“Cities are sniper country.”
—Gunnery Sergeant Jack Coughlin, USMC
Anne had finished taking a shower and was dressing when her phone rang. She glanced at the display and saw Houston’s number.
“Hey,” she said.
“I need you—”
“Mike . . . ”
“The sniper just took a shot at me . . . ”
Anne’s stomach sank. “Are you all right?”
“He didn’t hit me. In fact, I think he missed me intentionally.”
“What makes you think that?”
“He called me after the attack. I just hung up with him.”
“I’ll be right there.” She raced out of the apartment.
Anne walked through the door and immediately took control. A cursory glance at Houston’s bloody, ripped pants and the wounds on his hands and knees was all she needed to determine what was in order. “We need to get you to the emergency room—”
Houston grunted. She knew he would never admit it, especially to her, but when it came to doctors and dentists, he was less than heroic. “I don’t think I need medical attention.”
“Michael Burnham Houston, I didn’t ask what you thought,” she said.
“I told you what we are going to do. If you think I’m going to drag you all over the city while you whine every time you put pressure on a piece of that glass, you had better think again.”
There were two telltale signs that always told Houston when Anne was truly angry: her left eye twitched and she used the full name of the object of her ire. When she turned to him and he saw her eye jerking as if she had a pebble in it, he knew she was really pissed. When she used his full name, Michael Burnham Houston, it was a definite sign that she was not going to back off. He stood silently by while she called in and told the dispatcher the address of the hospital where they would be. Finally, she pushed him out the door.
The emergency room was everything Houston had thought it would be. A sweet, little old woman took down his information and typed it into the computer. He admired her one finger technique and studied her arthritic hands as she hunted and pecked at the keyboard. In the course of the interview, she accidentally deleted his information three times and had to start over. It took every bit of his strength to keep his cool and patiently repeat the information each time she goofed. He even asked if they had ever met before—maybe at the Registry of Motor Vehicles.
“Do you want me to call Susie?”
Houston stared at Anne. “No, she’s upset enough as it is. Besides, right now she’d just push the glass in deeper.”
“Mike, she should be told.”
“Anne, let it rest . . . okay?” He turned his attention back to the little old lady, effectively cutting off the discussion.
The admissions secretary finally got it right and a nurse led him to the real chamber of horrors, where a horde of psychopaths in green scrubs poked and dug into his tender flesh with lobster picks. When they swabbed the cuts with antiseptic, it hurt more than his injuries. They stuck him with a tetanus shot and then handed him a prescription for some antibiotics and pain pills. The doctor stepped back, turned the task of bandaging his knees and hands over to the nurse and left.
When they returned to his apartment, Houston took the CSI team through the sequence of events related to the shooting and watched with great interest as the lab people lifted a number of fingerprints from the surface of his mailbox. “I doubt anything will come of this,” a petite blonde-haired crime scene technician said. “In the course of a day, mailboxes have more hands on them than the only hooker at a teamster convention.” She smiled demurely, grabbed her equipment and bounced down the stairs.
“She must be late for a date,” Anne said.
It was after midnight before everyone left and Anne and Houston were alone. They sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee and discussing Houston’s first direct encounter with the sniper.
“I must know this guy,” Houston said.
“It certainly looks that way.”
“He knows a lot more about me than I know about him. He knows my address, phone number and even my military history.”
“Maybe you know more about him than you think.”
“What do you mean?”
“I believe that when we learn this shooter’s identity, you’re going to remember him. It’s obvious that he’s someone from your past.”
He watched Anne while she sipped her coffee and remained silent. She was intelligent enough to leave it up to him whether or not to continue. If he opened up, she would listen and not be judgmental. On the other hand, if he decided to clam up, she would accept that too.
“When we find this guy I know it will be someone from Somalia. He as much as said so when he mentioned the Mowg.”
“The Mowg?”
“That’s what we called Mogadishu. Only someone who was there would use that term.”
“We need to get the military to do a search of their records to see if they can provide us with the names of everyone who has been through that training.”
“I may be able to help there. I know a guy, Danny Drews. He and I met when we were in scout/sniper training at Quantico. He’s kept contact with many of the guys over the years.”
Anne glanced at the clock and stood up. “It’s past one in the morning. I need to get home and you need to get some rest.”
