by James Hayman
I’ll only be a minute, Harlan had said. But if it was only a minute it felt like the longest minute of her life. Finally he emerged without Harold.
Minutes later the two of them lay side by side in a shallow culvert 200 meters south of the building. The spot was well camouflaged and provided a perfect field of fire across the entire property. If Riordan was a careful man, and Harlan was sure he was, he’d likely enter from somewhere other than the front. But no matter what direction he came from, the only way to the bear was through the barn doors and Harlan had them covered. For a trained sniper, a 200 or even 300 meter kill is easy. Harlan’s longest in Iraq had been over 800, and that wasn’t considered exceptional.
Temperatures had been dropping most of the day and a cool breeze from the bay carried the sounds of the ocean and the first hints of autumn and the winter that lay beyond. Tabitha was shivering. Harlan unrolled his sleeping bag and told her to get inside. It would not only keep her warm but would also prevent sudden movements at the wrong time. Two hours passed. Tabitha started getting restless trapped inside the bag. Harlan told her to be still.
A little after midnight, a vehicle, its lights off, pulled to a stop behind a thin stand of shrubs across the road from the front gate. Harlan watched the driver’s side window slide down. A face, green through the scope, peered out. A man inside the car raised binoculars to his eyes.
‘He’s here,’ Harlan whispered.
Tabbie scrunched down lower into the culvert.
Five minutes passed before the driver’s side door opened. The car’s interior remained dark. Through the scope Harlan watched the guy who had come to his house, the guy he had beaten up, step out. Emmett Ganzer’s wrist was bandaged, his face still bruised and blackened from the beating he’d taken. Harlan watched him look left and right. Cross the road. Slip through the same break in the fence that he and Tabitha had used. Ganzer drew a hand-gun and walked, in a low crouch, straight down the middle of the property toward the cannery. Careless, Harlan thought as he watched the familiar figure, very, very careless. Even assuming Ganzer was wearing body armor and Harlan had to go for a head-shot, he was making this easy. Harlan studied Ganzer’s face and thought about Tabitha’s description of the December Man. She’d only seen him for a split second but even so something didn’t compute. He unzipped the sleeping bag to free Tabitha’s arms and passed her the weapon. ‘Look through the eyepiece,’ he ordered. ‘Is that the guy you saw last December?’
At first Tabitha’s glasses got in the way and she couldn’t see anything. Harlan told her to take them off. He’d adjust the focus. She just had to tell him when the image appeared sharp.
‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘Not yet. There. Go back a little. That’s it.’
She peered at the man slowly crossing the open ground in a crouch. ‘No,’ she said in a loud whisper.
‘No what?’
‘That’s not him.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure. Face is different. So’s the hair. Plus he’s way too big.’
‘He’s probably wearing body armor,’ said Harlan. ‘That’d make him look bigger.’
‘It’s not him.’ She handed the weapon back to Harlan.
Not him? Shit. Did that mean there were two of them? One going after the bear. One waiting in the car. Or maybe not waiting in the car. Maybe waiting miles away. Or maybe coming around behind them in the dark. The first rule of law enforcement, Harlan’s father always told him, was never enter a potentially violent situation without backup.
Harlan whispered to Tabitha to turn and watch their rear. Tap his leg the instant she heard any sounds or spotted any movement coming from behind. The girl nodded.
Harlan studied the car through the scope. At first he saw nothing. But then he sensed movement on the front passenger side. Just the shift of a shoulder. Or maybe an arm. But it meant Conor Riordan, whoever he was, was still there. Waiting, he supposed, for Ganzer to retrieve the bear. Or to get shot, if Riordan suspected the ambush.
That created a problem. If he killed Ganzer first, Riordan would drive away. Escape the trap. Somehow he had to kill the man in the car first. Unfortunately, the odds of hitting Riordan from where he was now were slim to none. His view was obscured by shrubs. His bullet would have to clear the chain link fence, go through the car window and, finally, pass through the headrest on top of the seat, any or all of which would alter its trajectory. No, killing Riordan from here would be like winning the Powerball Lottery: damned near impossible.
