Crosshairs

by Harry Hunsicker

  “This guy is sick.” I parked the black Escalade next to a white Escalade.

  “Gee, Hank. You figured that out all on your own?” Nolan shook her head. “All the bad guys are messed up. And so are most of the good ones.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” I opened the door. “He’s sick physically; something’s wrong with him.”

  Nolan got out and followed me into the store, past the throngs of suburban moms buying overpriced produce and laundry detergent safe for tree huggers of all persuasions.

  Originally patterned after a typical health food store, the place had long since morphed into a mega-holistic shopping experience, designed more or less like a regular large grocery store but with an emphasis on organic foodstuffs and environmentally safe products. The decor was earth tones, brown walls, polished hardwood and tile floorings, subdued lighting. One side was loaded with appealing displays of produce. The meat counter was in the back, aisles of nonperishable items in the center.

  I headed toward the middle, where I knew the vitamins were displayed. Nolan followed a few steps behind me. The air smelled different from a typical food store, the scent of fruit and produce heavier, not tanged by the harsh chemicals found in the bug sprays and other items on the hardware aisle of a regular grocery.

  “Where are we going?” Nolan said.

  I ignored her and stopped in front of a guy unpacking a carton marked VITAMIN C, 1,000 MILLIGRAMS. He was in his late thirties, hair in dreadlocks, with rings in his nose, ears, and lips.

  “I’m looking for someone,” I said.

  “This isn’t that kind of store.” He stuck a bottle on a shelf.

  “A guy about fifty. Medium height and weight. Average looking.”

  “A good-looking Republican like you?” He smirked. “Figured your type would go for something younger.”

  Nolan swallowed a laugh.

  “The guy wears glasses all the time.”

  Dreadlocks paused with a bottle in midair. He looked up at me.

  “You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?”

  “Why are you looking for him?” He put the bottle back in the carton and stood up.

  “He’s sick.”

  “I’ll say. Immune system fried like that.” Dreadlocks looked over my shoulder, where I knew Nolan was standing. “Who are you two?”

  “I’m trying to help.” I smiled. “Do you know what happened to him?”

  “Toxins, dude.” The man waved his hand at nothing. “A hazard of modern-day living. Poisons we produce are everywhere. People get an overload and are never the same.”

  “Like from an oil field fire?” I said, more to myself than to him. “Petroleum.”

  “Right on. Half my customers suffer from environmental illness.” Dreadlocks’s voice took on a preachy, self-righteous tone. “The capitalist model is only interested in profits, not the damage their greed does to the world…and to us.”

  “Save the politics for the next Greenpeace rally.” Nolan rolled her eyes. “And what the hell is environmental illness?”

  “People get exposed to too many toxins, they get sick.” He shrugged, trying for holier-than-thou. “All different kinds of ways. Immune disorders. Cancer. Hell, what do you think chronic fatigue syndrome is?”

  I thought about Mike Baxter. “When did you last see this guy?”

  “You never told me who you are.” Dreadlocks crossed his arms.

  “Hey, sicko.” Nolan grabbed one of the guy’s rings and twisted. “When’s the last time you saw the sicko?”

  “Owww.” The man reached for her hand, but Nolan twisted harder. “T-t-tonight. B-b-buying antioxidants…just a few min—”

  It began to snow.

  Little white capsules showered down all over us a nanosecond after the distinctive metal clang of a silenced firearm echoed down the narrow aisle. Nolan let go of Dreadlocks, shoving him into the vitamin E section. Bottles crashed to the tile floor.

  I caught a glimpse of a man in khakis and a golf sweater at the end of the row farthest from the front. The man from this afternoon, the operative from the FBI agent’s photograph. He was wearing those weird, lightly tinted glasses and carrying what looked like a Ruger .22 with an extra-thick barrel, indicating a built-in suppresser.

  Dreadlocks stood and shook his head a couple of times, greasy, matted hair flying everywhere.

  The man in the glasses fired again. He hit his target this time.

  Dreadlocks swatted at the back of his head as if he’d been bitten by a mosquito. He stood still for a moment before his eyes rolled back and he dropped onto the pile of broken vitamin bottles.

  Nolan dived behind a display case of fiber pills.

  I stood still and stared at the man in the glasses, plainly aware of my exposure, but also knowing on some level that he meant me no harm.

  He nodded once and darted away.

  “Let’s go.” I tapped Nolan on the shoulder and headed toward the front of the store. She followed, but the floor was oily with burst vitamin tablets, and we both slipped. I landed on the carton of vitamin C that Dreadlocks had been unloading, Nolan on top of me.

  “Is that him?” She hopped off. “The guy from this afternoon?”

  “Yeah.” I rolled off the carton and moved as fast as possible on the slick floor toward the front.

  The store was even more crowded now, all of the cashier lanes open and stacked up with people. Children everywhere, running in the aisles, playing.

  The man in the glasses was about thirty yards away, by a display case of gourmet cheeses. He looked at me and shook his head slowly.

  I pressed through the crowd, kids coursing on either side of me. He was headed toward the door. I was closer, but he had less traffic in his way.

