by Randall Wood
“Hey, Sam!”
Sam flinched at the sound of his brother-in-law calling from the bottom of the steps. He jumped to his feet and walked quietly to the master bath.
“Yeah?”
“Food,” Paul answered.
“Be right down.”
Sam flushed the toilet so Paul wouldn’t know he had just been sitting and brooding, ran the water in the sink and washed his hands. As he left the room, he bumped the purse hanging on the knob and knocked it to the floor. He stopped and looked at it before picking it up. As he turned to hang it back on the knob, he caught the scent of her perfume from the small bottle she had always kept with her. He inhaled deeply before hanging it up.
“Sam?”
“Coming,” he answered.
He returned to the bathroom and splashed some water on his face. Paul wouldn’t see him crying.
• • •
Paul looked up as Sam descended the stairs. He noticed that Sam’s color was a little off. Despite the slight tan he had acquired, he had lost his healthy glow. Maybe it was the Michigan weather. Everyone developed that pasty-white look this time of year. The local joke was that it came with the lake-effect snow. Still, he decided he would keep a closer eye on his brother-in-law’s appearance.
“What’s on the menu tonight?” Sam asked as he looked in the fridge.
“For me, a lovely frozen pizza, and for you, a doctor approved gourmet meal of chicken and rice, both very plain and rather bland. No need to thank me; it was my pleasure.”
Sam looked down at the plate on his end of the table. Two plain broiled chicken breasts sat on the plate with about a cup of plain white rice. He looked around the table and found no salt or pepper present. His eyes finally came to rest on Paul’s pizza.
“You have onions on that?”
“No, no, no,” Paul replied, “you will not be eating any pizza tonight. You have a visit with Dr. Maher bright and early, and I will be able to answer his questions honestly. Besides, it’s my pizza.”
Sam frowned at his plate and again as Paul opened a beer. Paul kept the beer somewhere in the house, but Sam had never been able to find it. Maybe in the garage? No, they would freeze out there. He gave up the thought and sat down with his chicken and rice. Paul was right; his gut could not tolerate pizza anymore. The coffee he had consumed over the past few days was bad enough. He looked at the clock and did some quick math to determine if it was safe eating this. He had learned to put plenty of time between his chemo and his last meal. Hopefully, he wouldn’t see this chicken again tomorrow.
“I almost forgot,” Paul said, getting up. Sam watched him walk to the counter and return with a small plate. As he set it down with a flourish next to Sam’s milk, he explained, “Dessert.”
Sam now had a plate full of pills to complete his meal.
“Very funny. Remind me to hate you later.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Paul returned to his seat, picking up the first slice before his butt hit the cushion. He quickly spat out the first bite as it burned his tongue.
“Now, that’s karma!” Sam laughed.
They ate in silence until Sam was done. He nursed a second glass of milk and watched Paul consume his pizza.
“Did you get that thing I asked for made?”
Paul chewed and swallowed quickly before he replied. “Yep, down in the basement. Kind of a challenge for me. I mean, it’s a simple item to make, but there isn’t a lot of room for error, if that makes any sense. Test-fired it out in the backyard. Surprised at how well it works, doesn’t sound at all like it does in the movies, but still real quiet. I don’t feel so bad about ruining the pistol now. Just what are your plans for it, anyway? It seems to go against your strong skills.”
“Not real sure right now,” Sam answered. “Sometimes you don’t have the long-distance option, so I thought it would be a good idea to have one handy. In the old days, if you had to get close and be quiet you used a knife. That’s kinda messy. This lets me get close, do the deed and walk away clean. DNA and fiber clean, anyway. How many did you make?”
Paul stopped with a slice halfway to his mouth. “How many? Just the one. Did you want more than that?” Paul was worried he had missed some instructions.
“Maybe, but not right now. Just thinking that maybe I should have asked for more. Was it hard? Can you do more if we need them?”