To get a clear shot he’d have to leave the compound and go around behind the car without being seen. Worst part was he couldn’t bring Tabitha with him. Too dangerous for her. Too likely she’d alert Riordan by making some noise. But leaving the child here by herself with Ganzer on the prowl didn’t sit well either.
Harlan was still pondering how best to deal with this when he felt a hand tapping his leg. He spun and looked back where Tabbie was pointing. A dark figure moving toward them in a low crouch, carrying a weapon. Christ, could there be three of them? He peered through the scope. Aimed at the moving shadow. Applied gentle pressure to the trigger. And then eased off.
No way in hell could Harlan Savage ever shoot his own sister.
Crouched in the darkness on the far side of the ramshackle building, the index finger of his right hand inside the trigger guard of his Glock, Michael McCabe watched Emmett Ganzer rise and run the last hundred yards to the front wall of the old cannery. The running man was definitely Ganzer. No doubt about that. Were the two of them in this together? Ganzer and Carroll? Or had they been wrong about Carroll? McCabe wasn’t sure.
Emmett Ganzer, his head pounding, his breath short from the effort of running in the heavy body armor, rested his considerable bulk against the outer wall of the cannery. Sweat trickled down his face and he sucked in the cool air of the evening, trying to calm himself. When his heart had finally slowed enough, Ganzer edged toward the door, holding his 9 mm automatic in two hands. It was okay, he thought, for Carroll, who was sitting back there safe in the car. Sonofabitch told him it’d be a piece of cake. Told him no one would be waiting inside the building but rats. But Carroll had always been a lying scumbag and Savage was sneaky. He might just be sitting inside the building pointing his fucking rifle.
Ganzer slipped through the door and dropped instantly to a crouch. He saw no movement. Heard no sound. No flash of a shot. Something soft and furry darted across his ankle. Emmett Ganzer swallowed hard. He hated rats, though not quite as much as he hated the idea that Harlan Savage might be hiding in here, waiting to put a bullet through his head. Emmett pictured himself wounded, his life oozing out in this filthy place, rodents crawling over his body. Lapping his blood. Nibbling at his flesh. Ganzer held his left arm as far from his body as he could, flipped on his Maglite. He saw the bear immediately.
‘Drop your rifle, Harlan.’ Maggie spoke in a soft whisper as she pointed McCabe’s Mossberg 590 pump-action riot shotgun at her brother’s chest.
‘I don’t think so, Mag. No way you’d shoot me. Any more than I’d shoot you.’
‘I don’t have to shoot you, baby brother. All I have to do is fire this cannon into the air and your fox will bolt.’
Harlan stubbornly held on to the M40. ‘I came here to kill him, Magpie. Not Ganzer. The one in the car. Both of them if I have to.’
‘You’re not killing anyone.’
‘No way they should live.’
‘No way I’m letting you spend the rest of your life behind bars. I’m a cop, Harlan. This is my job, not yours.’ Maggie took out a pair of handcuffs. ‘Put the rifle down, and put your hands behind your back.’
‘You have backup?’ Harlan asked.
‘I have backup.’
‘All right, go do your job,’ he sighed. Then he put the rifle down. ‘But don’t cuff me. Somebody needs to stay with the kid. Keep her safe.’
Maggie thought about that and finally nodded. Harlan was right. Someone did need to protect Tabitha. B
esides, it wouldn’t hurt to have extra backup. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But you’ve got to promise me you won’t fire unless it’s absolutely necessary.’
Harlan smiled the smile that was uniquely his. ‘Cross my heart and hope not to die.’
Maggie asked Tabitha if she was okay. The girl nodded. Maggie disappeared into the darkness the same way she came.
McCabe peered through the split boards on the sidewall of the cannery. Inside, no more than ten feet away, he could see Ganzer’s broad back in the faint glow of the Maglite. He was crouching down behind a large block of rusted-out machinery. The narrow beam of his light focused on a large teddy bear propped in the middle of a long table that ran the length of the room. McCabe wondered if Harold still contained the package Tabitha had talked about in the message.
Ganzer flipped off the Maglite. Darkness returned.
