Sweet Paradise by Gene Desrochers (most read books in the world of all time .txt) 📕

“Nothing like that. He just said you’d moved on to your uncle as coach, but he used to have that job. Looked upset about losing it. Maybe he suggested your uncle’s a bit, oh, I don’t know ... ”

“Jealous? Yup, Harold’s right, the man was jealous. But, you know family. Can’t say no. You gotta deal with them all flippin’ day long.”

“About your training. What are you doing?”

“Interval training. You know, fast for varying periods of time. He figures if I can pump out the shots non-stop for one to ten minutes, then I’ll be flippin’ awesome. Might be, he’s right. New idea we’ve been on for a few months.”

With that she wandered back to the shooting area. I had wanted to ask about the different targets. All the other archers were only shooting at targets directly in front of them.

I SAT DOWN ON A PATCH of shaded grass where I could watch all the archers. I pulled up some Olympic competition videos on my phone. The competitors were engaged in straight-ahead targeting. The bows used had a pole sticking forward off the bow and two more sticking out to either side right below where the archers gripped. After release, I marveled at the eerie calm they showed while watching their arrow fly. These arrows didn’t resemble the arrow sticking out of Kendal’s chest. These were slight. Small feathers. Thin shafts that came to a point. The head on Kendal’s arrow was wider, menacing. The competition arrows needed the small head so that the minute differences on the targets could be easily ascertained for scoring purposes. In the case of hunting, you either felled your prey or not. No scoring of points on a target mattered. Kendal was a deer, and he’d been felled by a hunter. Scrolling through my phone, I found the photos I’d taken and sure enough, I had a solid one of the arrow’s head.

Harold was chatting up another woman, but I pulled him away and showed him the photo.

“Yeah man, that’s a hunter’s arrow. Not suitable for target competition like the Olympics. In fact, that was almost certainly shot from a crossbow. Compound.”

“I’ve heard of crossbows, but what’s the difference?”

“A crossbow is high-powered. You can set then release when you’re ready to fire. It sets the string in place with a piece of wood or metal rod. Compound bows are for pussies. They use too much tech, but if you need a job done right in one swift blow, they’re the sure winner. Accurate and easy. But they lack soul.”

“I’m still wondering why anyone would use an arrow or crossbow or whatever. Why didn’t they use a gun like a normal killer in modern society?”

“Flair.”

“Flair?”

“Sure, why not. Man, it’s a good word. Archers like to flair, do a little show-boating. It’s why we’re archers, not boring marksmen wearing camo and skulking around in the woods.” He picked up a stray arrow on the grass nearby. People seemed to leave their arrows laying about. “See this.” He flicked the blue synthetic feathers. “Panache. Bullets get the job done, but...” He shrugged and made a face like he’d just eaten a rotten egg. “A hunk of metal with some black powder rocketing through the air.” He made a snoring sound and his eyes drifted shut. “Even worse, if you use one of these modern guns, you leave behind trash. At least a revolver didn’t make a mess on the ground.”

“What did you say about compound?”

He nodded toward a corner of the range where some guys were shooting much more complicated bows with pullies and multiple strings at animal targets.

“Bullshit tech. See her bow? Simple. One string. That’s archery. Besides, the Olympics doesn’t have a compound bow competition. Strictly weekend warrior stuff. Not for purists.”

“What’s the purist bow called?”

“Recurve. Same bow used by the Greeks thousands of years ago. The real deal.”

He handed me the arrow. I examined the shaft. It did have an elegance to it. Lithe and supple. Definitely the ballerina of the weapon world.

“People still fence, right?” Harold asked.

I had no idea if people fenced anymore, but I seemed to remember seeing fencing in the last Olympics as I passed a television at a sports bar in Santa Monica.

“’Course they do. Swords and arrows and all that shit is dead meat compared to automatic weapons and bombs. So why use it? Style, man. What’s life without some style? Panache.”

Running my finger over the arrow, I flicked at the tip. “You mean to tell me someone used an arrow because it makes a statement?”

“Yup. No question. Shooting someone through a door from around fifty meters through those branches? It’s impressive.” He held up his hands. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s fucked up, but still ... damn impressive. Also, the pressure. Jeez. Like the gold medal round. Massive cojones on that hombre if you ask me. Massive.” He made the universal show of cupping someone’s balls with his two hands. For a rich guy, Harold could use a few lessons from Lady Etiquette. “Crossbow is kinda cheating, but hell, still, not bad. ‘Sides, you need something more maneuverable. Recurve is unwieldy for hiding and stalking. Still, I’d use recurve. More excitement. More of a game.”

Thinking back on Kendal’s demise, the arrow did make an impression. Not that him being shot wouldn’t have, but the head coming through his chest. I’d been shot. And for sheer gore factor, the arrow won the day.

Harold held up my phone. He had blown up the photo and focused in on the arrow. “You see how this came clean through? That’s some power. To pierce skin and bone and come out the other end. Damn. Serious power. Crossbow. Gotta be.”

“Could Isabelle make that shot?” I asked.

He laughed, then he let it die as he watched my face. “Dude. You’re serious? Dude, woman can’t pull that kinda thing. No way.”

“You mean you don’t think a woman can kill like that?”

“Exactly. A dude did this.”

“You mean a woman’s emotionally incapable