Under a sudden, hard, white light, a younger bloodstained Radford lies on a table in a spartan prison hospital—primitive; rudimentary. Iraqi soldiers watch a doctor probe Radford’s head wound, look up at the soldier who interrogated Radford, and shake his head “no.” The doctor discards the probe, wraps a bandage carelessly around Radford’s head and walks away …
Charlie moves forward and cradles Radford’s bloody head in his hand. And now, to Charlie’s amazement, Radford, horribly cut and bruised, opens his eyes to look at Charlie. He’s alive on sheer will power, everything raw and bleeding. We see Charlie’s tears as he reaches out gently to touch Radford’s cheek.
Under a street lamp in the silent city Radford lurches on—afraid, confused, in pain—blindly into the night …
Conrad’s parked van stands at the curb in front of a suburban house on an ordinary street. Inside the house, in the kitchen, Harry—clean-shaven now—takes two beers from the fridge and tosses one to Conrad. Anne is watching a TV newscast. She’s worried. She glares at Conrad. She fidgets. “I want to talk to Damon.”
“Grow up.” Conrad pops the beer top.
Harry says, “We’ll see Damon sooner or later … You’re gonna stay here right now. Radford running loose, shit, God knows what may be going on in that messed-up brain of his.”
Anne says, “The poor son of a bitch.”
Conrad points a finger at her. “He’s a trained sniper. A killer, and by now he’s madder’n hell. He gets his hands on you, you won’t feel so sorry for him … You just worry what happens if they get him alive and he talks. He ID’s you—you’re an accessory.”
Anne shows a flash of heat. “So are you, Conrad baby.”
“Yeah. Well you just sit here quiet till he’s dead.”
“Jesus,” she says. “And I was once an honest-to-God fevered zealot.” She points at the TV. “Wasn’t supposed to be this way!”
“No, it wasn’t,” Conrad agrees. “Your buddy Radford was supposed to get dead.”
Harry tries to embrace Anne possessively. She pushes him away. “We started as good people. What happened to us?”
Harry says, “Hell, honey, you can’t make an omelet without—”
“Oh spare me. I hear that breaking-eggs shit enough from Damon.”
Conrad says, “This country and the tree-hugger crazies were getting too close together. It had to be stopped.” He heads for the door. “I’ve gotta go.”
Anne won’t let it go. “I bought the philosophy, Conrad—but I’m starting to think it’s a hell of a way to preserve freedom and justice for all.”
Before dawn in a scuzzy downtown park—place of business for felons; home for the homeless—a cop prowls, exploring. A few derelicts sit at trash campfires, eating scraps, drinking out of brown paper bags. Others sleep under trees or in makeshift shelters or on benches. The cop gently straightens an overcoat over a sleeping woman with a small child. He walks on, past a huddled shape under rumpled newspapers. It lifts a corner of paper stealthily to watch the cop depart—It’s Radford, shaking with a fever of pain. When he moves, his head hurts so bad he can’t stop the groan.
In the bright light of an interrogation hut the younger Radford—his face an ugly half-healed scar—peers up without interest into a TV camera. An Iraqi woman clumsily paints pancake make-up over his scabs while a soldier holds up cue-cards beside the camera. On a black-and-white monitor Radford can see himself, and on the TV screen the make-up doesn’t show; he looks puffy but not seriously injured.
He speaks straight into the camera with what seems to be peaceful calm. His eye movements betray that he’s reading from cue cards.
“I’m sorry that the leaders of my country have picked the wrong side this time. I’ve seen the terrible destruction that’s been visited on this little country by American bombs, and I feel ashamed. Ashamed of my leaders, ashamed of the petroleum imperialists who’re promoting this war on innocent civilians. I don’t want to hurt anybody. I just want to come home. I’m asking my government to reconsider—and to get out of this place where they have no business being.”
When he finishes talking, he simply stares unblinkingly into the camera. He doesn’t stir. The monitor’s screen slowly goes to black.
In the city park Radford lies in the night, hopeless amid the homeless. Something draws his attention and he turns sluggishly to see several cars drawing up over at the edge of the park. A dozen men in suits get out of them. Most of them carry shotguns or rifles.