‘Harlan,’ Ganzer called out. ‘Harlan Savage. You’re under arrest for the murder of Tiffany Stoddard. Let the child go and come out with your hands up. Harlan Savage, can you hear me?’
The only thing that broke the silence was the scurrying of rats.
Maggie crept to within twenty yards of the car. Close enough to make out the shape of Sean Carroll’s curls in the front passenger seat. Carroll was peering intently through his binoculars, seemingly unaware of her approach.
Carroll watched Emmett Ganzer emerge from the building and start back across the open field. Walking normally. Carrying the bear in his arms. This was the moment for Savage to shoot him. But there were no shots. No sound at all except the wind blowing in off the sea. Sean Carroll’s sacrificial lamb was still unquestionably alive. Strange. Carroll had been sure Savage was setting up an ambush. But the further Ganzer came toward the fence the more difficult Savage’s shot would be. Could he have figured this wrong? Definitely beginning to look that way. When Ganzer was almost all the way across the open ground, Carroll put down the binoculars and stepped out of the car.
Maggie fingered the Mossberg and resisted a strong urge to blow Sean Carroll’s too handsome head off his oh so beautiful body and be done with it. Instead, she watched him slip on a pair of white latex gloves and pull a 9 mm from its holster. Why the gloves, she wondered. Why the gun? What was that for? If the two of them were in this thing together, it made no sense. So maybe they weren’t. She realized there was no way of knowing. And that was a problem.
Sean Carroll stepped just inside the fence, his gun by his side. ‘Hold it, Emmett,’ he called out. ‘Stop right there.’
Ganzer stopped. ‘What? Why? What’s going on?’
Carroll studied the bear, its head half shot away. That’s when another possibility occurred to him. Harlan Savage had, after all, served two tours in Iraq.
‘Move back into the open, Emmett. About ten feet back. I need to check something out.’
‘What? Why? What’s that?’ Ganzer said, looking confused rather than worried. That was good.
‘Just do it, Emmett. Everything will be fine.’
Reluctantly, Ganzer moved back.
Carroll withdrew as far away as he could get from Ganzer without leaving the fenced compound. He squatted down. ‘Open the back of the bear, Emmett,’ he called out. ‘Tell me what you see.’
Ganzer shrugged. Yanked at the edges of the fake fur.
Carroll turned away, covered his face with his arms and scrunched down further.
But there were no explosions. There was nothing but silence.
Carroll lowered his arms. ‘What’s in there?’ he called to Ganzer. ‘What’s inside?’
Ganzer pulled out some newspapers. Let them fall to the ground. ‘Plastic bottle,’ he said. ‘And a bunch of money.’
‘Take the bottle out and look inside.’
‘I’m not wearing gloves.’
‘Don’t worry about it. Easy enough to distinguish your prints from Savage’s.’
Ganzer opened the bottle and smiled. ‘Pills. Canadian Ox. We got it.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Just the money. Shouldn’t we bag this stuff ?’ asked Ganzer. ‘It’s evidence.’
Carroll rose and moved toward Ganzer. ‘That won’t be necessary, Emmett. Just put everything back inside the bear.’
Once again, Ganzer did as he was told.
Under cover of darkness, Maggie moved silently toward the break in the fence.
When she was close enough to hear the words the two men were saying she flipped on her recorder, hoping it was sensitive enough to pick it all up.
‘I do want to thank you, Emmett,’ Sean Carroll said. ‘You’ve really been a big help.’
Ganzer smiled at the praise.
He stopped smiling when Carroll raised the automatic he was holding and pointed it at Ganzer’s face.
‘Now put your hands behind your head,’ he said.
‘The fuck you doing?’ asked Ganzer.
Now it was Carroll’s turn to smile. It was exactly the same question the boys on the boat had asked. Exactly the same deer-in-the-headlights expression on Emmett’s face.
‘Hands behind your head, Emmett,’ Carroll repeated. ‘Or I’ll have to blow it off.’ This time Ganzer obeyed.
Sean Carroll reached in and removed Ganzer’s weapon from its holster. ‘I’m sorry I’ll have to shoot you in the face, Emmett. But what with the body armor you’re wearing … well, I’m sure you understand.’
