"I'm concerned. She was so strong just two weeks ago."

"Her bouts are like this." Cherry shrugged. "Mom just doesn't bounce back like she used to."

Avery lowered her gaze. Cherry held a gun, some sort of revolver. She returned her gaze to the other woman's. "Not to be too nosy, but why the-"

"Gun? I'm heading out to the practice range."

"The practice range?" Avery repeated, surprised. Girls in rural Louisiana grew up around hunting and guns, though they were less likely to know how to use one than to bake a peach pie from scratch. "You shoot?"

"Are you kidding? With Matt and Dad as role models? How about you?"

"I'm a bunny-hugging pacifist."

"You want to come along anyway?"

"Why not?"

Avery followed Cherry into her father's study. His gun closet stood open. It held no less than a dozen

guns and rifles. Cherry helped herself to a box of bullets, closed and locked the closet. She slipped the key into her pocket, fitted her revolver in its case and snapped it shut.

"Ready?" She nodded and they headed out, Avery following in her own car. The gun ranges was actually a cleared field ten miles outside of town, not far from the road to the canning factory. On the edge of the field sat a dilapidated chicken coop and three bales of straw,. each set a dozen feet apart, standing on end. The land looked what it was: abandoned and overgrown.

They climbed out of their cars. "This was part of the Weiners' farm, wasn't it?" Avery asked.

"Yup. Sold the whole thing to Old Dixie Foods. Moved up to Jackson."

Avery wrinkled her nose. "What's that smell?"

"The canning factory. Wind's just right for it today." Cherry opened the gun case, took out the gun and

began to load it. "Give it a minute, you get accustomed to the smell."

Avery had a hard time believing that. "What kind of gun is it?"

"Ruger .357 Magnum with a six-inch barrel."

"The Dirty Harry gun, right? From the films?"

"Close. Detective Harry Callahan carried the .44 Magnum." She laughed. "Even I don't need that much

firepower."

Avery watched as Cherry slid six bullets into the chamber, then snapped it shut. "What do you shoot at?"

she asked.

"Whatever. The chicken coop, tin cans, bottles. Dad has a hand-operated skeet thrower, sometimes we

shoot skeet. For that we use a hunting rifle or shotgun."

To that end she popped open her trunk and took out a cardboard box filled with tin cans. While Avery watched, she crossed the field and set the cans on top of the straw bales and along the chicken coop's window ledges and roof.

She jogged back. She checked her gun, aimed and fired, repeating the process six times. The cans flew.

She missed the last and swore.

She glanced at Avery. "I heard what you asked Mom about. That old group, the CWC."

"Do you remember it?"

"Sure. I remember everything about that time."

Avery frowned. "It's so weird, because I don't."

Cherry reloaded the revolver's chamber. "That's not so weird. My family's the reason I remember so clearly."

"It was a rough time, your dad said."

"Rough would be an understatement."

She fell silent a moment, as if lost in her own thoughts. In memories of that time.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Shoot." Cherry grinned. "Sorry, I couldn't help myself."

"Did you know Elaine St. Claire?"

"Who?"

"The woman who was murdered."

Cherry sighted her mark. She pulled the trigger. The bullet exploded from the gun. She repeated the

process five more times, then looked at Avery. "Only by reputation."

"What do you mean?"

Cherry cocked an eyebrow. "Come on, Avery. By reputation. She'd seen more mattresses than the guy

down at the Sealy Bedding Barn."

Avery made a sound of shock. "The woman's dead, Cherry. It seems so callous to talk about her that way."

"I'm being honest. Should I lie just because she's dead? That would make me a hypocrite."

"Ever hear the saying 'Live and let live'?"

"That's big-city crapola, propagated by those intent on maintaining status quo and contentment of the

masses. You have to live with the bottom-feeders."

"And you don't?"

She looked at Avery, expression perplexed. "No, we don't. This is Cypress Springs not New Orleans."

"You're saying Elaine St. Claire got what she deserved? That you're glad she's dead?"

"Of course not." She flipped open the .357's chamber, reloaded, then snapped it shut. "Nobody deserves

that. But am I sorry she's not spreading her legs for every dick in town, no I'm not."

Avery gasped; Cherry's smile turned sly. "I've shocked you."

"I didn't think Matt's little sister could talk that way."

"There's a lot you don't know about me, Avery."

"Sounds ominous."

She laughed. "Not at all. You've been gone a long time, that's all." Without waiting for a response, she

sighted her tin prey and fired. One shot after another, ripping off six. Hitting her target each time.

Avery watched her, both surprised and awed by her ability. Un-nerved by it as well. Particularly in light

of their conversation. She shifted her gaze to Cherry's arms, noticing how cut they were. The way her biceps bulged as she gripped the gun, how she hardly recoiled when it discharged.

She'd never noticed what good shape the other woman was in. How strong she was. How strongly built.

Avery supposed that was because compared to her, everybody looked big.

Truth was, she'd always thought of Cherry as a girlie-girl, like Lilah. And like her own mother had been.

Avery had been the tomboy. The one who hadn't quite fit the mold of Southern womanhood. And now here was Cherry, all buff and macho, blasting the crap out of tin cans.

Cherry reloaded, turned and offered the gun to Avery, grip out. "Want to give it a try?"

Avery hesitated. She disliked guns. Was one of those folks who thought the world would be a better

place if every weapon on the planet was collected and destroyed and people were forced to sit across a table from one another and work out their differences. Maybe over a latte or caffe mocha.

Cherry's smug grin had her reaching for the gun. "Okay," she said grimly, "walk me through this."

"It helps to plant your feet. Like this." Cherry demonstrated. "Wrap both hands around the grip. That's right," she said as Avery followed her directions.

"I feel like an idiot," Avery said. "Like an Arnold Schwarzenegger wannabe."

"I felt that way at first. You'll grow to like it."