“Yeah, I play paintball. You give some and you get some.”
“Mr. Grey—”
“Larry.”
“Larry, let’s cut to the chase, okay?”
“Hey, you’re the one came to me.”
“Do you have any idea who this shooter might be?”
“Nope.” He drained his coffee and stood up. “If that’s what you came to ask, you got your answer. Seems you made a long drive for nothing. You should have called first. It would have saved you some time.”
He was right, but then Houston would have lost the opportunity to look him in the eye to see if he was lying and Houston was certain that if Grey wasn’t lying, he was at least hiding something.
“No sweat,” he said. “I wanted to see the country anyhow.” And, he thought, meet a certified flaming asshole.
Gloucester had always been one of Houston’s favorite towns. Over the years, it had maintained its old-time seaport feeling. As soon as they entered the city, visitors knew without doubt, how the residents made a living. One way or the other, if you lived in Gloucester, you owed your livelihood to the sea. Even the air smelled of the ocean; depending on what part of town you were in, the scent would come from either the hundreds of commercial fishing boats or the fish processing plants. Fishing was Gloucester; without it, the place would have dried up and blown away two hundred years ago.
Richie Billips lived in a small house not far from the waterfront. The door was answered by a frail white-headed woman who looked old enough to be Gloucester’s first resident. She couldn’t had been much more than five feet tall, possibly shorter, and craned her neck when she peered up at Houston. She squinted as she tried to determine if she knew him. At least two generations of your family had to live in small New England towns before they considered you a local and not from away. Houston knew she was trying to determine where he belonged on Gloucester’s social ladder. “You ain’t one of them Moonies are you?”
Houston knew she just placed him below the lowest rung on the social ladder. The followers of Reverend Sung Yung Moon had bought up quite a bit of real estate in Gloucester back in the 1980s and the locals had been more than a little upset over it—to be suspected of being a Moonie was not a compliment in Gloucester.
“No, ma’am. I’m neither. I’m here to see Richie Billips. Is he in?”
Inside the house, a talk show blasted from a television and for a second Houston wasn’t sure if she’d heard him over the cacophony. However, she stepped aside. “Well, if you ain’t a Moonie, come in. I’ll get Richard. He’s out back.” The old woman elevated her voice so she could be heard over the blaring television.
Turning and walking, she didn’t look back, talking as she went and taking it on faith that he followed. They entered a sitting room with a couple of armchairs, a couch and the television that polluted the air with talk show garbage. “Have a seat. You’re lucky you came today.”
“Oh, how’s that?”
“Richard is going out tomorrow. He could be gone a couple of weeks or longer.”
Houston agreed. He was lucky Billips was at home. When deep-water fishing trawlers went to sea they stayed out until one of two things occur: either, they filled their holds or their provisions and/or fuel dipped so low that they had to come back—a successful trip was one where you drifted into the dock with empty fuel tanks and a full hold.
A door slammed in the rear of the house and Houston heard a rough male voice say, “What is it, Grandma?”
The old woman answered, “You got a guest. Now before you go in the front room clean yourself up a bit. You don’t want people to think you’re a bum.”
He grumbled something in a voice too low for Houston to make out what he said, but she must have won. Another door slammed and he heard water running through the house’s ancient plumbing. The grandmother returned and asked if he wanted something to drink. Houston knew how these old women could be. The easiest way to deal with them was to say yes, even if all you asked for was a glass of water, which is what he did.
Houston got the water and a plate stacked three layers high with cookies and cake. He couldn’t help but like Richie’s grandmother—she was a food pusher par excellence, right up there with his own mother and grandmother.
When Richie Billips finally made his appearance, Houston was on his second glass of water, third cookie and was exasperated from trying to make the old girl understand he was not a descendant of General Sam Houston.
