Usually, this requires scopes, rangefinders, and some math. Speed and mass and wind resistance and barrel length all come into play.

  Or, you can do what I do, and wing it.

  After my small adjustment, I fired again, and the disc kicked up a plume of orange dust.

  “Son of a bitch,” Harry said. “I would have bet a fortune you couldn’t hit that.”

  “Yet another example of your fiscal irresponsibility,” I ejected the spent brass and loaded seven new rounds. “Launch one.”

  He sent one flying, I fired three times as it zoomed across the sky, missing all three. When it landed, I killed it.

  “Again.”

  McGlade pressed the pedal, and I fired twice, hitting it the second time.

  “Again.”

  He launched. I fired. I hit first try.

  “Jesus,” Harry said. “Want to try two at once?”

  I nodded. The gun, though heavy, was growing on me. I liked the trigger break, liked the slightly longer barrel, and liked packing seven rounds rather than six.

  McGlade launched two pigeons, one after the other.

  I fired three times, hitting both.

  Then he got sneaky and launched two at the same time.

  That took me four shots, but I nailed them.

  “Is it inappropriate that I’m getting aroused?” he said.

  “Extremely.”

  I loaded seven more, and Harry pressed the pedal seven times in a row.

  I got five out of seven.

  He did it again.

  Five out of seven.

  I unbunched my shoulders, took deeper, slower breaths, and blocked out the rest of my surroundings. When I used to do shooting competitions, I could get in the zone. Which meant I lapsed into a kind of tunnel vision, focusing entirely on the target, ignoring everything else around me. I couldn’t always hyper-focus like that, but when I could I felt like time slowed down, the firearm was an extension of my arm, and all sorts of other hippie Zen sports bullshit.

  “Once more,” I breathed.

  Harry let the seven fly.

  I shot seven down.

  When the orange dust settled, I became aware of eyes on me.

  Heckle and Jeckle were standing next to the Crimebago Deux, video camera in hand, filming my efforts.

  I went from Zen to Super Bitch in point two seconds, and began to stomp toward them.

  “J-Dawg, don’t kill my crew,” Harry said, coming up after me.

  “They were filming me. Taping me. Whatever it’s called with video.”

  “Shooting you,” Heckle said.

  “Do you want to see what my definition of shooting is?”

  I made an over-dramatic show of flipping out the cylinder with a wrist flick, smacking the ejector rod with my palm to free the spent casings, and reloading as I approached.

  “The video’s not live,” Harry was dragging the autofeed trap behind him, trying to keep up. “Tell her it’s not live.”

  “Chill, Super Cop Chick,” said Heckle. “Private Dick McDude is correctomundo. This is B-roll, not live.”

  “If we use it, we’ll blur it,” said Jeckle. “That’s the dealio.”

  I finished reloading, holstered the gun, and gave them both a don’t mess with me stare.

  Their return stares were empty. Dead. Like I was looking at storefront mannequins.

  “Here’s the new dealio,” I said. “Neither of you even think about pointing that camera at me until I say it’s okay. Got it?”

  Heckle and Jeckle exchanged one of their secret looks, then giggled in a way that I didn’t like.

  I wasn’t playing anymore, and I went full pissed-off cop and got into their personal space.

  “I asked you a question.”

  This time I didn’t get blank stares.

  I got hostile stares.

  I’d seen this look a hundred times before, on the faces of perps ready to do something very stupid.

  “Hey there,” Harry caught up. “Let’s deescalate. We’re all one big happy. No need to get weird.”

  The twins didn’t back down. Neither did I. McGlade managed to get between us, and he stared at the twins.

  “Answer her,” Harry told them.

  They looked at each other, and Heckle said. “No problem.”

  I focused on Jeckle.

  “No problem,” he said.

  I walked away, feeling eyes on my back.

  Next time I was alone with McGlade, I’d ask him some questions about the twins. In my head, they’d gone from being a nagging doubt to a full-blown concern.

