Happiness is a Warm Gun
Author: - Lisa Paris
Part Four
So, this was Don Eppes's old bedroom. No kidding. If someone had abducted him at random, placed him in here and asked him to guess, it would have taken him all of three seconds to come up with the right answer. Baseball pennants and yet more books. Muted, mossy colours. Everything neat, almost obsessively orderly, just like the man himself.
Good. Edgerton looked around him with approval. He could feel his muscles starting to relax. It was the sort of uncluttered space he could deal with – somewhere he could clear his head. Kinda like the way he opted to live his own life, on highly disciplined, methodical lines. A place for everything, and everything in its place. The old adage could have been written for him. He needed to know that when he stretched out his arm, he could lay his hand on whatever he wanted. That sort of security had saved his life on more than one tricky occasion.
Gone to ground, on the run, alone behind enemy lines. Dependant on guile and skill to survive. No place for inefficiency – inefficiency could cost him his life.
He'd caught a glimpse of what must be the Prof's room as they'd walked along the landing. One of the doors had been slightly ajar and Edgerton had shuddered slightly. An un-made bed and a clothes-strewn floor, hap-hazardly scattered stacks of papers. It was unstructured and crazily chaotic – his first impression of the man himself. But first impressions could be deceptive, and he'd since revised that opinion. The Prof might look and dress like a reject from a rummage sale, but his mind worked on crisp, concise lines.
He sat down on the edge of the symmetrically made bed, and set out his small case in front of him, lining up the rows of numbers until both tumbler locks clicked open. A bag of toiletries and a change of clothes, ironed and folded neatly with precision. Edgerton ignored these items and withdrew an olive green canvas roll.
He undid the ties with a flood of relief - a combination of endorphins and dopamine. Only now, within the confines of Don Eppes's austere bedroom, did he realise how pent-up he'd been. This was how an alcoholic must feel when he unscrewed the lid off the bottle, or maybe even an addict, when he held his next fix in his hand.
Edgerton took the rifle out of its case and laid it carefully down on the counterpane. He made sure she was unloaded – God, he could do this in his sleep. Such a basic rule, it went without saying, and yet, the cause of most firearm accidents. It usually happened to the gun-toting public – a pro always respected his weapon.
There was an angle poise reading light next to the bed. He switched it on, and tilted the shade, until the beam of light shone exactly where he wanted. His hand brushed a book on the nightstand and he paused to examine the title.
The Book of Mercy, by Leonard Cohen. Edgerton picked it up and shook his head. For all their inescapable predictability, sometimes, people never ceased to surprise him. So, Don Eppes was into the spiritual – it was a side he kept hidden well. He'd always known the man was intensely private but this was something he hadn't suspected. Cohen's interpretation of the psalms was both esoteric and poetic. Underneath the terse and direct manner, Eppes was a real dark horse.
Funny, if he'd been asked to say which one of the brothers would be more into exploring the mystical, Edgerton wouldn't have thought twice about it. Almost without thinking, he would have chosen the Prof.
He pondered it a little harder, and with hindsight, the muddy waters became clearer. The Prof was firmly rooted in the logical – as an intellectual, it made a lot of sense. All his beliefs would be provable and resolutely based on reason. In spite of his bohemian appearance, the Prof was a mathematician through and through. His whole life was based on calculation. On the configuration of numbers. Hell, Edgerton was prepared to wager on it, he probably used some kind of algorithm even when he was having sex. He winced and shook his head with a grin – the Prof and sex - now that was seriously disturbing. All these genius, crazy hoodoo Professor-types, did they even know what sex was?
It must be nice to be so black and white. To be able to see things so clearly. There was a scientific explanation for everything.
If there wasn't, it simply hadn't been worked out yet.