While he was talking, Maggie slipped through the break in the fence.
‘It was you?’ Ganzer asked, disbelief making his voice quaver. ‘You killed Stoddard? And the Blakemore girl? And your own wife?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Carroll. ‘But not to worry. I’ll be all right. Everyone will think it was Harlan Savage. They’ll also think he killed you.’ Carroll smiled. ‘I’ll tell everyone how bravely you died in the line of duty.’
Emmett Ganzer was now only half listening to what his boss was saying. He was more intent on watching Maggie Savage approach silently from behind Carroll, carrying what looked like a shotgun.
From a hundred meters away, all Michael McCabe could see through the night-vision scope of John Savage’s bolt-action Remington 700 rifle, the civilian twin to Harlan’s M40, was Emmett Ganzer’s broad back. ‘Move, you oversized fuck,’ McCabe muttered to himself.
Maggie waved her hand, silently signaling Emmett Ganzer to move away from Carroll. If he stayed where he was the Mossberg would kill them both. But Ganzer stood as if rooted to the spot. He said nothing. It was his eyes that gave Maggie away.
Carroll whirled. Fired. Ganzer leaped at Carroll’s arm, but too late. Maggie went down, clutching her chest. The Mossberg fell to the ground. Carroll spotted McCabe as he turned back to fire at Ganzer. His second bullet struck Emmett dead center between his small eyes. Maggie, shaken by the impact of the bullet against her body armor, struggled to pull her Glock from her holster. Carroll got there before she could.
Through his night-vision scope McCabe saw Sean Carroll lift Maggie from the ground. Pull her up in front of him, his left arm locked around her neck, holding her body against his, his right hand pressing his automatic against her throat.
There was no way McCabe could fire. Not from here. Not without hitting Maggie. He got up and ran across the open yard to his right, hoping to create a possible line of fire. As McCabe moved, Carroll, as if attached by an invisible axle, turned, keeping Maggie between himself and the Portland cop.
Two hundred meters away, Harlan Savage lay flat on the ground, steadying the tripod legs of his M40 on a flat bit of earth. Through the lens of his scope he saw Maggie’s black hair brushing against Carroll’s face. Their bodies were tight against each other. For the first time in his life Harlan wished his tall, beautiful sister was six inches shorter.
‘Drop the rifle, McCabe. Or I’ll kill your girlfriend here,’ Carroll called out. ‘You are McCabe, aren’t you?’
‘You’ll kill her anyway.’
‘Oh, you never know. I might let her live. For a little while at
least.’
As McCabe moved further to the right, Carroll kept turning, keeping Maggie between himself and McCabe. For Harlan to get any kind of shot, Carroll had to turn five more degrees. And, as McCabe kept moving to the right, he did.
The angle was about as good as it would get. If Carroll pivoted any further Harlan’s bullet would go through the back of Carroll’s head and then likely go through Maggie’s as well. But from this angle Harlan had just enough clearance between the two of them.
As Michael McCabe and Sean Carroll stared each other down, a small red dot danced one inch behind Sean Carroll’s ear. Harlan gauged the speed of the wind coming in from the sea. Ten to fifteen knots. Adjusted his aim slightly to the right. The little red dot was now dead center on Maggie. Harlan figured the wind should carry the bullet just far enough to the left to kill Carroll and miss his sister. If he was wrong, well, he didn’t want to think about that. It was without question the most difficult shot Harlan Savage had ever attempted in his life. But he couldn’t see any other way out of it. He had to try. He put slow pressure on the trigger. Please God, make him stand still.
Perhaps God heard Harlan’s silent prayer. Perhaps He didn’t. Either way for the microsecond it took for the bullet to travel the 200 meters, Sean Carroll and Maggie Savage, their bodies pressed tightly together, stood motionless. The wind held.
Sean Carroll never heard the bullet that entered just behind his right ear and came out the left side of his head taking some of Carroll’s brains and a few strands of Maggie’s hair along with it.
Neither did Conor Riordan. The man who never was was no more.
60
9:00 A.M., Sunday, August 30, 2009