“Not that hard—just ate up a lot of time. I destroyed the plans when I was done, but that’s no problem. I remember all the dimensions. Need to buy some more material and fittings though if you want some more. Shop for some pistols, too.”
Sam thought about this. The steel and fittings were no problem. People bought them every day. The pistols, however, weren’t an everyday thing. You had to show your face, and there was paperwork. Maybe there was a gun show around they could check out. No paperwork, but the feds had been maintaining a presence at them since 9-11, including videotaping the crowd. He would have to think about it more.
“Let’s just hold off, for now.”
“Okay,” Paul replied. “You have any thoughts on who’s next?”
“Well, you tell me, what’s the schedule look like?”
“Giving you time after your chemo tomorrow . . . you could make it to the card show or the rally, but probably not both. You may have to blend in at the rally, but the card show shouldn’t be a problem. Everything is in place. Weather is nicer, too.”
“Sure he’s still coming? With the letter in the papers, he has to think he’s a target.”
“According to the website, he’s still coming. I really have no way of confirming it, other than calling and asking. I’ll do that tomorrow.”
“Good,” Sam said. “He should have been first, but he would have been too much of a media draw, and the family would have been immediate suspects. They’ve been through enough. He needs to be next, before he leaves the country or something.” Sam swirled the last of his milk around in the glass before draining it.
“I agree,” Paul replied. “At least now you have your long and short game up to par.”
Sam smiled at his brother-in-law’s joke. He shook his head as he got up to do the dishes.
“Did you read any of those books or magazines I got you?” asked Paul. He was still working on his pizza. He punctuated the question with a loud belch.
“I tried,” Sam replied. “I tried about three or four times on the plane but kept falling asleep. How people find sport’s cards so interesting is beyond me. How did you do it?”
“I haven’t since my teens, but I tell you I’m wishing I still did. Today it’s big business. Some of the cards I have up in the attic are worth some bucks. I need to get them down and store them properly. Worth some money down the road. Maybe I’ll retire young. Think you need to take some with you to fit in better?” He pushed himself and the wheeled chair across the room and handed Sam his pizza plate. He then spun a one-hundred and eighty and propelled himself back to the table and his beer.
Sam thought about that as he washed the plate before making the obvious decision. “No, I think that would just expose me as the fraud that I am. Better to just be a buyer—not a seller. Besides, I wouldn’t want to ruin your nest egg.”
Paul worked on his beer for a few minutes as he watched Sam load the dishwasher.
“DVR’s full again.”
Sam looked up at that. “What’s the word from the all-knowing-all-telling media?”
“The usual: ‘Vigilante Killer Stalks Criminals’; ‘Sniper Speeds Justice to Victims.’” Paul made quotation marks in the air with his greasy fingers. “They paint you as some nut that’s snapped for some reason and is off on a killing spree. A few so-called experts have weighed in—mostly shrinks or authors on the subject. Did you know you have a deeply troubled mind and are being pushed by a lack of perceived fairness you received from your parents as a child? The guy had thirteen letters after his name, so it must be true.”
Sam smiled. “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to work on that.
Sometimes I look in the toilet before I flush it, too. Anything else?”
“One interesting thing. You know how on one of the FOX news shows they have that rapid-fire viewer mail? Well, evidently you have some fans. A lot of people are writing in and giving you a thumbs up, telling the talking heads to stick it, and some even agreeing with the letter. One guy even said he’d help you if given the chance. They even had a cop on, didn’t show his face of course, saying he understood the frustration that you must be feeling. How he felt it all the time, but had the discipline to not act on it. He didn’t so much support what you’re doing, but didn’t necessarily say it was wrong, either. They had him watch the tape of the Ping shooting and give it a play-by-play. By the way, that picture you saw of all the cops, including the wounded one, smiling down at the body on the steps? It made the front page in every newspaper yesterday. Your fifteen minutes have begun.” Paul saluted the occasion with his beer.
Sam flopped down in his chair with a dishrag still in his hands. “What about the letter? Are they still printing it?”