Grandma saw Richie and gave him a quick inspection to determine whether he was sufficiently presentable to receive visitors. Houston wouldn’t have been surprised to see her spit shine her grandson’s face and slick his hair into place. However, Richie passed the inspection and she excused herself so they could talk in private. She turned off the television and disappeared. After a couple of minutes, the talk show host’s voice returned—this time from the interior of the house.
Houston turned his attention to Billips. Like Grey, he was big and obviously strong. He was a tall, wiry man, standing six-two, maybe six-three. But his muscular physique was that of a man who made his living doing grueling physical labor rather than that of an overdeveloped gym rat. His arms were sinewy and it was easy to see he possessed incredible strength. The physically weak don’t cut it on deep-water fishing trawlers.
“Do I know you?”
“I don’t think so. My name is Mike Houston. I’m a cop from Boston.”
“How can I help you, Mike Houston?”
Houston tried a different approach with Billips. “I got your name from a friend of mine, Danny Drews.”
Richie’s eyes narrowed. “Danny’s dead. I heard it on the news.”
“Yeah.”
Richie glanced over his shoulder to see where his grandmother was. “That shooter has to be one psychotic fuck, man—crazy as a rabid harbor seal.”
“Be that as it may, we’ll get him yet.”
“Yeah, but you and I know that the only score that counts in the game those sick bastards like to play is who walks away.”
“You talk as if you know this guy. Do you?”
Billips became suspicious. “Who knows you’re here?”
“I got your address from Major Estes and I just talked with Larry Grey. Didn’t she call and let you know I was coming?”
His face became pasty white. “I’m screwed.”
“Why?”
“Grey is in it up to his neck—maybe Estes too. She has this not-so-hidden agenda . . . she’s always trying to prove she’s the greatest fucking marine since Chesty Puller. If they sent you to me then the shooter won’t be far behind.”
“Maybe you better tell me what you know.”
“I don’t know who’s doing the shooting, but I heard there’s this guy in town with a major league hard-on for someone. Rumor has it this is about some old garbage from years ago. All I know is he looks like a crispy critter.”
Houston stared at him. He wasn’t sure if he’d heard him right. “Say that again.”
“I heard the guy is scarred worse than a patient at the Shriner’s burn center. I’ve never laid eyes on him but some of the guys have told me that compared to this guy, burnt bacon looks good.”
Houston’s head snapped up. Disfigurement? Burn scars? He immediately thought of the smoldering ruins of the building in which he’d last seen Edwin Rosa. “You heard? From whom?”
“It’s common scuttlebutt throughout the battalion. I heard some of the guys talkin’ over coffee.”
“I need a name or names.”
“Look, I don’t want to get anyone in hot water . . . ”
“I understand that, but I need to know where you heard this.”
“You already talked to him—Larry Grey.”
“You ever hear anyone mention the name Edwin Rosa?”
“No.”
“I sure as hell did.” Houston wondered, why would Estes and Grey get involved with a psychotic killer?
“Estes has this hang-up about being a wo
man and not getting a combat command.”
“Women have been in combat for several years now.”
“As pilots and grunts, but no woman marine has ever commanded a combat unit. Estes wants to prove that she’s as good as any male officer.”
“What about Grey?”
“He’s an asshole . . . he’d do it for kicks.”
23
“The role of the sniper in an urban guerrilla environment is . . . engaging dissidents/urban guerrillas when involved in hijacking, kidnapping, holding hostages, etc.”
—US Marine Corps Scout/Sniper Training Manual
Upon his return from Gloucester, Houston met Anne at the Union Oyster House, a block from Faneuil Hall. They sat in one of the more secluded tables in the old restaurant and Houston felt that the environment was safe enough for them to let their guard down. He reached across the table and placed his hand upon hers. He noticed her nervous glance around the room. “I’m at the point where I’d like to say screw the job; let’s let everyone know how we feel.”
“I’m sure there are people in the department who know,” Anne replied. “Either they don’t have enough proof to complain or they just don’t care.”
“There are times when I almost wish the brass would push the issue. I’ve been having thoughts of retiring.”
Anne pulled her hand from under his. “What?”