Vickers gets out of the back of one of the cars. Behind him are the two FBI men and reporter Ainsworth. Vickers makes rapid hand-signals. The dozen armed men fan out into the park.
Radford, moving with agony, crouching to stay out of sight, staggers across a street threading traffic … and takes cover by a parked truck, and looks back at the park where the dozen men brutally roust the homeless people, shining flashlights in their faces.
Vickers and Ainsworth watch the search.
“Colonel Vickers, you really think this is going to find him?”
“Only if they get real lucky. The idea’s to give him no chance to rest. Keep him tired out. A tired man makes mistakes … He’s up there all alone without a net. He only has to slip once, and I’ve got him.”
Radford watches from behind the parked truck across the street. A government agent comes up behind him. Radford turns, looks at him. The agent deliberately takes a photo from his pocket and looks at it, comparing it with Radford’s face.
That mug-shot of Radford shows him as he looked in a previous life. The agent isn’t sure whether this is the man or not. “Mind if I see some identification?”
Across the street the dragnet is working its way toward them. In no time at all, somebody in that lot will be close enough to recognize Radford. Knowing that, he moves quickly as he takes out a wallet (cop’s wallet) and flashes the badge at the agent, and feigns exasperation. “Move on, man, you’re fucking up my stakeout.”
Embarrassed, the agent moves on. Radford reacts to the near-miss, and fades back into the shadows just before Vickers comes across the street and collars the agent.
“Who was that?”
“Some cop on a stakeout.”
“Shit. You idiot! Radford stole a cop’s ID along with that uniform.” Vickers looks in all directions, fuming with frustration.
A big illuminated sign emulates a green beret. Sure enough its lettering spells out “GREEN BERET BAR.” On both sides of the door are glass-covered shadowboxes protecting posters of soldiers, guns, combat action. Radford looks up at the “bar” sign and hesitates, and goes in. His head is killing him.
Inside he walks past a hand-lettered sign thumbtacked to the wall: “WET PANTY COMBAT NIGHT!” He goes on to the bar. The place is crowded and very noisy—a lot of exuberant shouting. Several scantily-clad women seem to be dancing in some fashion on an elevated stage, and over the sound of heavy metal music he can hear men shouting:
“Commence firing!”
“Play guns! Come on, play guns, guys!”
“I said—Commence firing!”
At first Radford can’t tell what’s going on and doesn’t care. He pays no attention to the raucous uproar. He gets a barmaid’s attention and grits out the words in pain between his teeth: “Double vodka. Straight up.”
Then he waits, enduring his pain until after an eternity the barmaid sets the drink before him. Radford slugs it down fast and waits for a hint of surcease.
There’s a tumult of enthusiastic yelling—finally he turns to see what’s going on.
Up there on stage four women are dressed in tight T-shirts and skimpy bikini panties. They’re wet. He sees bursts of water drops, and thin streams of water, coming at the women from the audience, soaking them. Not understanding, he shifts his gaze to the men in the audience—all ages; rough clothes mostly; blue collar guys. They’re having a wild time shooting at the women on stage with water-guns that are look-alike models of real submachine guns and rifles and pistols. The guys aim and shoot—some
with gleeful enjoyment, some in combat stance with deadly grimness.
“Shoot ’em in the crotch, guys—Right in there between the legs!”
Not believing what he’s seeing, Radford squints.
On stage three of the women thrust themselves forward, pelvis first, grinning at the guys; streams of water soak them. The fourth woman—a little shy, scared—hangs back.
“I wanta see some wet pussy! Man, she’s hot! You see that? I got her—and she likes it!”
Here and there in the audience Radford can see a few women, most of whom obviously have been dragged here by their men and would rather be anywhere else.
“Come on, Francine, you can’t win prize money if you don’t make like a good target!”
The fourth woman gives it a game try, pushing herself forward, but somebody’s spray hits her in the face and she flinches.
The streams of water are zeroing in with increasing accuracy on the four women’s crotches.
“All right! You guys shot like this in Vietnam, we wouldn’t of lost the war!”
Unable to take this, Radford shoves away from the bar and flees out of the place.