His own life was shrouded in shades of grey. Submerged in blemished and flawed morality. This was why he fought to keep his head together – why he lived such a tightly ordered life. The answer had to remain the same. There was no room for doubts or uncertainties. There was only one ethos behind what he did, no matter who the target. Always the same set of values, in-spite of the nature of the job. He was a sniper, not a random killer, nor a sanctioned, government assassin. He was a trained and highly skilled hunter.
He was working for the greater good.
It only took him a minute or two to set out all his equipment. He worked with practise and quick precision – this was what his fingers had been itching for ever since he'd finished the shoot. Bottles of bore cleaning solvent and gun oil, a roll of fine gauge steel wool. Some carbon-fibre cleaning rods and patch holders, all made of top quality brass. There was a selection of varying brushes – the purest bristle, of course – a tube of metal polish and a packet of soft, cleaning swabs. He replaced the gun down on a protective cloth, one of the Eppes's fluffy guest towels.
Only the best for his baby – only the best for his girl.
He removed the bolt from the rifle and screwed the scope covers on. Then he inspected the bore for dirt and residue by holding it up to the light. Edgerton worked through the familiar procedure and felt the tension seeping out of his muscles. The day's build-up of pressure started to fade as his mind and his body relaxed.
The customary ritual and rhythmic movements were soporific and soothing. Cool metal and velvety smoothness of wood – calming, almost sensual to the touch. He screwed the lids back on the bottles without wasting a single drop. He even liked the smell of the solvents. Did that make him some kind of weird junkie? The aphrodisiac scent of Hoppe's gun oil – more potent than Chanel No.5.
Finished. He exhaled slowly, and began to reassemble the rifle. The world seemed to steady about him, at long last, he felt more centred. So enmeshed in the hypnotic pull of it, he almost missed the knock on his door. There was only one person it could be and the Prof didn't wait for an answer. He came awkwardly into the bedroom carrying a couple of beers.
"Um, I thought you might be ready for one of these. Don always . . ." Charlie stopped, and Edgerton tracked his gaze to the reassembled rifle on the bed.
"Had to clean it. Knew you wouldn't mind," Edgerton continued clearing up his equipment. He quickly flipped open the gun case and stashed the rifle carefully inside.
"Is it the gun?" Charlie stared as if mesmerised. "Of course it is - what was I thinking?" He took a step or two closer. "It's the gun you used to save Don."
"Yeah."
Edgerton felt slightly uncomfortable all over again. He shifted back against the headboard. Obviously, the Prof had an issue with this. He looked shell-shocked, a whiter shade of pale. He shouldn't have come – the doubts surfaced again. A man like him didn't belong here. Nope – he should have listened to his instincts. Edgerton gave a small sigh.
What the hell – he really wanted that beer.
Maybe it was time to jolly Charlie along – to try and inject a little humour? He gestured across to the gun case. "Take a look. It's a gun, not a ghost."
The Prof gave him a 'very funny' look but came across to the bedside nonetheless. He handed him the beer in silence and stared down at the quiescent weapon. "You know, I still don't believe in them. I stand by what I said to you that day. And yet, I'm fully aware that my brother relies on them – I guess the gun's the tool of his trade."
"Is it?" Edgerton watched as the Prof ran his hand down the stock, admiring the satiny wood. "Now, maybe if you'd said that about me, I'd understand it. But your brother? Well, I'd have to disagree."
Charlie cocked his head thoughtfully. "I'm not saying Don's gung-ho or anything. Quite the opposite, in-fact. I know it always really bothers him if he actually has to shoot at a person."
Edgerton was silent for a moment, remembering the Crystal Hoyle business. Eppes had pulled the fatal trigger (a damned fine shot) and he hadn't appeared bothered that day. But it hadn't exactly been run of the mill - the whole affair had turned into a crock. Eppes had been running on high octane and it had caused some awkwardness between them. Subsequently, he'd heard through the grapevine that Eppes had been called to account. Didn't take a genius to guess the upshot – a hot date with Psych 101.