“With almost every article,” Paul replied.
“Word-for-word?”
“Yes and no. All the papers have printed something close. Only one has printed a story with the letter, explaining that the FBI has most likely changed it in some way to separate the original shooter from any copiers. The guy didn’t go into detail, or speculate on what was changed, but the information was there.”
“Who, the Post?”
“No, a young man from Orlando.” Paul couldn’t help but smile at this point.
“Danny Drake?”
“Yes. It would seem my second-round pick is working out rather well.”
Sam thought about this over for a minute while he repeatedly dried his hands. It would be at least a few days until he went back to work. The media would continue to chew on the story until he provided something new. They would get distracted by some celebrity bullshit or another government scandal, but they wouldn’t stray too far from this; the story was too juicy. The Maryland sniper had the country glued to their sets for weeks before the anticlimactic ending. As much as Sam sometimes despised the press, he needed them. They would have to be careful.
“Let’s see what the press does in the next few days,” Sam said. “If they all pick up on Danny’s story and include the alteration angle, we’ll keep them on the list. If not, then we’ll reduce it to just Danny.” Sam looked at his brother-in-law for an opinion.
Paul loudly sipped his beer and rocked in the chair for a few minutes before replying. “My first thought was that we would reduce our coverage, but I guess that’s kinda stupid now. Between CNN and FOX, we can’t get much more. It’s even on the BBC. Like you said, it’s too juicy for them to drop it just because we drop them. It does however, give Danny first crack at spinning it. As much as I like him, there’s no denying that he’s young. Are you sure you want him being our messenger? I thought the more voices the better?”
“From what I’ve read and what you tell me, he’s had two or three insights so far that the others haven’t, and been right every time. I mean, this guy is actually thinking it out, instead of just reporting it. He’s not an anchor or a producer. He doesn’t work for a tabloid. He sounds like an honest-to-God journalist, and you and I both know they are a rarity these days. I’d rather have one good voice than a bunch of parrots feeding people information for us. Wouldn’t you?”
Paul thought for a few seconds before shaking his head and standing up. “Hell, Sam, why do you make me try and think when I’m full of pizza and beer? Let’s watch the damn DVR and I’ll dwell on this for a day.” He turned and stomped into the living room toward the big screen. Sam saw the ring Paul had worn into the back pocket of his jeans from carrying endless cans of chewing tobacco. Something he had quickly given up after Sam had been diagnosed.
He rose from his chair to follow Paul. What was it Paul had called the pocket? Oh yeah, Sam smiled, his condom pocket.
The state of Minnesota holds 7,865 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 5,269 are repeat offenders.
—TWENTY-THREE—
“Well, what do we have?”
“Not much.” Sydney went first, to everyone’s relief. “The rifle was recovered from the dumpster intact. Same make and model as the first one. No prints, but at least we can match it to the round that killed the victim. Some fibers were recovered from the scene, and some are yet to be recovered from the Superglue. He left quite a bit of hardware behind, and the locals are trying to figure out where he purchased it.”
“Excuse me?” Jack interrupted.
“What?” Sydney looked up from her notes.
“Trace it how, exactly?”
“The glue, bells, boots, light bulbs, they all have brand names or lot numbers that can be traced,” she explained. “He may have acquired them all from the same place. If we can determine the place, we can check receipts. If a receipt is found with those items, we have a time and date of purchase. Then we start looking at surveillance camera footage.”
Jack shook his head with a smile. He heard a laugh from Larry.
“Are you Big Brother, or am I?” Larry asked.
“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “Go on.”
Sydney smiled back before continuing. “The boot print matches a popular brand sold everywhere. The size does match the shoes from the first shooting, however. No wear on the treads; they were brand new.” She flipped her pad shut.
“That’s it?” Jack asked.
“You said to keep it quick,” she answered. “Everything else is waiting for lab work. The rest is speculation.”
“All right. Larry?”
