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Show •137 "All right. But do you really believe it could have been a stray shot? Some kid shooting tin cans? What are the chances that a bullet would bounce off the water at the exact angle? A one in a million shot." Jacob shrugged. He turned right on Western Avenue; we went bumping slowly over the railroad tracks. He left the little car in high gear and it shuddered and knocked until we picked up sufficient speed again. Jacob didn't notice; my big brother has no idea what the gear levers, pedals, knobs or switches he uses every day are connected to-for him the world of machines is a world of magic. It was another misty day. The sky glowed without any visible sun; the trees dripped water; the asphalt we rolled on was slick and rainbowed with old oil floating up through its pores. I rolled my window down and cranked it up again, bounced in my seat, poked at the glove compartment door, tapped the dashboard nervously. I felt furiously sad, full of a violent herky-4erky gloom, aching to take a swift kick at the world. "To kill a man with a .22 takes good shooting or incredible luck," I said. "You have to hit a vital spot." While 3rady had made his explanations I had looked past him; his office wall was hung with glossy eight-by-ten photographs-Brady shaking hands with the governor of Oregon, Brady accepting a trophy from the VFW, Brady at a banquet, |