"Oh, when I was in 'Nam I ran a few errands for the Company, and they issued me the thing. Somehow, it got lost, and they never got it back. Pretty pissed off, they were."
"I can imagine."
"They were manufactured in small numbers-handmade, really- specifically for the Company. They were used in wet work all over the world, I believe." He took the pistol back from Rawlings, shoved in a clip, and worked the action. He took aim from the porch at a stand of cattails and fired, making only a tiny pfft sound, and cutting the head neatly off a cattail. "That was a.22 Magnum round, believe it or not." He handed the pistol back to Rawlings. "Try it."
Rawlings took aim at a cattail, fired a round, and missed. He handed the pistol back. "That's really something," he said.
"A little different from your Barrett's rifle, but it gets the job done. And nowhere on it is there a serial number or any mark that would identify who made it."
"I don't suppose you'd like to sell it?"
"You'd have to pry it from my cold dead hand," Ham said.
"I don't blame you."
"Sit down and drink your drink, Peck."
The two men settled themselves and sipped their whiskey.
Ham said nothing, just looked out at the Indian River. He'd wait for Rawlings to get around to it.
"Pretty place you got here," Rawlings said, finally.
"Yep, I sure love it."
"How'd you ever come by it?"
"The easy way. Fellow I was in the army with died and left it to me."
"You're a lucky guy."
"I sure am."
Rawlings was quiet for another moment, then he shoved the thick envelope across the table to Ham. "I brought you something to read."
Ham opened the envelope and shook out a book. "Ah, The Turner Diaries, " he said. "I read it twice, years ago." He shoved it back across the table.
"No, keep it. That's an autographed copy," Rawlings said.
"Well, thank you, Peck. I'll treasure it."
"What did you think of the book?"
Ham had read it when he'd found a buck sergeant who served under him reading it. He thought it was the most outrageous collection of lies, bigotry and downright trash he'd ever come across. "Prescient," he said. "The naked truth, well told."
Rawlings grinned. "It sure is, ain't it?"
"It is."
"Ham, I think you're my kind of guy."
You do, do you? Ham thought. You go right on thinking that. "What kind of guy are you, Peck?" he asked.
"Me and my friends are what you might call patriots," Rawlings said. "In our fashion."
"And what fashion is that?"
"You might say we're working toward the goals expressed in that book," Rawlings said.