Larry loosened his tie further than it already was before sitting on the edge of his seat. “I kept my interviews limited to the witnesses in the alley: a lawyer who may have entered with the shooter; and the cops at the scene. We have a decent description, but the man wore sunglasses and a hard hat, worker’s clothing complete with tool belt, some items on the belt she remembers. Maybe we should add them to your shopping list, Sydney.”
He paused and flipped a page. “White male. Six foot or a little more. Clean shaven. Muscular. He spoke American English with no accent. I have the artist drawing and some copies for you. Second witness, a lawyer who works in the building, says he held the door for such a person as described, but has little memory of his looks, remembers him carrying something long. The witness went to the fourth floor, and claims that was reading his paper and really not paying attention. Nothing else from him.”
Larry paused again for a big yawn that he struggled to check. “Sorry. Talked to all the cops, including the one who got hit. Nothing good on their end; shot was there long before they heard it. One that got hit was impressed with the shooter; said when we catch him tell him no apology necessary.” Larry rolled his eyes at that. “Other than that, Jack, they have nothing to offer. No suspicious people on the steps. Camera footage shows nothing unusual. Audio confirms only one shot. Looks like a one-man show again.”
Jack took the information in silence. It was what he had expected. But what had he been hoping for anyway, a grassy knoll? Maybe Sydney’s shopping list would bear some fruit, but, if it did, it would be a while. Could they gain any more by staying here? No, he decided; they would move on. Larry’s yawn only showed how tired they were, and the time change wasn’t helping. They needed time for the lab rats to do their thing. It made the decision easier.
“Everything you can copy, carry, or fit on the plane, comes with us. Pass out your cards to everybody, and make some friends before we go. Have the rest shipped overnight to headquarters. All the lab work needs to be forwarded also. Make sure everyone has the right address and contact information. While you’re doing that, I’ll talk to the damn press again and call the Director. Back at the plane in—” he glanced at the wall clock and factored in the time change, “—three hours. You can all sleep on the plane.”
Any complaints were kept to themsel
ves as they all rose and filed out of the room. Sydney lingered until they were all gone. He knew what she was going to say.
“I know, I know. We’re all tired. I just need a few more hours, and then everyone gets a break. No work on the plane.”
She closed her mouth and swallowed what she was going to say.
“I hate it when you do that,” she said instead.
“I know that, too.”
• • •
Sam sat in his usual chair staring out the window at the rain. The slight burning sensation was in the left arm this time. Dr. Maher had tried to talk him into having a port installed when he had first been diagnosed. Sam had resisted to the point that they had given in. So far, his veins had held up to the abuse. Sam couldn’t really explain it, but he did not like the idea of a foreign object in his body. Despite all the scars from his days in the military, he was free of any metal. He preferred to keep it that way.
Sam propped his head up with his hand and felt himself nodding off. He rearranged his butt in the chair as best he could. He had to stay awake; sleeping wasn’t allowed during chemotherapy—the staff couldn’t tell if you were having an undesired reaction or just sleeping.
He tried a few tricks he had learned in sniper school. Tickling the roof of his mouth with his tongue sent a shiver through him and woke his brain up. He reached for the cup of ice chips and crunched some. He had slept in until after 9 a.m., yet he was still tired. The chair wasn’t helping. You were supposed to stay awake, yet they put you in a nice recliner for the duration. Sam couldn’t decide if it fit the definition of irony, but he doubted it was far off.
Thinking about the last few days, Sam knew why he was tired. His body just wasn’t up to the mission as it was before. Something he was slowly coming to terms with. The frequent pain in his gut was increasing in intensity. The fatigue was more and more present. He had a feeling that this visit was not going to be a good one.
He saw the reflection of Dr. Maher in the window as he entered the room. Sam followed him with his eyes as the doctor had a quiet conversation with the nurse at the desk before picking up a clipboard and walking toward him. Sam turned to meet his gaze as he approached.
