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?”
“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.
Maureen and Susie had their backs to the stalker and had no idea that a would-be assassin followed them. Houston weaved through the stream of people, fighting his way toward Maureen and Susie. In desperation, he pulled his pistol out and screamed, “Police! Make way!”
People saw the gun in his hand and scrambled to get out of his way. The commotion attracted Maureen’s attention and she had a surprised look when she spotted Houston rushing at her.
The stalker reached inside his shirt and pulled a handgun. “Maureen, get down!”
Maureen looked terrified when she grabbed Susie’s arm, obeyed her brother and fell to the pavement, pulling the startled younger woman with her.
Maureen’s action startled the stalker enough to throw him off stride and for Houston to get a clear shot at him. Houston shouted, “Drop the gun!”
The gunman turned his pistol away from the women and confronted the unexpected threat. Houston dropped to one knee and fired, hitting him in the throat. The man dropped like a sack of rocks. Houston ran forward and stopped beside the mortally wounded would-be killer. The dying gunman still gripped his weapon in his right hand and Houston placed his foot on the gunman’s hand, pinning it securely to the pavement. He took the pistol out of the stalker’s bloody hand. Houston holstered his firearm and squatted over the man. He pressed his hand firmly against the side of the dying man’s neck, hoping to stem the flow of blood that gushed out with each beat of the stalker’s heart and pooled on the sidewalk. The hollow-point bullet had ripped through the man’s neck and Houston knew if he didn’t get him to a hospital in minutes, he would bleed out. He didn’t have to be a medical professional to know his attempts at first aid were futile.
The prone gunman stared into Houston’s eyes. In minutes he died, a strange smirk on his face and his shirt saturated with his blood. It was only then that Houston took time to look at him closely. Through the smeared blood, Houston stared into Larry Grey’s lifeless eyes.
In a second, Anne was beside him, her badge out. She pushed the traumatized spectators back, shouting, “Police, please, give us some room!” Turning to Houston she said, “I got here as soon as I could.”
Houston ignored the hysterical screams and commotion around him and thanked her. Then he looked at his daughter’s horrified eyes. Susie’s terror had drained all the color from her face. Houston realized she was trying to understand and cope with what she had just seen her father do.
At that moment, Houston could not blame her for looking at him with disgust and terror. Thoughtlessly, he offered her his bloody hand and the fear left her to be replaced by revulsion. She spun away and disappeared into the crowd.