Strong Rain Falling: A Caitlin Strong Novel (Caitlin Strong Novels) by Jon Land Read Free Book Online

infamous, and in some circles notorious, grandfather Boone Masters. “Like the fact,” he answered finally, “that for my dad being a role model meant having me help him lift stolen goods into the back of his truck and then riding atop it to hold everything steady. You know what he gave me for Christmas one year?”
    “No.”
    “A television I’d dropped at the place where he stored all the stuff. He told me breaking it cost him the money he was going to use on my gift, so I got the busted TV instead.”
    “That’s not nice,” Luke said.
    “Line at the shooting gallery’s next to nothing.”
    Luke frowned, his lips puckering. He wedged the last of the funnel cake into his mouth and rose from the bench. “I don’t want you telling me all the stuff I’m doing wrong. Just let me mess up on my own.”
    “Son, this is the night you win yourself a Kewpie doll.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Never mind,” Cort Wesley said, as fireworks erupted in the sky over another section of the park.
    He felt his stomach muscles seize up, flashback memories of his time in the Gulf War hitting him hard and fast. Just like they always did when something bad was about to happen.
    But not tonight. No odd feeling or misplaced memory was going to spoil tonight.
    “Something wrong, Dad?” Luke asked, sensing him stiffen.
    “No, son,” Cort Wesley said, believing it even less, “not at all.”

 
    9
    S AN A NTONIO
    Cort Wesley liked mowing down the figures moving and rotating against the shooting gallery’s rear wall, each recorded hit drawing a ping and a boost to his LED score readout on the overhead board. These carny-like attractions didn’t seem to fit in with the rest of the park, the space they’d been squeezed into looking carved out of the grounds only on a temporary, maybe trial, basis. For tonight, though, the feel of pulling the trigger followed by the satisfying sound as another moving target bit the dust refreshed him to the point of even settling his stomach.
    “Sir,” a voice said from somewhere behind him, as Cort Wesley watched Luke step up to take his turn, “you can’t be wearing that in here.”
    “You’re holding it wrong, son.”
    “That’s what Caitlin always says.”
    “Well, maybe you should start listening.”
    “Dad,” Luke spat at him, elongating the word and shooting him a glare that brought the rumbling back to Cort Wesley’s stomach.
    “Sorry.”
    “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to stop.”
    Cort Wesley heard the man’s voice again in the back of his mind, the front devoted to watching his son begin pecking away at the bad guys, the gallery rifle clacking off pellets a bit bigger than what he remembered as a boy. Missing more than he hit, the soft click of a shot followed every second or third time by the clang of a strike. Luke’s concentration was intense, so much so that he looked like he was trying to squeeze the paint off the rifle and Cort Wesley had to gnash his teeth to avoid telling him to ease up on his grip. Luke’s current score was a fraction of what he’d managed, making him think he should have missed more on purpose.
    “Sir, the park has a strict no guns policy!”
    For Cort Wesley, the night changed then and there. The cool, comfortable breeze turned hot against his skin, and suddenly the smooth darkness became nothing more than a ribbon of black set against the bright lights piercing it. The scents of popcorn, cotton candy, barbecue, and grilling food all got sucked into the vacuum of Cort Wesley’s defenses snapping on. He spun just as a lanky Latino shoved an unarmed security guard aside and drew his pistol in the same motion.
    Cort Wesley yanked the gallery rifle from Luke’s grasp and steadied it on the gunman, opening up with full awareness of the load’s minimal capabilities. Because he targeted the man’s sunglasses, all wrong to be wearing at night, which made Cort Wesley remember the same man standing across from him at the SkyScreamer talking