â€œYou’ve had training.”
    â€œI’ve given you training.”
    â€œI’ll say you have.” He turned and winked at her. He had curly brown hair and brown eyes that never failed to get her attention.
    â€œWatch that muzzle control,” she said lowly. “Wouldn’t want your gun going off prematurely. Save something for tonight.”
    â€œI got plenty of ammo,” he said, and they both