"Master Donald," he said. He raised his head, looking at Don with brilliant yellow eyes. "Your father did not expect you until two days."
"I know, Dowro. But I came home early. I want to talk to him."
"It is well." The man motioned toward a curtained arch. "He is below."
"Thanks, Dowro. I'll find him." Don swept the curtains aside and turned, to open a heavy door.
As he started down the steep flight of stairs, a sharp crack came from the basement. He grinned. With this kind of weather, the range would be busy.
Kent Michaels stood on the plastic flooring, a rifle at his shoulder. The front sight weaved almost imperceptibly, then steadied. He seemed completely unaware of his son's presence.
Suddenly, a spurt of smoke came from the muzzle of the rifle. There was another sharp crack and the muzzle swept upward then dropped, to become steady again.
At last, the shooter took the weapon from his shoulder and opened the action. He looked around.
"Oh, Don," he said. "Didn't expect you for a couple of days. There's no holiday down there right now, is there?"
Don shook his head. "I made a new one," he said. "Permanent type."