“I’m getting tired of dealing with society’s underbelly.”
“Does this have anything to do with our discussion with your daughter over lunch the other day?”
“That could be part of it. There’re other factors though. All my life I’ve been Mike Houston, marine sniper, or Mike Houston, Boston police detective. I wonder what it would be like just to be Mike Houston for a while.”
“Where does that leave me?” Anne appeared to be cool, but Houston knew her well enough to see that she was concerned.
“Hon, that’s up to you. There will be a day of reckoning when we both have to make a decision. We can try to keep on as we have, keeping up the façade of being in a professional relationship only—and I don’t know how well, we’ve done that. Or we can come out and let everyone know and see how the chips fall . . . ”
“That would be the end of our partnership.”
“Well, I believe that our partnership has cost you. If you weren’t tied to me, you’d be at least a lieutenant by now. Hell, you might even be in line for a promotion to captain.”
“That was my decision, Mike. You know that.”
The discussion ended when a waiter appeared and placed a glass of water and a menu in front of each of them. They studied the selections for a few minutes before Houston broke the silence. “You could leave the job too. I’ve been thinking of getting a place in either Maine or New Hampshire—someplace remote, away from people and all the chaos they cause. Or you can stay on the job.”
Anne laid her menu down and stared at him. “Are you giving me an ultimatum?”
“No, anything but that. I’m trying—and not too successfully—to let you know that whatever decision you make, I’ll support it.”
“You sound as if you’ve already made up your mind.”
Houston stared out the window for a second at the headlights on the cars driving along Union Street. “It’s reached the point where the job has cost me too much . . . ”
“Like Pam?”
“Like the chance to see my daughter grow up, to be there when she needed a father. Pam and I were doomed from the start.” He took a drink of water. “Enough of this; let’s eat.”
“Oh, I gave Susie my key to your place. She said she wanted to spend the weekend with you.”
“Did you call her?”
“No, she called the department asking for you and I happened to be there when Charley Davis took the call.
Houston and Anne arrived at his apartment shortly before nine and Susie was already there.
He stepped back and looked into the living room, where Susie sat on the couch and leafed through a magazine. “I can’t believe how much she’s changed. She’s not a child anymore. She’s—” He had a lump as big as an orange in his throat. He thought about all he had missed in the years since he and her mother had parted. “She’s not my little girl anymore.”
Anne said, “She’ll always be your little girl.”
Houston opened the refrigerator, took out a pitcher of iced tea and poured a glass. He leaned against the counter sipping it, unwilling to take his eyes off his daughter. He thought about what Anne had said about Susie always being his little girl and it made him feel good. Houston smiled, placed his glass on the counter, turned to Anne, and took her into his arms. He kissed her and she responded.
“I’m sorry. I know that’s against the rules we’ve agreed upon.”
“That’s all right. It’s just that we have to be careful.”
“I know.”
He turned toward the living room and stopped when she said, “Mike . . . ”
“Yeah?”
“For what it’s worth, I enjoyed it . . . maybe down the road, we could go away for a weekend—just the two of us. Far enough away that nobody on the BPD will see us.”
“I’d like that. Let’s not wait too long. Okay?”
“Go get acquainted with your daughter. I’ll whip up some food and be with you in a minute.”
Houston walked into the living room and stopped for a second. Looking at Susie, he couldn’t help but wonder how many bad memories she had of him. He remembered the long battles between him and her mother and the times she had been disappointed when his job kept him from showing up for piano recitals, parent-teacher conferences, and PTA meetings.
Houston knew he had to make up a lot of ground. But what really ate at him was that he would have to go slow. He couldn’t mend years of damage in fifteen minutes. It was going to take time—and taking time was something he had always hated. He wanted to make it right as soon as possible—if not yesterday, then now. Unfortunately, it wasn’t going to work that way. It could take years to rebuild the trust and confidence he had betrayed and mend the invisible scars he had caused. That thought depressed him. He made up his mind that he was going to do this the right way and not push. It was an easy decision to make—after all, he had no other options. If he tried to control this, the way he tried to control things during those angry years, all he would accomplish would be to drive Susie away again.
