Full Measure: A Novel by T. Jefferson Parker Page B

along three of the walls, heard the muffled gunfire. The handguns were arrayed beneath the glass, all pointing in the same direction, like fish in a school. A tall man with a big head and a black suit came in. Ted thought he might have seen him around Fallbrook recently, then decided it was just his guilty conscience. Then he thought, What should I feel guilty about? The Second Amendment protects my right to keep and bear arms.
    He looked through the safety window at the range shooters blasting away. There were several men, three women, and two children who, it seemed to Ted, should be in school. He watched them through the imperfectly clear bulletproof glass, their arms extended, all wearing goggles and bulbous headgear, guns jumping in their hands, shiny cases flying. He heard the pop-pop of smaller guns, then the booming thunderbolts of the Magnums. Through all the soundproofing, he thought. What power. With the glass before him it was like watching on a monitor or TV or through the windshield of his taxi, thus hypnotic. He wanted to polish the safety glass so he could see better.
    “May I help you?”
    “I hope so. I was robbed at gunpoint three days ago. I’m looking for a gun.”
    “I’m sorry that happened. I hear stories like that a lot these days. I can help you be better prepared for that kind of situation.”
    “I’m Ted.”
    “Kerry.”
    Kerry was about Ted’s age—assured, muscular, and friendly—and Ted wished he was more like him. Kerry gave him general advice on reliable, effective home-protection handguns and Ted liked the look of the Glocks. Kerry removed one of them, checked the chamber, popped out the magazine, and set the gun on the counter. He told Ted that you could run it over with a truck, dip it in mud, and hold it underwater, and a Glock would still fire every time. He praised the .40 caliber as a versatile round, plenty of stopping power and it would carry fifteen cartridges in the magazine. He handed the gun to Ted. “It’s like having your own fire squad,” Kerry said.
    “I sure could have used it a couple days back.”
    “Tell me what happened.”
    Ted did, feeling his anger and fear again, and his embarrassment at having been lured into the ambush.
    “That shouldn’t happen in this country,” said Kerry.
    “I’d like it not to happen to me again.”
    “We teach weapons self-defense classes, right here.”
    “I’ll take the gun.”
    “You do know if you decide to purchase, there’s a ten-day wait while the state does a background check on you?”
    “Right. So they can make sure I’m not a crazy.”
    “We offer a free test-fire if you’re serious about that sidearm. Have you fired a handgun before?”
    “No.”
    “I think you’ll like it.”
    Inside the range Ted watched Kerry fasten the Zombie Steve target to the motorized line and send it twenty feet out. At the bench he watched Kerry ready the autoloader. The headsets were comfortable and made the gunshots around him sound distant, but he could still feel the percussion in his body. Kerry stepped to the shooting stall with the gun, demonstrated the basic two-hand shooter’s stance: feet shoulder-wide, weight slightly forward, right elbow locked, left not, grip firm but not tight. Squeeze, he said, don’t pull. He fired one round. It took Ted a moment to find the hole, which was right through the middle of Zombie Steve’s grimacing face. Ted smiled. Kerry set the gun on the shelf and Ted stepped forward and picked it up.
    He listened to Kerry’s instructions and squeezed off a round. He was surprised at the power, and at the immediacy of the recoil. A gun was a decisive thing, he realized—nothing hesitant or reversible about it. It impressed him that it could reload itself so quickly, before the bullet got to the target, it seemed. Actually hitting the target was the hard part. Even at only twenty feet away, when he got the sights lined up, all it took was a split second to be aiming someplace else—the