The Jodi Picoult Collection #3 Read online

  “This is fine,” Alex said, but as she reached for the cup, her bell sleeve caught the edge of the Styrofoam, and the coffee spilled.

  Smooth, Alex, she thought.

  “Oh, gosh,” the lawyer said. “I’m sorry!”

  Why are you sorry, Alex wondered, when it was my fault? The girl was already setting out napkins to clean up the mess, so Alex stripped off her gown to clean it. For one giddy moment she thought about not stopping there—disrobing completely, down to her bra and panties, and parading through the courthouse like the Emperor in the fairy tale. Isn’t my gown beautiful? she’d say, and she would listen to everyone answer: Oh, yes, Your Honor.

  She rinsed the sleeve off in the sink and wrung it dry. Then, still carrying her robe, she started back to chambers. But the thought of sitting there for another half hour, alone, was too depressing, so instead Alex began to wander the halls of the Keene courthouse. She took turns she’d never taken before and wound up at a basement door that led to a loading zone.

  Outside, she found a woman dressed in the green jumpsuit of a groundskeeper, smoking a cigarette. The air was full of winter, and frost glittered on the asphalt like broken glass. Alex wrapped her arms around herself—it was quite possibly even colder out here than in chambers—and nodded at the stranger. “Hi,” she said.

  “Hey.” The woman exhaled a stream of smoke. “I haven’t seen you around here before. What’s your name?”

  “Alex.”

  “I’m Liz. I’m the whole property maintenance department.” She grinned. “So where do you work in the courthouse?”

  Alex fumbled in her pocket for a box of Tic Tacs—not that she wanted or needed a mint, but because she wanted to buy some time before this conversation came to a screeching halt. “Um,” she said, “I’m the judge.”

  Immediately, Liz’s face fell, and she stepped back, uncomfortable.

  “You know, I hate telling you that, because it was so nice the way you just struck up a conversation with me. No one else around here will do that and it’s . . . well, it’s a little lonely.” Alex hesitated. “Could you maybe forget that I’m the judge?”

  Liz ground out the cigarette beneath her boot. “Depends.”

  Alex nodded. She turned the small plastic box of mints over in her palm; they rattled like music. “You want a Tic Tac?”

  After a moment, Liz held out her hand. “Sure, Alex,” she said, and she smiled.

  * * *

  Peter had taken to wandering his own home like a ghost. He was grounded, which had something to do with the fact that Josie didn’t come over anymore, even though they used to see each other after school three or four times a week. Joey didn’t want to play with him—he was always off at soccer practice or playing a computer game where you had to drive really fast around a racetrack that was bent like a paper clip—which meant that Peter, officially, had nothing to do.

  One evening after dinner, he heard rustling in the basement. He hadn’t been down there since his mother had found him with Josie and the gun, but now he was drawn like a moth to the light over his father’s workbench. His father sat on a stool in front of it, holding the very gun that had gotten Peter into so much trouble.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for bed?” his father asked.

  “I’m not tired.” He watched his father’s hands run down the swan neck of the rifle.

  “Pretty, isn’t it? It’s a Remington 721. A thirty-ought-six.” Peter’s father turned to him. “Want to help me clean it?”

  Peter instinctively glanced toward the stairs, where his mother was washing dishes from dinner.

  “The way I figure it, Peter, if you’re so interested in guns, you need to learn how to respect them. Better safe than sorry, right? Even your mom can’t argue with that.” He cradled the gun in his lap. “A gun is a very, very dangerous thing, but what makes it so dangerous is that most people don’t really understand how it works. And once you do, it’s just a tool, like a hammer or a screwdriver, and it doesn’t do anything unless you know how to pick it up and use it correctly. You understand?”

  Peter didn’t, but he wasn’t about to tell his father. He was about to learn how to use a real rifle! None of those idiot kids in his class, the ones who were such jerks, could say that.

  “First thing we have to do is open the bolt, like this, to make sure there aren’t any bullets in it. Look in the magazine, right down there. See any?” Peter shook his head. “Now check again. You can never check too many times. Now, there’s a little button under the receiver—just in front of the trigger guard—push that and you can remove the bolt completely.”

  Peter watched his father take off the big silver ratchet that attached the butt of the rifle to the barrel, just like that. He reached onto his workbench for a bottle of solvent—Hoppes #9, Peter read—and spilled a little bit on a rag. “There’s nothing like hunting, Peter,” his father said. “To be out in the woods when the rest of the world is still sleeping . . . to see that deer raise its head and stare right at you . . .” He held the rag away from him—the smell made Peter’s head swim—and started to rub the bolt with it. “Here,” Peter’s father said. “Why don’t you do this?”

  Peter’s jaw dropped—he was being told to hold the rifle, after what had happened with Josie? Maybe it was because his father was here to supervise, or maybe this was a trick and he was going to get punished for wanting to hold it again. Tentative, he reached for it—surprised, as he had been before, at how incredibly heavy it was. On Joey’s computer game, Big Buck Hunter, the characters swung their rifles around as if they were feather-light.

  It wasn’t a trick. His father wanted him to help, for real. Peter watched him reach for another tin—gun oil—and dribble some onto a clean rag. “We wipe down the bolt and put a drop on the firing pin. . . . You want to know how a gun works, Peter? Come over here.” He pointed out the firing pin, a teensy circle inside the circle of the bolt. “Inside the bolt, where you can’t see it, there’s a big spring. When you pull the trigger, it releases the spring, which hits this firing pin and pushes it out just the tiniest bit—” He held his thumb and forefinger apart just a fraction of an inch, for illustration. “That firing pin hits the center of a brass bullet . . . and dents a little silver button called the primer. The dent sets off the charge, which is gunpowder inside the brass casing. You’ve seen a bullet—how it gets thinner and thinner at the end? That skinny part holds the actual bullet, and when the gunpowder goes off, it creates pressure behind the bullet and pushes it from behind.”

  Peter’s father took the bolt out of his hands, wiped it with oil, and set it aside. “Now look into the barrel.” He pointed the gun as if he were going to shoot at a lightbulb on the ceiling. “What do you see?”

  Peter peeked into the open barrel from behind. “It’s like the noodles Mom makes for lunch.”

  “Yeah, I guess it is. Rotini? Is that what they’re called? The twists in the barrel are like a screw. As the bullet gets pushed out, these grooves make the bullet turn. Kind of like when you throw a football and put some spin on it.”

  Peter had tried to do that in the backyard with his father and Joey, but his hand was too small or the football was too big and when he tried to make a pass, mostly it just crashed at his own feet.

  “If the bullet comes out spinning, it can fly straight without wobbling.” His father began to fiddle with a long rod that had a loop of wire on the end. Sticking a patch into the loop, he dipped it in solvent. “The gunpowder leaves gunk inside the barrel, though,” he said. “And that’s what we have to clean off.”

  Peter watched his father jam the rod into the barrel, up and down, like he was churning butter. He put on a clean patch and ran it through the barrel again, and then another, until they didn’t come out streaked black anymore. “When I was your age, my father showed me how to do this, too.” He threw the patch out in the trash. “One day, you and I will go hunting.”

  Peter couldn’t contain himself at the very tho