Houston tossed and turned, unable to find a position in bed that didn’t hurt. He took two of the painkillers the doctor had prescribed. He was convinced that the word was an oxymoron, the pills didn’t kill pain; they merely postponed it until the wee hours of the morning when you were alone and feeling shitty. Each beat of his heart sent a throbbing pulse of pain through his hands and knees. He hurt so badly that rather than sleep, he turned on the television and tried watching an old mystery on one of the classic movie channels.
Houston stared at the TV. George Raft had just solved the mystery and all was well. Houston dialed his sister’s number. The phone was answered on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Maureen? It’s Mike.”
When she heard her brother’s voice, Maureen’s groggy voice softened.
“I’m glad you called—even if it is at a ridiculous hour. Not to mention that the whole neighborhood is probably wondering why I have cop cars parked in front of my house.”
“Do you think she’ll talk with me?”
“She’s asleep, Mike. She’s angry with you right now. The first time that you come near her since the divorce is to tell her that her mother was murdered. Have you any idea what it’s been like for her to have to deal with this? Why didn’t you call me and wait until I got there?” Maureen sighed. “But then, that’s usual for you, isn’t it? You’re the first to rescue a perfect stranger, but the last to do what your family needs.”
Maureen’s words struck him like a five-pound hammer. He’d been an absentee father for most of Susie’s life and it was only natural for her to resent him for showing up now. “Mo, she all but threw me out. I didn’t know what else to do . . . besides my partner, Anne, was with her.”
“Susie told me about it. That’s the one good thing that came out of this. She made the most of a bad situation.”
“Yeah, Anne’s a true friend.”
“Don’t hurt her like you did Pam.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s obvious to everyone but you that she cares a great deal for you.”
“Don’t be crazy. She’s my partner . . . nothing more.”
“Are you sure that she feels the same?”
Houston paused and for several moments said nothing. Feeling uncomfortable, he switched the subject. “Mo, I called to talk about Susie. If she’d had a weapon in her dorm, I think she’d have used it on me.”
“Well, you have to admit that you really mucked this one up, brother.”
“C’mon, Mo, give me a break here. I got a full plate as it is without you busting heavy on me. Do you think Susie will see me if I came by later?”
Maureen’s voice softened. “I don’t know. You two have a lot to work out. Even if she doesn’t want to see you, I think she needs to.”
“Tell her I’ll be by around noon. Maybe we can go to lunch together.”
“That would be nice, Mike. I think deep down, she needs you now, even if her actions don’t show it. I’ll talk to her in the morning and if there is any problem, I’ll call you.”
“Thanks, Mo. How are Lee and the kids?”
“We’re all fine, Mike. You just take care of yourself, okay? We’re your family, we care about you. Call or come around now and then, okay? You know, after all is said and done, all we have is each other.”
A lump filled Houston’s throat. “Yeah, I know . . . love you, Mo. Good night.”
“Good night, Mike.”
Anne lay in bed, thinking through the evening’s events. She couldn’t stop thinking about how close she had come to losing Houston. Thinking about the prospect of a life without him in it left her feeling scared and empty. Old self-doubts returned. Why couldn’t she allow Mike in? She had wanted to for the past two years. The taboo against workplace relationships was a factor. Was being a cop more important to her than letting everyone know who she was? The thought made her pause. Her thoughts turned to her father, the one man in her life that she had truly loved more than life itself. She remembered how devastated she had been when he was killed. It was not that she didn’t miss her mother too, but she had been a daddy’s girl and adored her father and everything he did. For years she had known that her father wanted a son, but he had never let on to her that that was the case. If anything, the opposite was true—he was the most dedicated and understanding father a girl could ever hope for. The abandonment and loss she felt when he was killed returned and swept over her like a heavy fog. Had his death and her loss left her incapable of giving her heart to a man? She thought of the men she had dated over the intervening years and how none of them met her standards. Maybe, she wondered, I never let them. Did she hold them to a standard even God couldn’t meet? Just as she felt she was close to a decision, the job got in the way. She loved being a cop, but there was the dangerous aspect of the job. Then she realized what the real roadblock was. Houston was the only cop who accepted her as a partner and it would ravage her if they were separated. She burrowed down into the bed and tried to turn her mind off. Shortly she dozed off.