“The USMC M40A1 Sniper Rifle is the finest combat sniper weapon in the world. When using the Lake City M118 Match 7.62 mm ammunition it will constantly group to within . . . one inch at one hundred yards.”
—US Marine Corps Scout/Sniper Training Manual
Houston walked into O’Leary’s office, waved his hands in front of his face to part the smoke and flopped into the chair in front of his desk. “Think I’ll ever walk into this joint without everyone looking at me like I was a walking syphilis epidemic?”
“Nope, not a chance.”
Houston faked a hurt look, “I’ll try harder not to look so much like a cop.”
“Speaking of which, what brings you back here? You need something?”
“Yeah, but first I got a couple things I want to say.”
O’Leary smoked in silence and waited for Houston to get to the point.
“First, last night the body of a gangbanger—kid named Jermaine Watts—was found in the marsh. Looks like someone worked him over good. All his fingernails were gone, apparently yanked out, and his fingers were burned, probably with a cutting torch. If that wasn’t enough, someone popped him in the head with a twenty-two. Don’t suppose you’d know anything about it?”
“Nope. I just know what I hear on the street. He and some of his homeboys molested and killed a thirteen-year-old girl. I guess that maybe she had some relatives who took care of it when you cops did nothin’.”
“Jimmy . . . ”
“Your case?”
“No.”
“Then ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.”
“How many more bodies are going to show up?”
“Couldn’t say, but you know how it is—what the cops can’t or won’t take care of, someone in the hood will. When you consider all the gang shit and drugs sold there, it doesn’t surprise me people are taking things into their own hands. What’s there been seven, eight murders there this summer?”
Houston knew he had gotten all the information that he would on the subject and dropped the line of questioning.
O’Leary lit another cigarette. “Now, what else you wanna talk about?”
“Pam.”
“Pam . . . ”
“Yeah, I know that you took our divorce pretty hard . . . ”
“Let’s finally get this out, okay? First of all, Pam was my sister and I loved her. You were like a brother to me and I loved you too, but you two just had bad chemistry together and everyone knew that. Everyone that is, but you two. Was I pissed about the divorce? Yeah, I was . . . but not as bad as I was when Pam went against my wishes and married you. Now as for her death . . . you didn’t pull that goddamned trigger, Mike. Some psycho son of a bitch did that. Whether or not this goes back to your past I don’t know. Why he shot her ain’t all that important right now . . . the fact that he did is. Now we got to pool our resources, you and me, and bring him down. Once this puke is dead and buried we’ll deal with our issues. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Alright, now what is it you need from me?”
“Just a few things. Like an M40A1 rifle with a Unertl scope, a couple hundred rounds of Lake City M118 Match 7.62 mm ammo. I want an A1, Jimmy, not the revised A4.”
O’Leary remained silent for a few seconds, rolling his cigarette back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. “You wired?”
“What?”
“You heard me. Did you come in here wired? You ain’t tryin’ to hang an illegal gun beef on me are you?”
“No.”
“Then why don’t you get this shit from the PD?”
“I’d never get it in time. The fewer people involved in this, the better. Believe me, Jimmy, this is not a sting. I’ll never let anyone know where I got the stuff.”
“All right, I’ll see what I can do. That’s a pretty specific piece, only made by Marine armorers and not for public sale. What else?”
“A Ghillie suit.”
“A Ghillie suit?”
“It’s like a poncho, only made from jute.”
“I’m supposed to know what in hell jute is?”
“Jute’s what they use to make burlap, only it isn’t woven like a sack, it hangs in strands that create corded netting. It allows a sniper to camouflage himself similar to his surroundings.”
“So, you’re going after this guy.”
“Not if I can avoid it, even though I can’t think of any other way to get him. Nevertheless, if he calls me out again I want to be ready.”
“I hope you know what you’re doin’. He’s had a couple of chances to kill you already and has let you walk. This guy has the advantage of knowing who and where you are and when to strike.”
“That’s why I need this stuff as soon as possible. If I’m going to take him on, I want to be ready. I’ve got some practicing to do.”
O’Leary looked at him as if he were out of his mind. “You’re going to practice?”
“Yeah, I’m going to hone my skills.”
O’Leary ground out his cigarette and scratched his head. “Are all ex-jarheads stubborn like you?”
“Pretty much.”
“How in hell did we lose in Vietnam?”
“I don’t know. As you might recall, I wasn’t there. But I think the government tying the military’s hands had something to do with it. So when can you have that stuff?”