  A tall, gangly boy about eleven with fingers flying across a Game Boy yelled as I eased him away. “Hey!” He jumped back and knocked over a stack of organic canned beans.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” A man I took to be his father grabbed my arm. He had the insolent look of an overbearing dad who bullied the coaches at football games.

  “Sorry.” I tried to pull away. “My little girl is lost, over by the cheese.”

  “You hurt my son.” Righteous indignation now.

  The boy read the situation and began to cry, not a very believable performance on someone who was nearing six feet tall and had the beginnings of a mustache.

  The shooter in the glasses sidestepped an overweight woman with a basket full of food and headed toward the door. He smiled once as he saw my predicament.

  “Excuse me.” A manager type appeared from between two tanned and anorexic soccer moms. “Is there a problem here?” He looked at the crying boy and then at me.

  “This guy shoved my son.” The dad pointed my way. “Where’s security? He could be one of those sexual predators I read about.”

  “Hold on, now. Everything is cool,” Nolan said. “My friend accidentally tripped.”

  “Who are you?” The manager grabbed my other arm.

  Somebody screamed from the vitamin aisle.

  “No time to chitchat.” Nolan kicked the manager in the knee, followed by an elbow to the solar plexus. He fell on top of the beans. The father let go of my arm and looked at Nolan.

  “You did tell Junior that he was second choice at the orphanage, right?” Nolan shoved the kid into his dad and headed toward the door.

  The crowd was more erratic now, aware that something was going on, people talking louder than normal, moving and craning their necks to see whatever was happening.

  The man in the glasses slipped through the door and into the dusk as I tumbled over a basket full of produce.

  Nolan pulled me up. Together we threaded our way through the crowd of shoppers who were on the edge of mass hysteria. The words “dead body” swept across the room, following us to the door.

  Once outside, I ran to the curb and looked for the shooter.

  “You really think you’re gonna find him?”
Nolan came up beside me and pointed to the parking lot, now jammed with even more cars and shoppers. Horns honked. People pointed to the organic grocery store, talking with each other. Every fourth person seemed to be on a cell phone. At the far end of the shopping center, blue and red lights strobed as a Plano police cruiser tried to get through the crowds.

  “We need to boogie.” Nolan grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the Escalade.

  I followed her, got in. Cranked the ignition.

  “He took out the guy with dreadlocks but not us,” Nolan said.

  “I know.” I backed out and headed away from the store, the crowds of people slow to move out of my way.

  “Why?”

  “He doesn’t want us to know that he’s sick.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  I didn’t answer. I turned the Cadillac north and headed toward Anita Nazari’s house.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  We passed several more shopping centers, each lit up like an airport runway and looking like the one before, a monotonous strip of faux charm with the same chain stores dominating, the order of their lineup the only distinction.

  I turned onto the street leading into her subdivision, past a set of large stone columns delineating this particular neighborhood. The edifices were designed to look like the walls of a castle, a subtle reminder to those who did not belong that they weren’t welcome. I wondered if the tower of stones provided a sense of security to the residents.

  Nolan appeared impatient, drumming her nails on the top of the console.

  “We need a gun,” she said.

  “No time.” I turned onto Anita’s street and drove past the house under construction.

  “Nice casa.” Nolan unbuckled her seat belt as the Escalade stopped in front of Anita’s house. “You could do worse, you know. A doctor, making good coin.”

  “I’m pretty sure she’s crazy.” I shut the door and headed up the sidewalk.

  “That’s never been an issue before.” Nolan walked across the grass and peered into the living room window. “Remember that TV reporter, the one who made Christmas stockings after your first date for the kids you two were gonna have together?”

  I ignored her and rang the bell, standing to one side of the door, the old habits returning easily.

  No answer.

  Nolan joined me on the porch, on the opposite side, her old habits kicking in as well.

  I rang again and waited another thirty seconds before pressing the door with the heel of my hand. It opened easily, an alarm chime sounding from the interior. I stepped inside. Nolan followed, leaving the door ajar.

  A light was on in the kitchen. Otherwise the house was dark.

  I eased down the hallway, past the stairs.

  Anita was sitting at the counter, staring at the laptop. She looked up when I entered.

  “Why didn’t you get the door?” I said.

  “I thought it was Tom,” she said. “I tried your cell, but no one answered.”

  “They were tracking me.” I looked around the kitchen and family room. Mira was nowhere to be seen. “I had to throw it away. Where’s your daughter?”

  “Upstairs, asleep.” A long pause. “And who is your little friend?” Anita nodded toward Nolan, her tone saccharine.

  “I’m Hank’s associate.” Nolan moved toward the back door, flanking out. “We’re not bumping uglies, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Anita frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You need to get out of here,” I said.

  “No.” Anita stood up. “I’m tired of running.”

  “Then why do you have luggage by the door?” Nolan pointed to two suitcases.

  “An observant one, this associate of yours.”

  “Don’t avoid the question,” I said.

  “We used to live in a beautiful home in the Niavaran district of Tehran.” Anita spoke to me as she opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of white wine. “It was whitewashed limestone, with bougainvillea and roses in the garden.”

  Nolan stood by the back door and shot me a look, one eyebrow raised.