  YEARS AGO

  TOM AND JERRY

  The satanic ritual was for show.

  They had black candles. A pentagram drawn on the floor. An altar, draped in a black sheet. Communion wafers, stolen from a local church along with a pint of holy water. A chalice of human blood, thanks to an unwilling homeless donor. And six dead animals; two of them toads, a cat, a squirrel, a puppy, and a stag the twins discovered in the woods, already dead. (The other five animals were alive when they found them.)

  They had it all set up in the attic, accompanied by the heaviest heavy metal music they could find, Venom, playing on jam box, burning incense, and strobe lights (which probably weren’t a traditional part of a black mass, but looked cool.)

  Everything was in place.

  All they needed was the maid.

  Since MotherBitch’s untimely, yet entirely warranted, flameywhiny demise, FatherAss had been having troubledouble performing his duties as a single parent, and had hired a live-in maid named Camila. She was fifty-something, bilingual, fiercely Catholic, and an all-around pain in the ass.

  Almost at first sight, Camila had treated Tom and Jerry like delinquents. Tattling to FatherAss every time they questioned her unearned authority. Throwing away a cache of Hustler magazines they’d stolen from the mall bookstore. Cooking shitty food. Acting all full of herself.

  But the line had truly been crossed when she walked in on the twins, showering together, engaged in behavior that was in no way related to cleanliness. FatherAss had whipped them both with a belt, leaving welts that lasted more than a week.

  Camila had to go.

  Going dark, Tom went to get the maid while Jerry hid behind the altar, wearing a mail-order devil mask.

  A few minutes later, Camila came stomping up the stairs, grumbling about niños malos.

  When she turned on the wall switch, it activated the strobe and the stereo, Venom’s Welcome to Hell playing at full volume just as Jerry popped up.

  Camila took a step back, crossed herself, then began to pray in Spanish as she hurried back toward the staircase.

  Tom was already on all fours, and Jerry sprinted over and pushed Camila, hard, over his twin on down the stairs.

  As they predicted, she hit face-first, then took several cartwheels down the steps until she landed in a bloody, moaning heap at the bottom.

  Camila was badly hurt. There was a lot of blood. One leg was at a wrong angle. She had something stuck in her back. But the bitch still had enough strength to crawl for the hallway, praying in rasps to her foreign god, casting panicked glances behind her as Tom and Jerry descended the staircase, mindful of the blood splotches.

  “We must figure out some way to kill her, Dear Tom, and still make it look like an accident.”

  “Truedoo, Dear Jerry. We could bash her head on the floor a few times until her brainybits come out.”

  “We’ll get blood on us, Dear Tom. Plus, the police have ways to figure out that sort of thing.”

  Camila began to beg for her life. The twins didn’t heed her.

  “She’s breathing really hard, Dear Jerry. See that thing stuck in her back?”

  “That, Dear Brother, is not sticking in her back. It’s stickywicking in her back. That’s a rib.”

  “A ribbyrib?”

  “A ribbyribrib. And it gives me an idea.”

  Shoes and socks off, Jerry stood, barefoot, on Camila’s back.

  Tom followed suit.

  “Don’t bounce,” Jerry warned. “We just want to suffocate her, not break anything else.”

  They held hands, Tom also touching the wall to keep balance, until Camila’s rasps turned to wheezes, and after several very entertaining minutes, a final, rattling gasp.

  The twins put on their socks and shoes, went back upstairs, carefully removed all traces of their poorly constructed black mass. Then, wearing gloves, they set Camila’s dustpan on the stairs, halfway down, and her broom at the attic entrance.

  Afterward, they located Camila’s sewing kit, then watched television in the living room until FatherAss came home from work.

  “Where’s Camila?” he asked upon entering, completely uninterested in their day.

  “Haven’t seen her,” said Tom.

  “Heard a noise upstairs a while ago,” said Jerry.

