The gun shop is a motley cluttered arsenal. Harry locks the door. Gootch takes an immediate childlike interest in a tripod-mounted machine gun and plays with it—a kid with a toy. Conrad unlocks a steel drawer, takes out an envelope and hands it to Wojack, who leafs through the money inside it, rapidly counting. He says to Harry, “Let me have forty 308s with one-ten-grain soft-points.”
Conrad asks, “Forty cartridges?”
It makes Gootch look up. “You fixin’ to start a war or something?”
Wojack says, mock-gentle, “I’d like to burn up a few sighting it in—if you don’t mind.”
Harry digs out two boxes of rifle shells and hands them to Wojack. Conrad turns on a TV set, but gets only snow.
Harry says, “These’ll give you a minus nine-point-three trajectory at three hundred yards. Or I can give you a boat-tail soft-point that’ll give you eight-point-four …”
“These’ll do.” Wojack yawns. “They’ll kill the man—dead enough.”
Radford holds the revolver. He looks up through the smashed window at the dawn sky. Dr. Trong watches, unafraid. Radford rubs his arm, trying to think.
The doctor says, “Call the police. You haven’t got a chance on your own.”
“They’d put me in a hole. I can’t take that any more.” Radford examines the revolver.
Dr. Trong says mildly, “I don’t think killing yourself is a sensible alternative.”
“Not right away anyhow. It’s not me I want to blow away.”
“I see. But you do want to go after someone? That’s progress, for you.”
“Now you think it’s progress to want to kill people?”
“It’s progress for you to want something.” Then Dr. Trong picks up a phone. Radford moves, as if to stop him—then stops, and after a long beat decides to trust him; he nods permission. Dr. Trong reacts—a profound moment—and then dials.
The doctor says into the phone, “Hi. Me … Any danger of us getting a bite of breakfast?”
On an outdoor shooting range at dawn, with a scrubby hillside for a backstop. Wojack sits at a bench-rest table and sights in his rifle on a long-range target. Conrad smokes. He and Gootch watch from nearby while Wojack fiddles with the weapon—the same kind of .308 rifle as before, with a ’scope mounted on it. He fires a shot and then studies the target through the ’scope. Through its lenses he can see one hole a bit wide of center. He adjusts a set-screw and aims again. When he squeezes it off he can see the image jerk a bit with recoil; it settles down—and the second bullet hole is dead-center in the bull’s eye.
On the indoor shooting range—the target range where Radford first met Harry. Several men and women are shooting at targets. An elderly supervisor looks up as Clay and Dickinson enter. They show him their IDs. And ask him a question or two.
He’s puzzled. “Sunday? Wasn’t anybody here Sunday. I’ve been closed Sundays for eighteen years.”
Dickinson asks, “How many people have keys?”
“Well gosh, I don’t know for sure. Too many, I guess, after all these years. I keep meaning to change the locks, you know, but—” He gives them an apologetic look.
Dr. Trong and Radford sit at the dinette table, having toast and coffee. In the middle of the table is that same morphine vial, and a packet of disposable syringes. Mrs. Trong, in houserobe and slippers, absently kisses her husband’s cheek and turns to go. Her husband touches her sleeve. “See if I’ve got any clothes big enough for C.W.”
She flaps a hand in acknowledgement and exits.
Dr. Trong says, “She’s used to my patients dropping in at weird hours … That injection still hurt your arm?”
“Stings like holy hell.”
“Good.” He indicates the vial and syringes. “Take ’em. I don’t want you busting into any pharmacies. Your burglary technique, you’d getting caught for breaking-and-entering.”
“Right. You got a cellular phone I can borrow?”
Trong looks at him. “You want to call her on the phone?”
Radford just watches until the doctor shrugs and hands him a flip-phone. It slides into Radford’s pocket. Then he winces. “You put something in there. To make it hurt.”
Dr. Trong gathers the dishes and begins to wash them. “It’s harmless … Look, C.W., you just think you need drugs for the pain. You healed a long time ago. The headaches are psychosomatic. You don’t need drugs.”
