“You’re not thinking of taking off on me are you?”
“I wouldn’t think of it, buddy. Either one or none of us is leaving this island alive. I sure hope your friends don’t send a bunch of goddamned cops up here—I got nothing against them and it would serve no purpose other than to run up the body count. What was that old song? I remember. Catch us if you can.”
Houston waited for five minutes, hearing nothing but the leaves rustling in the breeze. Convinced that the shooter was gone, he set out to find him, circumventing the clearing.
Houston stayed below the skyline and in the trees, following a course parallel to the shoreline as he searched the island. He stopped at the shooter’s motorboat, removed the fuel tank and carried it into the woods. He buried it under leaves and loose sediment. Houston would return to the canoe and disable it. Then, asshole, he thought, I’ll know you aren’t leaving.
He left the shore and avoided the trail, moving through the woods. If it took him the rest of his life, he was going to find this guy—and he would turn over every rock on the island to do it.
Winter kept the throttle wide open. The boat bounced across the water like a skipping stone. Each time the hull slammed into the water, Anne bounced and grunted in pain. O’Leary and Susie knelt beside her to keep her from tumbling off the mattress.
O’Leary cursed. He had been broadcasting constantly on the citizen’s band, trying numerous channels, but all he heard was static. He turned his head to avoid the constant spray that the boat’s bow sent flying over them and saw that Susie’s head was bent slightly forward and her eyes were closed in what he believed to be prayer.
They were five miles from the boat landing when Winter spied another boat racing on a course that would intercept them. He angled slightly, hoping to avoid a collision, but the oncoming craft also corrected its course. A uniformed man stood in the boat and waved for them to stop. Winter reduced the throttle and when the boat decelerated and the bow settled into the water, he shouted at the intruding boatman. “I got an emergency here and I don’t have time to waste.”
The fiberglass boat drifted alongside and a muscular man wearing a green uniform with black stripes running down the legs and a gold badge said, “I’m Marvin Marsh, game warden for this wildlife management district—”
“Thank God,” Winter said. “I’ve got a severely injured woman who needs to get to a hospital as soon as possible.”
The warden leaned over and looked inside Winter’s boat. He took a quick look at Anne. “I got a report of some shots being fired on one of the islands and I’ll bet dollars against donuts that if I looked under those bandages I’ll find a gunshot wound.”
Susie held a wallet toward him. Marsh took it and when he opened it and saw a badge and police ID his level of urgency ramped up. He removed a two-way radio from his hip. In seconds, he was talking with his dispatcher and requested that a medical evacuation helicopter meet them at the boat launch on the south shore of Aroostook Lake as soon as possible. He stopped transmitting and turned to the people in the boat. “A Coast Guard chopper from Portland will meet you at Guy Harris’s place.”
Winter cast a nervous look at Anne. “We really don’t have time to be bullshitting.”
“Understood.” The warden pushed away from Winter’s craft. “Follow me.” He pushed forward on the throttle and raced south. The two boats stayed abreast, bouncing as they raced across the lake’s surface.
In twenty-five minutes, they were within sight of the boat launch and Winter rocked back and forth in his seat, as if he could coax another knot per hour out of the roaring outboard. He cut the motor at the last second and the boat’s nose dropped down into the water. They had decided that it would be easier to unload Anne from the bobbing boat if they stood in the water, using their bodies to hold the vessel steady while they hefted her out. The craft slid onto the sandy gravel near the dock and Susie leapt into the water and held the small vessel steady. It took all of the strength that O’Leary and Winter had to lift the mattress and wade ashore. Once they were on land, O’Leary began coughing and hacking. Susie ran forward and helped Winter support the mattress as they lowered it to the ground.
Harris appeared in the door of his store. “You fellers sure seem to be in a rush.” He strolled toward the dock.
When he was halfway to the pier, O’Leary shouted at him. “You seen a helicopter?”
“Nope, but then I ain’t been lookin’ fer one. Onliest time I ever see one is when there’s a ’mergency—you got one?”
