Lethal Passage Read Free Page B

brilliant delight.
    Nicholas did not hate Karen Farley. It is doubtful anyone could have. She spoke in a soft, measured way, with a Tidewater pace and cadence. She was devoted to the school.The morning of December 16, 1988, she returned a check the school had given her as paymentfor the extra timeshe had put into helping produce the school yearbook. She told Rev. Mr. Sweet the school needed the money more than she.
    She had begun her teaching career in 1970 at Booker T. Washington High School, an all-black school then on the verge of being integrated. The school had decided to integrate the faculty first, then the student body. She stayed for three years until the strains and dangers of teaching there and of trying to motivate a group of disinterested city kids wore her down. She resigned to become a first-grade teacher at the Faith Christian School, operated by Faith Baptist Church in Chesapeake. She left after one semester to have her first baby, Lora. A boy, Will, followed.
    Mrs. Farley stayed home with her children until 1978, when she returned to Faith. She continued teaching there until the school closed in 1987, at which point she joined the teaching staff at Atlantic Shores. A colleague from the Faith Christian School, Bonnie Lovelace, recalled a night when she and Mrs. Farley found themselves still at work long after everyone else had gone home.
    “Do you think anyone knows we’re here?” Mrs. Farley asked.
    Probably not, her friend answered.
    “Oh, well,” Mrs. Farley said. “Someday we’ll make headlines.”

CHAPTER THREE
T HE L ETHAL L ANDSCAPE
    B EFORE ADVANCING ANY FURTHER , I SHOULD first make my bias clear, for bias more than any other force shapes debate about guns in this country. I am not opposed to guns, not even handguns, provided the owners acknowledge the monumental responsibility conferred by ownership; provided too that they invest the time necessary to become safe, proficient users and to store those guns in a cabinet strong enough to hold burglars and toddlers at bay. When I see rural road signs perforated with large-diameter bullet holes, I realize responsibility is not something universally practiced by America’s gun owners. I now ask the parents of my daughter’s playmates if they own guns and, if so, how they store them. If they store them loaded, even in a locked cabinet, my children do not play at their homes. Period.
    I can appreciate the lethal appeal of weapons and the fine craftsmanship evident in such premium handguns as the Colt Python and, yes, the Smith & Wesson Model 29 used by Dirty Harry. When I go to gun shows, as I do now in my capacity as a federally licensed firearms dealer, I am drawn, as are most of the rest of the browsers around me, to pick up the guns spread so invitingly across the exhibitors’ tables, especially the notorious weapons, the fully automatic AK-47s and MAC-11s, the Sten guns and pistol-gripMossbergs. As a creature of the James Bond era, I am particularly fascinated by the silencers, which can be acquired by anyone with a clean record willing to pay the $200 federal transfer tax covering such devices. At gun shows, the urge to touch is strong and has caused many dealers to spread a soft black mesh over the guns on their tables. I confess to at least thinking the words “Make my day” or “Hasta la vista, baby” on my rounds, although I do not own any guns and, as a parent of two resourceful children age five and three, have no plans to buy any. I am content to let hunters hunt and can certainly appreciate the fun of getting out into the wilderness on a crisp autumn day in the company of one’s friends, although I confess the charm of “blooding,” or dumping a pail of deer viscera over the head of a novice hunter on the occasion of his very first kill, still eludes me.
    Where I run afoul of the tenets of the National Rifle Association is in my belief that people should be allowed to acquire guns only after going through a licensing process