Wojack studies the consulate through his rifle ’scope, sliding the view across the forbidding fences and walls and the imposing building behind them, then down past uniformed guards to a brass plaque on the gatepost—“consulate” but he can’t see which country’s—and he continues to shift his aim up past the wall to an upper-story window. Through it we see a man sitting up in bed with a pad in his lap, writing. Something foreign about him. He looks powerful; important. The man is smoking a cigarette, deep in thought. The ’scope’s reticule centers on his chest. Wojack speaks softly: “Don’t smoke in bed, you twit. Hazardous to your health.” He squeezes it off and the image jerks with recoil; when it settles the man in bed is dead, his chest blown apart in blood, the cigarette falling from his limp hand.
Wojack runs, stooped over, to the back of the rooftop and swings himself out over the back of the building onto something that looks like a miniature window-washers’ scaffold. It’s supported on a system of pulleys and lines. It lowers him, swiftly and smoothly like a high-speed elevator, to an alley floor where Gootch matter-of-factly recovers the lift-lines and tosses the apparatus into the back of the van while Wojack and his rifle climb into the passenger seat; Conrad puts it in Drive as Gootch jumps into the back and pulls the rear door shut, and the van pulls away at a sedate speed, breaking no traffic regulations.
An Army Jeep pulls up opposite the vast lawn of a house that exudes solid establishment wealth, where a very attractive woman in her thirties, wearing shorts and T-shirt but very well groomed, is snipping roses, collecting flowers. This is Dorothy, depicted in the photograph that was in Radford’s room; it was taken when they both were younger.
Dr. Trong, at the wheel of the Jeep, says, “She waited for you. Even after you cracked. When everybody else gave you up for a traitor, Dorothy waited. I think she may still be waiting.”
Beside him Radford wears windbreaker, khakis—newly borrowed clothes. The engine idles and they continue to watch the estate across the street. Dr. Trong says, “She could accept it even when you couldn’t. She had faith.”
Radford says, “She should’ve married some guy.”
Dorothy, cutting roses, is unaware she’s being watched.
Dr. Trong says, “She understands why you ran away—why you dropped out. I think she’s more understanding than I am. You were on your way, C.W. You’d have been a chairman of the board or maybe you’d have taken over her father’s seat in the Senate.”
“What’re we doing here? Come on. Let’s go.”
“Dorothy loves you, you know. She’s waiting, C.W.”
“Yeah. Well your timing’s terrific. I’ve got nothing to offer her but a death watch.”
By a culvert along the edge of a country road Dr. Trong stops the Jeep. Radford gets out. The doctor says, “It may not be just a death watch. We may just get this thing turned around. If we do, what happens after? I don’t want to see you washing dishes again.”
“I’ll give it some thought when I get the time.”
“Promise?”
“Get the fuck out of here.” Radford waves Dr. Trong away and watches the Jeep drive off. Then he climbs down to the overgrown culvert under the road. He uncovers the hidden motorcycle. And goddammit he’s got a headache again.
In the culvert there’s plenty of reading material. Graffiti, including: “To hell with tomorrow,” printed with surprising neatness.
The headache is too much for Radford. He unwraps Dr. Trong’s medicine and prepares an injection—hesitates but finally shoots up. At first there’s blessed relief. He switches on the bike’s police radio to listen t
o the calls and hears mostly scratchy dispatch broadcasts that he can’t understand. Then there’s a dreadful pain in his arm. He doubles over, clutches the arm, dances around.
“Holy shit. SON of a bitch!”
And then after a moment he is distracted by sound of the police radio; he crosses to the motorcycle to listen. It’s a woman’s voice, crackling with static: “… State police requested to assist. Subject C. W. Radford. New assassination seven a.m. this morning, same M.O., same kind of rifle. Cancel all leaves and passes. Off-duty personnel report in for overtime assignment.”
Radford stares. He just doesn’t believe this.
Police headquarters is crowded with intense activity—noise, arguments, cops and officials, everything moving busily. Commander Clay hurries toward her corner office. Reporter Ainsworth trails her. “Commander Clay …”
“Later.”
Clay swings into her office and turns to slam the door in Ainsworth’s face. Dickinson squeezes in past both of them.
Ainsworth pleads. “Hey, how about it?”