Harris noticed that Marvin Marsh was with them and his brow furled. “Hey, Marv, what brings you here?”
“Guy, there will be a chopper landing here any minute. Make sure there’s enough room in the parking lot for them to land.”
The old-timer stared at the mattress lying on the gravel-covered landing. He saw the woman. She was wrapped in an old woolen army blanket and it and the mattress were covered with what he thought was blood. “Jaysus, what you fellahs been up to?”
“Just get out of our way,” Winter said.
Harris shuffled aside. “I got a couch in the back of the store . . . ”
The sound of rotor blades beating in the sky attracted their attention. “Looks as if her ride’s here,” Marsh said.
A Coast Guard HH-60 helicopter appeared over the trees. It hovered over the parking lot. The pilot swung the tail around 180 degrees and slowly settled to the ground, its rotor blades creating a windstorm that swept dust and dirt before it. O’Leary and Winter turned away from the aircraft and bent over the mattress, shielding Anne from as much of the detritus as they could. The rotor blades decelerated and the helicopter settled onto its landing gear. Two crewmen, wearing flight helmets with visors down that made them look like bipedal insects jumped from the rear door and ran toward them carrying a folded stretcher. “We got it from here. Why don’t you folks get aboard?”
They moved Anne from the mattress to the stretcher and carried her to the helicopter. The instant they were aboard with safety belts on and Anne’s stretcher secured, the pilot increased rotor speed and lifted out of the parking lot.
O’Leary slumped in exhaustion and doubled over in another fit of coughing as the aircraft lifted, hovered as its tail spun around, then the nose dipped forward and they sped toward Portland. He watched the two EMTs feverishly work on Anne.
Winter and Susie were crammed into a small space behind the medical crew, each staring out the window at the seemingly endless wilderness speeding past below the aircraft. The pilot motioned for Winter to put on the headset that hung on the bulkhead beside the compartment door. Once he had done so, he heard her metallic voice. “We should be at the hospital in thirty to forty minutes. The state police are waiting there. I’m sure they’ll have a lot of questions for you.”
Winter raised his right hand and acknowledged her with the thumbs up, letting the aviator know he understood. He put the headset back on its hook and sat back. He looked at the sun setting and wondered what was happening on the island.
Marvin Marsh used his right hand to shield his eyes and watched the Coast Guard HH-60 turn in midair and head for Portland. He walked into the store. Guy Harris stood behind the counter, dipped his thumb into a container of Red Top snuff, lifted a mound of red powder with his thumbnail and placed it between his lower lip and teeth. He picked up his pipe and lit it. The air between them filled with the strange combination of wintergreen and cherry blend tobacco.
“Guy,” Marsh said, with a knowing grin, “you know it’s against the law to smoke in a public establishment.”
“Then,” Harris said, “as of this minute this ain’t no public establishment. I own this place and ain’t no damned Democrat with the government in Augusta gonna tell me what I can and can’t do in here.”
Marsh grinned in spite of himself. “You got any i-deer what in hell is goin’ on in the north islands?”
“Nope. Them people from away come yesterday an’ said they was goin’ fishin’. Only
thing was, they didn’t have a single fishin’ pole among them. Fact of the matter is, they had to buy licenses and tackle from me. Only a damn city fool from away would bring along his boat, but forgit all his gear, don’t-cha think? They sure as hell had enough guns to start a war though. Now, you know me, Marv, I don’t give a good goddamn what folks does, so long as it don’t bother me. But, like I said, them fellahs looked like they was goin’ huntin’ not fishin’ and, considerin’ the kinds a guns they had, they weren’t huntin’ no animal I know of.”
Marsh turned to the door.
“Marv, you ain’t thinkin’ about goin’ up there, are you?”
“Yup, I agree with you—somethin’ about this situation stinks.”
