“Exactly. Just make sure you do it calmly, not out of anger. They hassle you in other ways?”

“Like harassment? No. Not overtly. The academy doesn’t put up with that. One of the first lectures we got was the ‘No harassment, no racism, no discrimination’ speech. You know-that ‘Cops come in only one color: blue’ thing.”

“That’s good. What about the women in your group?”

Cindy shrugged. “Ordinarily, I don’t think I’d have a tremendous amount in common with them. But we’re going through such an intense experience together, there’s some bonding. Two of them-Angelica Martinez and Kate MacKenny-come from cop families, too, so we’ve had similar childhood experiences.”

“Like never having a father around?”

“More like we’re just now beginning to understand the pressure our fathers must have been under. And we haven’t even made it onto the streets yet! So much to learn in six months. It’s overwhelming.” She shrugged again. “Oh, well. One day at a time.”

“That’s the right attitude. How are your instructors?”

“Some are better than others. Controlled Substances is okay. Report Writing-now, there’s a real snoozer. Evidence is great- really interesting. I’m going to make a great detective!”

Decker laughed.

“Our Combat Wrestling instructor is a woman-Sergeant Peoples.”

“Don’t know her.”

“Our Firearms instructor is also a woman-Sergeant Rigor. Well named-she’s a maniac.”

Decker’s face was immobile. “Lynne Rigor?”

“You know her?”

“Yes. Known as a crack shot. Why do you say she’s a maniac?”

“She’s obsessed with training us… making us do extra work on weekends. She believes in training us at different sites, getting us involved in different situations. We start this Saturday.”

“So it’s mandatory?”

“Voluntary mandatory. The way she set it up, we really don’t have a choice.”

Decker frowned. “Well, I guess a little extra exercise can’t do you much harm.”

“She’s also taking us shooting at an off-campus range.”

“What? That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Taking twenty green kids to a range is a recipe for disaster. You’ve had, what? All of two months’ worth of firearm experience?” He scowled. “I wonder if her superiors know.”

“Dad, please don’t interfere.”

“But it’s dangerous-”

“Being a cop is dangerous.”

“At least get your normal training first. Cynthia, I’m not shielding you against a mean instructor. I’m trying to prevent trouble for the lot of you. At least let me talk to Lynne, find out what she has in mind.”

Cindy looked at him calmly. “How would you respond if your daddy butted in?”

Decker started to say something, stopped, and then said, “Is Rigor planning on doing simulation exercises with firearms and blanks?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“I don’t want you to participate.”

“Dad!”

“Cindy, accidents happen, especially when the exercises aren’t well thought out.”

“So what do I tell her? ‘Sorry, Sergeant. Dad says no’?” She leaned forward. “How would it look if I bowed out, not only in front of her but in front of my classmates? I’d be branded as a quitter-a chicken. Nobody would want to partner with me. And they’d be right.”

Decker knew she spoke the truth. He closed his eyes and said nothing.

“I’ll be extra-careful. Okay?”

Decker opened his eyes, nodded. “All right.”

“You don’t look happy.”

Decker pushed his bagel away. “I’m not, but I trust you.”

“Thanks. That means a lot to me.” She touched her father’s hand. “I’ll be fine. And I’ll call you Saturday night.”

After several go-rounds, Angelica Martinez finally found a space in the parking lot of Bootles Outdoor/Indoor Shooting Range.

She, Cindy Decker, and Kate MacKenny were fast becoming friends-all of them sticking together, even if the glue wouldn’t hold forever. Martinez killed the motor, got out along with the other two, and stretched. Below the lot sat the shooting range, a flat area of scrub sandwiched between endless waves of hillside. Loud pops broke through the whipping wind. Dark clouds hovered above like a steel plate. “Wow, are my legs sore!” she said.

“Ten miles uphill will do that to you,” Kate answered.

“Aren’t you sore?”

“Beyond sore,” Kate said. “More like into rigor mortis. I hate that woman.”

“That should be her nickname,” Cindy said. “Rigor Mortis. We’d all like to see her dead!”

The young women laughed. Kate pushed wisps of blond hair off her face. “Man, what I wouldn’t give to do target practice on Rigor!”

Angelica said, “You’d have to wait in line-behind me.”

Rigor had lit into Angelica earlier in the morning. Just tore her apart for no apparent reason. Cindy thought Angelica had handled it extremely well, had brushed it off and moved on. But apparently she was still brooding.

It was biting cold. Cindy rubbed her hands, looked at the complex stretched out below. Built for competition as well as target practice, Bootles had several types of outdoor courts, all of them ending in tall steel-plated backstops and ground baffles to catch stray bullets. In the center was a glassed-in tower where a range officer was giving instructions over a PA system to a group of rifle shooters. For protection, the outdoor ranges were walled in by twenty-foot sandbag berms. Beyond them were miles of knolls filled with chaparral and California scrub oak. The indoor-range building sat at the foot of the parking lot.

“Where are all the others?” Kate asked.

“I brought us through a shortcut,” Cindy explained. “My dad lives about twenty miles from here, so I know a couple of tricks.

They’ll be here soon. Maybe we can even earn a few brownie points for being the first ones here.”

“Rigor’ll probably just accuse us of trying to show her up,” Kate said. “God, I detest her.”

“Everybody does,” Cindy said. “ Baldwin ’s ready to-” “Man, he don’t hate her as much as Holstetter does,” Angelica interrupted. “She rides Holstetter any harder, she’s gonna need reins and a bit!”

Standing erect, Cindy didn’t dare sit or lean against the wall, even though Rigor was seated, drinking coffee. Couldn’t appear weak, even if her feet were killing her. At least it was warm here in the commissary-stifling, as a matter of fact. So much so that someone had opened the window for circulation.

First the morning run, then the hours of calisthenics, then the ten-mile uphill jog, and now two hours of target practice. Cindy was cranky and hungry, looking at the food in the vending machines but not buying. She and Kate had agreed not to eat, wanting to show Rigor they had iron stamina. And so the two of them stood with about a half-dozen other cadets, waiting for an empty slot, listening to a female range officer instruct the pistol shooters in the glassed-in lanes below.

A strong icy draft whooshed through the open window, chilling Cindy’s hands but keeping her awake, clear-thinking. Her eyes focused on the range, studying the trainees who were shooting. Angelica was in Booth 8, her body taut with concentration. At the given signal, she let go with a volley, missing most of center target. At that point Angelica was clearly frustrated. After she had disengaged her weapon, she shoved it into her harness, yanked out her earplugs, and stomped out of the booth and out of sight.

Rigor made a tsk-tsk sound and instructed Cadet Jackson to take Angelica’s place. To Cindy and Kate, Rigor said, “Girl not only has an impulse problem, she can’t shoot her way out of a paper bag.”

Cadet Jackson entered the booth vacated by Angelica. Cindy sighed inwardly, stuck with Rigor for at least another ten minutes.

Rigor suddenly pointed to a couple of empty chairs. “Why don’t you two have a seat? This isn’t boot camp.”

Cindy hesitated, then parked herself, hoping her relief wasn’t too obvious.