Dickinson slams the door, shutting Ainsworth out. “Shitfuck. No witnesses, no physical evidence except the 308 softpoint ammo—you can buy it anywhere.”
The ringing phone interrupts him. Clay grabs it up. “Commander Clay. I trust it’s important?” Then Dickinson sees her react. “You’re kidding! Put him on—and trace it.”
Radford stands by his motorcycle around the blind side of the boarded-up filling station. He’s talking on the flipphone he borrowed from the doc. “I don’t have to make this call. I’m taking a chance, right? So listen to me. I didn’t even know about this new killing. I just heard about it on the radio. I’m not the one you want. I’m telling you because I want you to look for the real assassins.”
Clay’s voice reaches him as if from far away in the stars. “They out there with the real killers in the O.J. case? Well hell—describe for me the people you say you saw.”
Radford gives a thumbnail description of Harry, the way Harry looked the last time Radford saw him. He adds, “He knew the club—he knew the range. And there was a woman. A blonde. Natural blonde.” He describes Anne.
Clay says, “C.W., I want you to come in here. We can protect you. I give you my word, we’ll look for them.”
“Some other time, Commander. You find ’em first.”
“You haven’t got a chance.”
“You can’t always go by that. Anyway you’ve got rules. I haven’t.”
“Oh, we’ve all got rules, C.W. Even you … We’ve traced this call and I’m going to nail you.”
Radford clicks the END button, gives the cell phone a quizzical look, then sets it down gently on the lid of a trash can and gets on the motorcycle and rides away, not in a hurry.
He arrives at the back-road culvert on the motorcycle, stops, looks all around, and when he knows he’s unobserved, rides the bike down the embankment and hides it in the culvert under the road. He sits down in his hidey-hole, holding his aching head, talking to himself: “Okay, smart ass. Now what?”
This pain is unbearable in his head. He takes out the syringe kit and gets ready to inject himself. Then he looks at the painful needle—and finally puts it back in the case without using it. He puts the stuff away. Then he bends over—way over, nearly upside down, holding his throbbing head in his hands. And from that angle he’s looking at the culvert wall and he sees, upside down, the graffiti “To hell with tomorrow.” He reacts, because upside down, the “To hell” part looks like “7734 OL.” He sits up, staring at the graffiti. He’s remembering that cafe window reflection of the upside-down backward reflection of the van’s license plate.
Aloud, he says, “To hell.”
Slowly, relishing this discovery, he settles astride the motorcycle, starts her up, smiles, and—lets ’er rip.
At speed on the highway he thrusts his face into the wind and—he’s enjoying this …
Sign on the counter: “Department of Motor Vehicles.”
Radford casually shows his badge to a clerk, who then brings out a book. Radford looks through it, searching for a number—and with sudden triumph he jabs his finger onto the page.
There it is—the 7734 OL license plate—on Conrad’s van. It waits parked in front of a high-rise apartment house.
Radford rides his police motorcycle past it. His eyes study everything at once. He makes one pass, hangs a U-turn and comes back. Finally he parks the cycle. The van has just been washed; it sparkles.
Radford studies the polished van, then looks up at the apartment house above it. Balconies up there. Posh.
He takes a small object from the saddlebag and walks around, pretending to admire the sparkling van. Near the back he “accidentally” drops something in the street. He crouches to pick it up—it’s an all-steel one-piece ice pick. While he’s crouched by the rear bumper of the van he reaches out underneath and thrusts upward several times with great strength.
Fluid begins to drip from the punctured gas tank. It starts to form a pool. Without hurry Radford gets to his feet and, carrying his nutcracker nightsticks, strides purposefully around the side of the apartment house.
The service door is locked of course, but it’s only a spring-lock. He pries his ice pick in against the face-plate, works it hard and finally gets the door open and wheels inside toting the nutcracker.
Conrad is in the front room of his apartment talking on the phone and smoking a cigarillo. An open pack, and a lighter, are on the glass coffee table by the phone. The flat is a modern well-appointed masculine place on an upper floor. Glass doors, leading out onto the balcony, stand open. He’s saying into the phone, “Okay, we had an uptick; go ahead and execute the short sale.” He’s interrupted by the sound of the door buzzer. “That must be Gootch. Gotta go. I’ll talk on you later.” He hangs up and goes to the door.