  “Maybe we could talk about this some other time,” I said.

  “My father was a doctor, too. We had many servants.”

  “This is a government operation of some sort,” I said. “You need to get out of here as soon as possible.”

  “He died when I was eighteen.” Anita poured a glass of wine. “After Tehran, he lived in a third-floor walk-up flat in Stuttgart, behind a cement plant. Worked as a nurse.”

  “I’m sorry about the traumatic childhood and all.” I walked around the counter until we were only a few feet away. “But you need to listen to what I’m saying.”

  “Mira and I are going to Los Angeles tomorrow.” She drank half the glass in one swallow. “I have an interview at UCLA the next day.”

  “Then that leaves tonight.” I looked at her laptop. The browser was open to the main page for American Airlines.

  “Come with us, Hank.” She smiled. “We could start a new life together.”

  “No, this is where I live.” I wanted to say more but couldn’t find the right words. How many of us don’t dream of starting over, getting a life mulligan?

  “You’ll take care of me for tonight, then, won’t you, Hank?” Her voice turned seductive. “And maybe tomorrow we can leave on an adventure?”

  I didn’t hear the door open. I didn’t sense the intrusion. Nolan hissed.

  I didn’t know what was about to happen until the muzzle of the government-issued Sig Sauer was a few feet from my temple.

  Special Agent John Jordan held the pistol in the Bureau-sanctioned two-handed grip. “Hands on top of your head. Now.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Idid as instructed, fingers laced together, palms on the top of my scalp.

  “You, too.” Jordan looked at Nolan.

  She didn’t move.

  “I’m the FBI, honey.” He waved the gun at her. “This ain’t like tracking down deadbeat husbands. I will smoke you where you stand if you don’t comply.”

  Nolan slowly put her hands on top of her head.

  A second agent in an ill-fitting gray suit entered the room, handcuffs in his hand.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Anita gave Jordan her best self-righteous physician tone.

  “Dr. Nazari, right?” Jordan holstered his weapon before pulling my hands behind my back and slapping a pair of cuffs on my wrists. They probably were the same pair used earlier in the day. The second agent did the same to Nolan.

  “That is my name,” Anita said. “And this is my home. Why are you here?”

  “You are being threatened, correct?” Jordan spun me around and walked me to where Nolan was sitting, back against the kitchen wall, legs spread.

  “Yes, but this man is not the one threatening me.” Anita pointed at me.

  “Right.” Jordan blew air out of his mouth in a long sigh. “We know that already.”

  “Then what’s with the cuffs?” I let the second agent seat me next to Nolan, hands smashed between my back and the wall.

  “You violated our agreement.” Jordan knelt beside me so our eyes were level with each other. “Nice little trick, throwing your cell phone into the pickup truck. Now you have officially interfered in a federal investigation. Which is a big no-no.”

  “What about me?” Nolan said.

  “I’m sure we can find something to charge you with.” Jordan stood up and pulled a cell phone from his coat pocket. “Like aggravated bad judgment for being a new widow and running off with Oswald. I dunno, we’ll figure something out.”

  “Your guy from the photo is nearby,” I said quietly.

  “Where?” Jordan quit dialing the cell and looked at me.

  “What are you talking about?” Anita slammed her wineglass down on the granite counter.

  “We saw him at a store, about a mile from here.” I related the rest of the story. “He took out a clerk. The
re’s got to be a lot of radio chatter.”

  Jordan nodded to the second agent. “Go see, willya? And call it in. We need reinforcements.”

  The agent left the kitchen, heading toward the front door.

  Jordan turned to Anita. “This is about your work, isn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “It has to be.” The FBI agent nodded slowly. “Nothing else makes sense.”

  “My research is singularly unspectacular.” She crossed her arms. “Chemicals in the blood. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

  “Have you recently finished a project?” Jordan put the cell phone back in his pocket.

  “Yes.” Anita frowned. “It’s preliminary, of course, awaiting my signature next week. Why on earth are you asking?”

  “It’s my job.” Jordan smiled and pulled his weapon out. He pointed it at Anita Nazari’s head. “Unfortunately, I can’t allow you to issue the final report.”

  “Oh, shit,” Nolan said.

  I tensed against the cuffs. Metal bit into my wrists.

  “What?” Anita blinked repeatedly, face going pale. “You…the gun…what are you talking about?”

  “Your research messed up a lot of things,” he said. “And I’m the fix-it person who—”

  Clank. The sound was identical to what I had heard in the grocery store.

  Jordan lowered his gun. Swayed a little. Turned and looked at me. A thin trail of blood dribbled from his ear. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

  As he fell over, the man in the golf shirt and mirrored glasses entered Anita Nazari’s kitchen. He held the Ruger in his hand and swept the room with its muzzle.

  “I should have known.” Anita shook her head slowly, her face devoid of any emotion.

  The man in the glasses pointed the pistol at me.

  “Known what?” I willed my voice to remain calm.

  “Hank, please let me introduce you to my husband.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Nobody said anything. The air in the kitchen was cool, but sweat beaded my brow and trickled down the small of my back. Anita Nazari took a long drink of wine and stared at the screen of her laptop.