He stumbles outside and looks back at the Green Beret Bar. “Jesus H. Christ.”
He disappears.
At some ungodly hour of the morning in the kitchen of Charlie’s cafe, Denise Clay is interviewing Charlie while Dickinson examines Don the waiter’s ID. Don is explaining, “I been working out of Vice …”
“Yeah,” says Dickinson, “so what do you know about this Radford son of a bitch?”
Charlie is saying to Clay, “Said he didn’t do it. Said they put the gun in his hand after the shooting. And I believe it. I know him. If C.W.’d killed the guy, he’d say so.”
Don says to Dickinson, “He’s a loony, man. Beat three guys damn near to death—right here in the dining room.”
Charlie says to Clay, “Said something about a gun club in a building on Broadway.”
Clay and Dickinson come out the side door of Charlie’s Cafe and walk toward their car. Dickinson yawns, big. Clay tells him, “That waiter—talk to Vice, find out who sent him down here. Something funny there.”
“Yeah. Gotta tell you I am whipped … If we don’t nail this turkey fast—”
Commander Clay says, “What if he didn’t do it?”
“Come on. You’re not buyin’—”
She indicates the cafe. “That guy’s his old Army buddy. Knows him better’n we do. And—why is it the murder weapon had his fingerprints all over it—but there’s no prints on the ammunition?”
They get into the car …
The Army base is asleep, its drab military buildings and parked vehicles silent. On a company street a couple of enlisted soldiers walk by a sign that indicates the way to the dispensary. Radford, emerging from shadows, goes in that direction. At the dispensary door he looks all around, then tries to open it. It’s locked; it won’t budge. In a sweat, trembling, he fades back around the side of the building.
There’s a high window at the back. Radford strips off his jacket, wraps it around his fist and punches in the window. He uses the jacket to sweep slivers of glass from the frame before he crawls in through the high opening. If he sees the small red light glowing on a keypad panel he disregards it; how’s he to know the light was green until he smashed the window?
Dr. Trong and his wife are awakened by a strident buzzing noise. Dr. Trong fumbles for a switch, finds it and silences the alarm buzzer. He gets into his robe and slippers, and takes a revolver from a drawer. At the door he pauses and smiles at his wife. “Yes, dear, I’ll be careful.” When he goes out, his wife yawns and goes back to sleep.
In the back room of the dispensary Radford paws with increasing desperation through cabinets. He finds a bottle of tablets and tries to read the label—“Aspirin”—he stuffs it in his pocket and searches on …
Dr. Trong arrives on foot outside the place, in bathrobe and slippers, carrying his revolver. With absolute silence he unlocks the front door and enters, cocking the revolver.
In the back room Radford opens a cabinet door and discovers—a big steel safe, like a half-size bank vault. And a sign on it in great big printing: “In here, stupids. The narcotics. Don’t break in. It’s booby-trapped.”
Radford reacts: hopelessness. He’s trembling violently and soaked with sweat. He looks ghastly. And now he glances around and for the first time really notices the glowing red light on the alarm keypad. As he gapes at it he deflates even further. He seems paralyzed. Then—did he hear something or is it his imagination?
Dr. Trong moves cautiously through the corridor toward the door that leads into the back room. He moves through the dark without sound, and the cocked gun is ready in his hand.
He slowly enters the back room, silent, gun up. He flips the light switch. Lights come on. And just then—
Radford jumps him from on top of a steel filing cabinet.
Dr. Trong starts to struggle, then recognizes him and relaxes. It requires little effort—too little—for Radford to wrestle the revolver away from him.
Radford stands back, holding the cocked revolver, and gestures toward the safe. Dr. Trong obeys: twirls the combination dials. “You look god-awful, C.W.”
When the vault door begins to open, Radford pushes the doctor back, pulls it wide and looks in. Vials, bottles, papers. He rummages among them.
Dr. Trong says conversationally, “Where’s it hurt? Your head?”
“No. My big toe, you asshole.”
Radford finds a syringe, loads it from the vial, rolls up a sleeve, prepares to inject himself—all this while keeping the revolver close at hand and one eye on Dr. Trong across the room.
“I didn’t assassinate anybody.”