When Conrad begins to open it, the door slams in against him, knocking him off balance, and a very angry Radford swarms in violently, kicking the door shut behind him, bashing Conrad to his knees and wrapping the nutcracker around Conrad’s neck all in one smooth coordinated move.
“Okay, Mr. Conrad. You can talk to me, or you can die.”
Conrad hacks, half choking, “Get this fucking thing off me.”
One-handed, Radford frisks him. He takes a revolver out of Conrad’s belt from where it was hidden under the shirt. Then he whips the nutcracker away from Conrad’s throat. “Don’t move a whisker.”
Radford does a quick search to make sure no one else is in the apartment: keeping one eye and Conrad’s own gun pointed at the motionless Conrad, he hurries from door to door, peering into rooms and closets. At one trophy cabinet he pauses to look at a couple of photos that are matted on the wall among various golf and fishing trophies. It includes a photograph of a group of rifle competitors at an outdoor meet. Mixed amid half a dozen strangers in shooting jackets and vests, he recognizes Harry (no beard), Conrad and Gootch. Harry, front and center, is holding a trophy and smiling. We see the bad front tooth.
“Hey Conrad. Tell me about your little shooting club.”
Conrad is still hoarse from the nutcracker. “How the hell’d you find me?”
Radford happens to be looking at the adjacent photo—this one showing Conrad standing proudly by his shiny new van, and favoring a banner: “Custom Van Show—FIRST PRIZE.” Radford returns to the photo of the shooters. He rips it down and stuffs it in his pocket. He looks at Conrad, then goes swiftly out to the balcony, looks around, looks down over the edge. From here he can see the street below and, straight below, the polished top of Conrad’s van. He can see the glisten of the spreading puddle of fluid behind the van.
Radford re-enters the apartment. Still holding Conrad’s revolver, he sits down by the phone, studies the photo of the shooting team and contemplates Conrad as if trying to figure out how to handle this. He reaches for the open pack of cigarillos; puts one in his mouth and lights it.
Conrad says, “Thought you didn’t smoke.”
<
br /> “Why? What gave you that idea?”
“We’ve got a file on you—Look, I’d be sore too, in your shoes, but don’t mix that cigarillo smoke with melodrama, old buddy. I’m just a sub-contractor. A voice on the phone, that’s all I know. You can try bamboo under the fingernails but I still won’t know anything that’d help you.”
Radford goes out onto the balcony. He looks down, judges the wind against his moistened finger, then drops the lit cigarillo and steps back, looking deadpan at Conrad. A moment later they both hear the sound of a major explosion. The blast unsteadies Radford on his feet and as he rights them he sees Conrad’s eyes go wide as Conrad, peering past him, sees recognizable pieces of the van soar up past the window in a graceful arc.
Conrad leaps to his feet, runs to the balcony, stares down. Disbelief—astonishment. “You son of a bitch!”
Radford glances down over the edge as what’s left of the van is consumed in a conflagration.
Conrad is beside himself. Radford shoves him back inside. He shuts the glass doors and speaks:
“Now I’ll ask. Just once.”
Conrad walks away gathering his composure; he’s trying to think. Radford readies the nutcracker and begins to walk forward. Half the length of the room separates them.
Conrad says, “I’ve studied you inside and out. I memorized that file. I know you.”
He swings back in his pacing. Walks toward Radford—not hurrying, and not approaching too close. “You got brainwashed someplace between sniper school and coming back from Iraq. What happened, you get hypnotized by some Zen priest? You had a chance to kill those guys in the cafe the other night, but you wouldn’t do it. You had ’em dead to rights, you let ’em go. So you’re not going to kill me now—I’ve got no gun and anyhow I’m no use to you dead … You won’t shoot me in the back.”
And abruptly Conrad leaps to the door, yanks it open and dives through. Radford throws the nutcracker but it’s a fraction of an instant too late; it clatters against the closing door. Radford races to the door, picks up the nutcracker, exits on the run …
Hit and The Marksman Page 23
