Concerto in Dead Flat        Aim for the Heart        Dead Aim

AIM FOR THE HEART CHAPTER ONE There is nothing quite as satisfying as a morning run. There are things more enjoyable, but nothing quite as satisfying. In the mountains, at that moment in time when the sun is about to crest the eastern ridge, rays splintering into a sky littered with clouds, the air becomes absolutely still, as if the earth is holding its breath, awaiting the new day. Padding along the rutted dirt road that curled around a sage-covered hill below Tom and Julie Shanklin's A-frame, I was greeted with the first trumpeting of a robin, a welcome burst of melody interrupting the stillness. Within moments neighboring birds joined in, and soon a whistled chorus charged the dawn with an intoxicating energy. My friend Lyel's new puppy, Derby, trotted at my side, her tail wagging, tongue drooping. Part shepherd, part collie, with sad brown eyes and a coy, baby-toothed grin, she was a joyful companion. I have never been accused of being a workaholic. I spend as much time as possible in appreciation of life and the world around me. For this reason, I have not accumulated enough capital reserve to acquire any material goods of significant permanence. No house. No property. No stocks or bonds or securities of any sort. I divide my time between work and play as unequally as possible. Work is tied loosely to the edges of the music business and a partner in L.A. The reason I had been able to take time off to play was that I had spent the month of May locating a woman who had once been a member of a popular Motown trio. I had found her in Baltimore, where she and her husband ran a motel, and across town, a coin-op laundry. She was due a generous amount of money that my partner, Bruce Warren, had pried loose from a record company. The money, back royalties, had been buried for years in the tabular columns of a ledger book. For our part, Bruce and I split twenty-five percent of the pretax amount, which came to $18,500. I had left Los Angeles with a little shy of nine grand, a sum I hoped might carry me through a summer of fly-fishing and birding in the dusty hills of central Idaho. I turned around at the third gate up Townsend Gulch, a distance that made my round trip run just over four miles. As I passed the Shanklins' again, I noticed the Dobermans were out and roaming, so I kept Derby close. She was still of a size and naivete that would make her little more than a breakfast muffin for a Doberman, even though the Shanklins' Dobermans are as gentle as lambs. She growled and whined, tucking her previously wagging tail submissively between her scurrying legs as she strode alongside, one eye cocked toward her adversaries, who had the consideration to halt at the big gate and allow us to pass. A mile and a half later the two of us turned right onto the narrow gravel lane that feeds Lyel's property, property I have come to think of as my own. Lyel allows me residence in the "guest cottage," a log cabin that sits alongside a deliciously private trout stream that plays host to an enormous amount of bird life. He occupies the main house, seven thousand square feet of bachelor opulence, if and when he's in town, which amounts to about the same span of time that I'm in town. Therein lies the absurdity of the designation "house sitter," a title he once bestowed upon me. Lyel always arrives in town shortly after I do, and always stays until I leave. In short, he could just as easily house sit, since he's there when I'm there. * * * Lyel showed up just before noon as I was contemplating the enormous task before me: installing a lawn sprinkling system. Lyel had ordered the parts; I was supposed to supply the labor. He had brought me a St. Pauli Girl and a turkey sandwich from the Southside Deli in Butte Peak. We left Derby sleeping in the shade of the deck and took a break beneath the dancing leaves of a mountain ash. Lyel wore red and black jams, a white cotton golf shirt, and size fourteen flip-flops. I asked him where he found flip-flops that size and he told me that they had been hanging as demonstration models in the local drugstore. Lyel keeps himself young by surrounding himself with young women. He has two housecleaners, a woman to mow his lawn, and a part-time cook. All four look perfectly wonderful in bikinis, and all seem to appreciate Lyel as much as I do – though in a different way. A distant sound caught his attention. "Ag-cat," Lyel said. He knows airplanes the way I know birds. The small plane was flying low, traveling from our right, passing directly over the town of Ridland and headed for a landing at Butte Peak's small regional airport. "Urn," I acknowledged in mid bite. Small planes don't do much for me, except interrupt my serenity and scare away birds. It wasn't until the plane exploded that I paid any attention; and then, because it was several miles away, it seemed somewhat surreal. A huge yellow-orange mushroom erupted into the tranquil blue of that midday sky, driving a black cloud of smoke above it like a top hat. A moment later a second explosion rocked the ground beneath us. We were four miles away, and we glanced at each other in disbelief. A tower of red-black flame peaked at about a hundred feet. "That," Lyel said, "was the gas station." Lyel was seldom wrong. © Ridley Pearson Read reviews! Buy the book from an independent bookstore.