“All right,” Dr. Trong says. “Who did?”
“We didn’t get formally introduced.”
“You saw a face? Faces?”
Radford makes no answer; he’s distracted, reading the label of a vial. He puts it back and tries another. This one satisfies him.
The doctor says, “Between them and the police, it must feel like Kurdistan all over again—you can’t see them but you know they’re coming back to nail you again, maybe now and maybe next week, and it’s got you all bent out of shape.”
Radford says, “I don’t need your sympathy.”
“My sympathy won’t kill you.”
“Don’t mess with me. I don’t want people messing with me any more.”
He injects—and unexpectedly the injection hurts.
“Oww!!” He bends over with pain; rocks in agony, finally fumbles for the revolver. He points it accusingly. “What’d you put in this stuff?”
“What’s it say on the label?”
Radford holds his arm in pain. “Don’t lie to me!”
Dr. Trong shrugs. “Morphine … A little oil.” He grins amiably. “Hurts like a son of a bitch, don’t it.”
“You bastard.” Radford’s just about mad enough to shoot him; he’s doubled over—his arm is in agonizing pain.
The headline on the paper at the corner newsstand is a bold banner: “Assassin Escapes—A Loner? Or Part of Intricate Plot?”
Wojack, the shooter, buys a copy and while the news agent fishes for change Wojack remarks in a supercilious Yale drawl: “Every time some politician gets assassinated, people just can’t settle for the simple obvious facts—not good enough to have some homicidal maniac out there—always got to be some far-fetched theory about a sinister conspiracy.”
The news agent nods agreement. Wojack walks to the corner—just as Conrad’s van pulls up. Wojack gets in, and the van pulls away, hardly having stopped at all.
At the wheel Conrad lights a cigarillo. Wojack fastens his shoulder harness. He hands the newspaper to Gootch, who sits in the plush custom room behind the seats.
Gootch glances at the headline and folds the paper; he’s got more urgent things on his mind. He says to Wojack, “Timetable’s moved up. It’s today.”
Wojack considers that, then nods with satisfaction. “While Radford’s still on the loose. That’s very bright of someone.”
Gootch agrees. “He’ll get blamed for this one too.”
Conrad puffs smoke. “Doesn’t matter. These things have to be done—if somebody doesn’t exterminate these vermin, this world won’t be fit to live in. I’d be proud to take the blame if I didn’t have orders to stay covert.”
Wojack says, “Your orders don’t amuse me very much, old sport. Your money does. I want the next installment tonight.”
“It’s waiting. What else you need?”
“High-speed ammunition and a twelve-ex scope.”
“You got it,” Conrad says, and the van turns a corner, running for a green light.
Radford leans against a wall in Trong’s dispensary as the painkilling narcotic takes effect. His arm still hurts. He holds the revolver and watches the doctor suspiciously.
Dr. Trong is saying, “—saved all this trouble if you hadn’t been too stubborn to die way back then.”
Radford says gloomily, “I should’ve died.”
“Oh for God’s sake quit being so absurdly macho. Learn a little humility, C.W. Get rid of that thousand-yard stare … All right, you felt like the worst fink in history—you thought you were the only man who’d ever been tortured to the point where he broke the code of conduct … You know, we’ve found out a lot of them broke. You’re not so special after all … Hey. Hear what I’m saying. The only thing you did wrong was you were there illegally in the first place and they had no right to send you in there. You didn’t do anything.”
Radford broods at him, absorbing it.
Dr. Trong sees he’s got an opening. He leans forward. “Wars are fought by old men using young men’s bodies. Now somebody’s doing the same thing to you all over again. Somebody’s used you.”
“Shut up.”
“Come on, then. Get mad. It’s all right. Getting mad—it’s the first step in getting even.”
In the kind of shop where you can buy any weapon that’s legal and—if you know the secret word, some that aren’t—three men enter from the parked van out front: Wojack, Gootch and Conrad. A clean-shaven man unlocks the side door to let them in to the shop. The main thing that makes him recognizable is his bad tooth when he smiles: Harry Sinclair. Otherwise he’s changed his appearance again—a regular Lon Chaney.
Hit and The Marksman Page 22