  FatherAss called the maid’s name a few times, cursed when he saw nothing had been prepared for dinner, cursed again at the twins for sitting in front of the television and rotting their brains, and then stomped upstairs.

  A few seconds later, he yelped.

  Tom and Jerry came running. Each clutched a straight pin.

  When they saw Camila’s corpse, they each jabbed it into their own hips.

  The pain brought moans, and tears, and then FatherAss shielded them from the sight and hurried them downstairs and told them to stay there while he called 911.

  The pins hurt. A lot. And the twins kept up the anguish by smacking one another in the hips until the police and paramedics came. When the cop took their statement, they were practically sobbing.

  Thankfully, the authorities left before the blood soaked through their jeans.

  Later that night, after Camila had been hauled away, FatherAss spoke to them.

  “Do either of you have anything you want to tell me?”

  Neither did.

  FatherAss never hired another live-in maid.

  HERB

  Tequila twitched, emitting a low moan.

  Herb felt his forehead. Some warmth was coming back.

  “Sally?” Tequila said.

  “No, brother. Just me.”

  Sally was Tequila’s sister. She’d died many years ago. A lifetime ago.

  Herb yawned, zoning out of sentry duty long enough to think about his own family. He didn’t have siblings. His parents were long gone. Other than his wife, Bernice, Jack Daniels was the closest thing Herb had to a relative. Jack was like a sister.

  And Tequila was the closest he had to a brother. Except for a brief bonding period with Jack’s old partner, an idiot named Harrison Harold McGlade.

  Strangely, like Jack, McGlade had been more or less a constant in Herb’s life. Harry was around for a lot of big cases. He invariably showed up at holiday parties. Herb has run into him, unintentionally, dozens of times over the decades.

  The man was a self-absorbed, obnoxious ass.

  But, perversely, Herb wished he had one more chance to hang out with him.

  And with Jack, of course.

  And Bernice.

  Thinking about Bernice was both medicine and poison. All of his time in captivity, good memories kept Herb going. At the same time, they were a source of terrible longing and pain. It was masochistic. Like imagining a pizza.

  Boy, would I kill for a pizza. Deep dish, extra everything, with a frosty mug of beer.

  Herb was serious, too.

  Well, mostly.

  Herb glanced at the naked corpses. Men he’d killed, not for pizza but for self-preservation, lying there and beginning to bloat in the noonday sun.

  Or maybe they weren’t bloating. Maybe that was in Herb’s head.

  It made him sick that he’d done it.

  Herb had killed before. In the line of duty. And this was practically the same thing. Self-defense, certainly. Plus, they were slavers.

  It still made Herb sick.

  “Herb?”

  “Right here, brother.”

  Tequila peeked open his eyes. “How long have I been out?”

  “A few hours. How you feel?”

  “Cold. Tired. Hungry. Injured.”

  “At least cold is a new one. Remember that conversation we had in Mexico? Trying to remember what ice felt like?”

  “Their clothes,” Tequila mumbled.

  Herb didn’t follow, then realized Tequila was talking about the guards.

  “Yeah.”

  “Smart. Nice work.”

  “Thanks,” Herb said, though it felt wrong to be complimented on his murder skills. “You warm enough to get going?”

  Tequila nodded. Herb got an arm under him, helping the shorter man to his feet.

  “Which way?” Herb asked.

  Tequila looked up at the sun—

  —then fell onto his face.

  Herb reached down again, shaking Tequila to get up, and then he heard the telltale buzz of another ATV.

  “Come on, brother. They’re coming. We gotta go.”

  “Leebeeee,” Tequila said. It came out soft as a sigh.

  “Tequila—”

  “Leave. Me.”

  Tequila looked just as dead as the naked corpses. He didn’t even open his eyes when Herb slapped him.

  But he wasn’t dead. He was still breathing. He still had a pulse.

  He still had a chance.

  “Please,” Herb said, getting frantic. “Please get up. I got lucky before. I can’t do it again. I need you.”

  “You… gotta go.”

  “I’m not leaving.”