"It should bother anyone to shoot at a person." Edgerton spoke matter-of-factly. "But unfortunately, it doesn't. Not in the sick world we live in, and that's why your brother needs a gun."
"Does it bother you?"
What the hell kinda question was that? Edgerton looked up sharply. He bit back the urge to tell the Prof to go fuck himself and choked it down with his beer.
"I'm sorry." The apology came out in a rush. "I had no right to ask you that question."
"No." Edgerton agreed with him. "You didn't. And I sure as hell don't have to answer it."
He tilted his head and finished off his beer in a single, open-throated swallow. It helped cool the buzz of anger which had flared somewhere in his gut. He thought about Eppes growing up with this – the constant questions musta drove the guy crazy. The Prof was a curious mixture of genius and ingenuous child. And now the guy was looking at him like some kinda wounded puppy. Like it was his fault for getting pissed off with him – no wonder Eppes had left home.
"Look," he found himself saying. "The psycho who hurt Don – he'd already sliced up his own family and he was sure as hell wasn't going to stop there. When your brother made the hostage exchange, he knew I'd be taking the drop shot . . ."
"Wait," the Prof stopped him mid-flow. "You're saying Don offered to become a hostage? That he – he took the place of someone else?"
Crap. Edgerton took one look at the Prof's face and knew he was up to his neck in it. It was painfully, patently obvious, that Charlie didn't know. Of course, Eppes wouldn't have told him. Wouldn't have wanted him to fret about his safety. And his need to protect his baby brother must have washed off on the rest of his team.
"It's his job."
He was being intentionally brutal. This was something the Prof should hear. He knew, with a quick flash of insight, that Charlie probably had very little idea. He only saw what Don wanted him to see – only heard what Don wanted him to hear. For all his work for the Bureau and other agencies – he was still intellectually cosseted. Sheltered from harsh reality and cushioned from the cutting edge.
Edgerton felt something run down his spine. Not dissimilar to a trickle of cold water. He was seeing the world through Eppes's eyes again – experiencing his fears and emotions. Charlie's brain was outstanding, he was undoubtedly a genius, but he probably walked a very fine line between giving advice and being used. And, of course, Eppes knew this. It was why he was so protective - and why he would walk a mile through fire to shield the Prof from any abuse.
A gift like Charlie's was a double-edged sword. Open to such wonderful possibilities. In the right hands, it could be used for good, for the benefit and knowledge of mankind. But it should also come with a warning – a big, fat, danger sign. Genius could be manipulated. It could be twisted around and exploited. Men and women as smart as the Prof tended to live in ivory towers. Art for art's sake – knowledge for knowledge's sake – it was all well and beautiful in theory. But it was the men behind the scenes who pulled all the strings.
With knowledge came an increase in power.
He looked at Charlie's face and sighed. The Prof looked stunned and even more miserable. There was no sign of the genius now; he seemed lost and just a little bewildered. Of course, when it boiled down to it, that was exactly what he was. Scared, and feeling out of his depth. Terrified for his brother's life.
"Come on," Edgerton peeled himself off the bed in a single, fluid movement. It was time to change the subject and get the Prof some food before he faded. "It's getting late and it's time we ate. I'm thinking pizza, I'm thinking more beer. So, come on, Professor, make the most of it. I'm on company time and expenses."
Just who was looking after whom? Edgerton smiled ruefully. It occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, he was a chaperon rather than a guest. The thought gave him a twitch of amusement. Oh, yeah, Don Eppes was gonna love this. It was kinda like leaving Little Red Riding Hood alone with the Big Bad Wolf.
Eppes. He sobered immediately. Eppes was the real reason he was here. Couldn't get the hind-drop and the knife jerked forward. And Don Eppes was still fighting for his life.
TBC
The 'it's a gun, not a ghost,' reference comes from 'Sniper Zero' where Charlie tells Edgerton he doesn't believe in guns and Edgerton responds with the ghost crack.