The next day was Saturday. Houston woke up and rolled over. The sun blazed through the window and he felt hung over, only from lack of sleep, not booze. Swinging his legs off the side of the bed, he sat up and glanced at his watch. It was eleven in the morning! He had overslept. It had been around four when fatigue finally wore him down and he retired. Anne had left around one and Susie had dropped off around three thirty.
Wearing a pair of worn blue jeans and a T-shirt, Houston walked into the kitchen, put on a pot of coffee and then entered the living room. Rumpled blankets on the couch provided proof that Susie had slept there, but was gone. He knew that it was past the time when he should hit the streets, but could not bring himself to leave. Instead, he dropped into an easy chair and stared at the place where his daughter had slept.
The coffee maker popped, hissed and rumbled, telling him it was ready. He returned to the kitchen, poured a mug, and then leaned against the counter. Taking a drink of the hot brew, his eyes were attracted to a piece of paper stuck to the refrigerator by a magnetic miniature replica of the lighthouse at Portland Head. He sipped coffee while reading the note. It was from Maureen, she and Susie had gone shopping and if he wanted to join them, they’d be having lunch at twelve at a place they frequented in Quincy Market. Houston didn’t have anything pressing so he took a quick shower, trying to clear the cobwebs from too little sleep.
Houston was toweling off when the phone rang. He assumed it was Anne and snatched it up. “Hey.”
“Have a nice trip up to the north shore?”
The voice sounded muffled and disguised
.
“Who is this?” Houston asked, although by now the gravelly voice was all too familiar.
“The game is afoot, my friend.”
“Listen, asshole. I’m not playing any games with you—”
“Oh, you will, Mikey. Believe me, you will.”
Houston fought back the impulse to make a childish threat.
“By the way, I think that little girl of yours is a real looker—”
“You stay away from my daughter.”
“Then come and play with us when you’re called, Houston. Otherwise we’ll have to take steps to ensure that you do. By the way, it is a nice day for hanging out in Quincy Market.”
The phone went dead.
Houston immediately punched the numbers to Anne’s cell phone. Listening to the phone ring, he swore impatiently. After four rings, he got a message saying the cellular customer he called was unavailable. He cursed, left her a short message—Meet me at Quincy Market as soon as you can get there—and slammed the phone down. He grabbed his pistol and bolted through the door.
As he sped to Quincy Market, Houston tried to figure out how Maureen could have been so irresponsible as to take Susie to one of the most public places in Boston. The only reason he could fathom was that his sister and daughter were either unaware of or in denial about the danger they were in. When he arrived at North Market Street, he double-parked his car, leaving the emergency lights in the grille flashing.
Quincy Market and Faneuil Hall were two of Boston’s most popular tourist sites. John F. Kennedy had announced his candidacy for president of the United States on the second floor of Faneuil Hall and shoppers could find just about anything they wanted in the market. Faneuil Hall’s ground floor was a food court, offering virtually any kind of food a person could want. The rest of the market was full of small boutiques where shoppers could buy anything from embroidered hats to hot sauce. Houston skipped the food places and went straight for the shopping in the market’s three buildings. His chances of finding Maureen and Susie were slim, but he had to try. First, he searched the North Market Building and, being unfamiliar with the interests of both his sister and daughter, checked out every shop he thought would be of interest to women. Not finding them, he entered the center building, Quincy Market itself. No luck there either. He was crossing the courtyard between Quincy Market and the South Market Building when he saw them strolling toward him. A guy dressed in camouflaged clothing was following them and, Houston thought, studying them more than a passing stranger should. He wore a soft Marine cover pulled low so it obscured his face. There was no doubt in Houston’s mind what the stalker had planned. As the man closed with the women, he increased his pace.
Sniper Page 17