“Ya better go armed . . . like I said, them fellows was all packin’ some heavy ordinance. Looked to me like they wasn’t huntin’ nothin’ that walks on all fours. In fact, if I was goin’ to stick my nose in there, I’d want at least one long gun with me. A man might even want to consider takin’ a machine gun.”
34
“The sniper must be camouflage conscious from the time he departs on a mission until the time he returns . . . . He must master the techniques of hiding, blending, and deceiving.”
—US Marine Corps Scout/Sniper Training Manual
Night fell with no sign of his quarry. Houston settled on the side of the ridge, in a small copse of alders nestled in a grove of large, gray-barked beech trees, munching a cold meal. It was the last of his food and he would have to live off the land until this was over.
He wondered if Anne had gotten help in time. He was not a corpsman, but he had seen enough wounds to know a serious one. The way she rasped when she breathed and the blood that seeped from the corner of her mouth was disturbing, both symptoms of a lung shot. He forced his mind to more pressing matters.
Houston stared up through the trees at the moon and knew the brilliant orb was both a blessing and a curse. The spots where openings in the trees allowed the moonlight to penetrate were lit up almost to the level of daylight and it would be easy to see anyone attempting to close in on him; on the other hand, it also made him visible. It was a night best suited for staying put.
He sat back against a tree and fell into a light slumber.
Noise in the woods woke Houston. He glanced at his watch: 5 a.m. He didn’t move, but strained his ears for the sound that had awakened him. He heard a grunting noise to his left and slowly shifted position so he could see the source. In the early-morning light, he saw a black bear and her cubs. The cubs cavorted in the trees and brush while their mother ripped apart an old stump, digging for ants and bugs. Houston let the unsuspecting animals entertain him for more than twenty minutes. Suddenly the mother bear stood on her hind legs and turned, looking up the ridge. She sniffed the air for a few seconds then dropped down onto all four legs and herded the cubs out of the area.
Houston froze, wondering what could make the bear react in such a manner. Surely, it wasn’t another animal. It had to be the shooter and, some way or another, he had gotten behind him.
Houston dove to his left and a hole appeared in the trunk of the tree where he’d been sitting, immediately followed by the sharp crack of a supersonic bullet passing close by and the bark of a rifle.
A second bullet slammed into the maple and Houston drew back further behind its protective bulk.
Houston ventured a look, peering around the tree and detected a slight movement. He sighted in. Through the scope, he saw an unnatural line in the flora, maybe two inches of a human arm.
He fired.
The shape disappeared and Houston knew he had scored a hit—albeit a minor one.
Houston studied the terrain, hoping to see movement. All he saw was the intermittent oscillations of branches and bushes as the breeze blew across the ridge. He crawled toward the spot where Rosa had been. Without warning, the ground beneath him gave way. He rolled into a copse of alder bushes and silently cursed in frustration. As quickly as his anger had exploded, it waned and he lay still studying the area around him. The bushes swayed in the gusting morning wind and all he heard was a sound similar to a cat wailing. It took him several seconds to identify the sound—it was nothing more than a tree rocking back and forth.
Houston had no idea how long he had been hidden in the alders. Certain that Rosa had departed, he crawled until he found the spot from which he had shot at him. In seconds, he found blood splatters on some leaves and verified that Rosa had indeed been hit. Knowing he’d scored a hit, no matter how superficial, felt good. Rosa could make mistakes too. He followed the blood trail, looking for marks left behind when Rosa had crawled away. The trail led higher, up the ridge.