  Tequila’s eyes fluttered. “I have to sit this round out, Herb. Go.”

  Herb looked at the ATV, rapidly approaching.

  Looked at Tequila.

  Looked at the ATV.

  Looked at Tequila.

  Herb played out the scenarios.

  He could fight back, maybe win again.

  Terrible odds on that.

  He could run off, and maybe they’d take Tequila, giving Herb a chance to get away.

  So-so odds.

  He could run off, they could see Tequila was helpless, and then kill him and still chase Herb.

  That seemed likely.

  Or he could stay with his friend, and help the guards take him back to the land train.

  The land train was certain death.

  But it was warm.

  And it was probably Tequila’s best chance at seeing tomorrow.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Tequila said. “Go.”

  Herb looked away from the ATV. Out into the country.

  Into freedom.

  Somewhere, maybe somewhere close, was Herb’s old life. A life he could have back.

  But even closer than that, lying at Herb’s feet, was his brother.

  Herb knelt down, squeezing Tequila’s hand.

  “Call me stupid,” Herb said. “I’m staying.”

  Tequila squeezed his hand back, and the two men waited for the guards to arrive.

  JACK

  I can’t believe it,” Harry called through the open cockpit door. “We’re out in the middle of nowhere, and I’m still surrounded by my fans.”

  I peeked out the window, not sure what to expect, and then saw the enormous column of a towering, white, three-bladed wind turbine. It was one of dozens, dotting the grassy plains like silent, alien sentinels.

  “Did you shoot that?” Harry asked. “That’s one of my greatest puns, ever.”

  “A windmill isn’t a fan,” said Jeckle.

  “A fan uses electricity,” said Heckle, “a turbine generates electricity.”

  “Did you shoot it or not?”

  “No,” they said in unison.

  “Do a quick set-up and shoot it. Medium shot, then a quick pan to the wind farm.”

  They exchanged a smarmy glance, then powered up the video camera and went over to Harry.

  “I can’t believe it. We’re in the middle of nowhere, and I’m still surrounded by my fans.”

  It wasn’t any better the second time.

  I stared out the window. We’d turned off the main highway an hour ago, and had been following a network of gravel roads that weren’t even named on my GPS.

  “How close are we?” I asked, making sure the camera had been shut off.

  “Technically, we’re here. This is all their property.”

  “They’re wind farmers,” I said, stating the obvious because I’d never used those words before.

  McGlade nodded. “It’s a really good investment. Each of these suckers costs about fifty K to build, and generates about three hundred thousand kilowatts per year. Figure they sell electricity back to the grid at twelve cents a kilowatt, that’s thirty-six grand annually. So it pays for itself in seventeen months, then makes three grand a month, every month, for the next few decades. Minus maintenance and taxes, of course. And look at them all. Wyatt and Annie are making some serious change. Hey, switch the camera back on.”

  Heckle came in for the close-up.

  “I considered investing in wind power,” McGlade said, straight-faced. “But I heard it really blows.”

  Rosalina made a whining sound.

  I patted her head. “I’m right there with you, girl.”

  I stared at the turbines and felt a sense of unease completely unrelated to Harry’s dumb jokes.

  Though I wasn’t a superstitious person, and tried to maintain a logical, skeptical approach, something about wind farms just felt, well, creepy. Maybe it was the juxtaposition of modern technology in rural settings, sprouting up out of the land like giant, mechanical trees. Cities felt like homes, where human beings shaped their environment to suit them. But being among the turbines made me feel, quite irrationally, like I didn’t belong there.

  This unsettling, out-of-place sensation was amplified by how quiet everything was.

  Waddlebutt squawked. Maybe he didn’t like turbines, either. I reached down to give him a reassuring pat on the head, and he nipped my fingers. As I was checking for injuries, I saw Heckle had the camera out.

  “Just shooting the bird” said Heckle. “Viewers like the bird.”

  “It scores high with preteens and middle-aged females,” said Jeckle.