Marsh was familiar with the island and spent the night in the cabin. Knowing that the nearest officers available for backup were several hours away, he came to the island alone . . . a mode of operation not unusual for Maine game wardens. Soon after arriving on the island he was convinced that he had found the right place. First he had found a discarded bed frame near the shore where there were signs of a boat being launched, and then there was the blood sign. This was where the wounded woman had been shot. The ravaged carcass of another woman meant that something very wrong was happening on the island. He tried to ignore the wasted state of the body as he searched it for identification. He found a US Marine Corps identification card and read it. The first thing he noticed was that the card was green, indicating that at the time of death she had been on active duty. Then he read her name: Francis K. Estes, USMCR. Her rank was listed as a major. Marsh rocked back on his heels. “What in Christ is goin’ on here . . . World War III?” A military assault rifle lay partially hidden by underbrush. He picked it up and read the information engraved on the barrel. It was an M-16A4, the model currently used by the armed forces and capable of automatic fire—which made it illegal for use everywhere except on military bases. “Guy hit the nail on the head,” he muttered. “This sure as hell isn’t a hunting rifle—not unless these people are hunting men.”
He slung the rifle over his right shoulder, then hefted the corpse into a fireman’s carry and carried it into the clearing. He had placed Estes’s remains in the small shed behind the cabin and latched the door so that predators would be unable to damage it further.
35
“Doctors all agree that the only place on a man, where if struck by a bullet instantaneous death will occur, is the head. (Generally, the normal human being will live 8–10 seconds after being shot directly in the heart.)”
—US Marine Corps Scout/Sniper Training Manual
O’Leary paced around the waiting room. Anne had been in surgery throughout the night. The only thing the medical staff had told him was that her prognosis was not good. She had lost a lot of blood, and the bullet had, in fact, nicked her right lung.
A tall man walked in. “Are you Jimmy O’Leary?”
“Yes.”
“Duane Saucier. I’m with Criminal Investigation Division One, Maine State Police. You want to tell me what the fuck is going on here? How does a cop from Boston get herself shot in the Maine woods?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I can handle it.” Saucier took out a notebook and sat in one of the chairs that lined the waiting room walls. “Go ahead, tell me this complicated tale.”
“Are you aware of the sniper shootings in Boston?”
“It’s been on all the news, even up here in the sticks.”
O’Leary poured a cup of coffee and sat down. “There’s these two guys . . . ”
Houston was hot and sweaty. His knees and elbows were raw, scraped and bleeding from hours of creeping and crawling on his belly with no sign of Rosa. It had become a war of wits and nerves. After hours of nonstop tension waiting for the shot that would end it all, fatigue was now a major factor. So far, all he had achieved was to get a worm’s-eye view of the island.
By late afternoon, Houston had nestled into a copse of trees overlooking the cabin. He had searched every inch of the isla
nd and his quarry had eluded him. At first, he thought that Rosa could have circled back to the boat, found the gas tank and left. He rejected the prospect, believing that if Rosa had fled the island the motor would have been loud enough to hear. No, Rosa was still on the island. However, would he be stupid enough to return to the cabin? Probably not; that would be a huge mistake. To this point, Rosa had not made many.
Houston looked at the clearing; his eyes followed the trees until he came to the trail where Estes’s body had been. He wondered if it was still there. He remembered the bears he had seen that morning and shuddered. Bears were carrion-eaters; by now they would have picked up the scent of the decaying body . . . He forced his mind back to Rosa and his current situation.
Houston settled back and decided he would stake out the shack. If Rosa did not appear by morning, he would move out, continuing his search.
O’Leary recounted the events of the past few days.
Saucier, the Maine State Trooper took copious notes and when he finished, the cop said, “You have any idea how crazy this sounds?”
“Hey, I told it like it is.”
Saucier opened his cell phone and punched a speed-dial number. “I need a SWAT team and helicopter . . . ”
O’Leary saw a doctor enter the room and he tuned out the cop. “Mr. O’Leary?”
O’Leary saw the look on the doctor’s face and his stomach sank.
“We did all we could . . . ”
“She’s dead?” he interrupted.
“No, but there’s nothing more we can do. It’s up to her and God now. Who administered the first aid?”
“In a way, we all did.”
“Well, if she does pull through, she owes her life to you. If you hadn’t stemmed the bleeding, she would have surely bled to death. All we can do now is wait . . . ”
“Do you think she’ll make it?”
Sniper Page 27