“Give me a few days to get the rifle and the Ghillie suit. The other stuff I should have late tomorrow afternoon.”
“See you then.”
Houston stopped at the door and turned to O’Leary. “How much longer you think the hood will be policing itself?”
“Hard to say. At least until the last child molester is gone and the parasites that entice six-year-old kids to shoot drugs are off the streets. You’re the expert in crime, you tell me.”
“Sounds to me like it’s going to be a long-term project . . . ”
“On goin’.”
Houston went back to his apartment and broiled a couple of steaks with baked potatoes and all the fixings for Anne and himself. He turned the six o’clock news on and half-listened to the commentators give their opinions on world events, which in Boston usually meant the liberal point of view. The local news gave way to the national news and the steaks were starting to look like beef jerky. He paced the apartment for several minutes and then called Bill Dysart. Dysart told him he hadn’t heard a word from Anne since they had left his office that morning.
Houston rummaged through the drawers of the small desk and took out an address book. He flipped it open to H where he had penciled in Susie’s name and cell phone number. His hand shook as he held the phone and he had a hard time hitting the right sequence of numbers. The phone rang three times and then went to voicemail. He cursed with impatience as he referred to the address book and found the number to her dorm and punched the numbers. He breathed a sigh of relief when someone answered the phone.
“Yo,” it was a male voice and Houston’s paternal instinct kicked in. What in hell was a guy doing answering the phone in a girls’ dorm room? Houston had bigger things on his mind though, like locating his daughter. Still, he made a mental note to ask Susie about it.
“Susan Houston,” he said, trying to keep fear out of his voice.
“Hold on.”
The guy dropped the handset, and the loud clunk it made banging on the desk almost deafened Houston. He pulled the phone away from his ear then quickly put it back. Houston forced himself to be patient and prayed until he heard someone pick up the phone. “Susie?” he asked before anyone had a chance to talk.
“No, this is her roommate, Melissa.”
“Melissa, this is Susie’s father. It’s important that I talk with her—is she there?” He prayed she was and all that had happened was that she had decided to give him the cold shoulder after the trauma of Quincy Market.
“She was, but she left.”
“How long has she been gone?”
“Let’s see. I came in about two and she left not more than ten minutes later.”
“Was she alone?”
“I didn’t see anyone with her.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
“No, but then I didn’t think to ask.”
“Does she have her cell phone?”
There was a pause and then Melissa said, “No, it’s sitting in the charger on her desk.”
He heard the door open and close. When he looked up Anne was standing in the door. Houston smiled and motioned he would only be a minute. “Melissa, have her call me as soon as she gets in.”
“I’ll leave her a note in case I go out too.”
Anne looked at him; the pallid cast to her complexion told him something was wrong. “No one has seen Susie since two this afternoon.”
Mike grabbed the phone and punched in a number.
“Claddagh Pub.”
“This is Houston, put me through to Jimmy.”
O’Leary’s staccato voice came on. “Mike, my guys lost her . . . ”
Susie slammed the sociology textbook closed with more force than was required. She sighed in frustration and tried to deal with what was eating at her—her father and the way violence seemed to follow him no matter where he went. She recalled the Quincy Market shooting and an involuntary shudder raced through her. The shooting had bothered her like nothing she had ever experienced before. On one hand, she knew her father had saved their lives, but she couldn’t get past the cold anger on his face as he muscled his way through the crowd and shot the gunman without hesitation.
The librarian walked by. “The Resource Center closes in fifteen minutes.” Susie nodded, gathered her books and stuffed them into her backpack. She decided she might as well head back to the dorm. Her state of mind made studying impossible anyway. She picked up the heavy bag and slung it over her left shoulder.
The evening was warm and pleasant so she opted to walk along University Road rather than take her usual shortcut. She was halfway to her dorm when the van pulled up beside her. An attractive, blonde-haired woman rolled down the passenger window and asked, “Can you direct us to Bay State Road?”
“Sure, it’s easy,” Susie said. Under normal circumstances she would be hesitant to approach a strange vehicle, but the presence of the woman gave her a sense of security. She walked over to the side of the truck and pointed north. “Follow this street until you come to the entrance to Storrow Drive. Just before entering Storrow drive, turn hard right; that’s Bay State Road.”
She turned back to the woman to ascertain that she had understood and froze. The woman pointed a pistol at her. “That sounds confusing to me. Why don’t you get in and show us?”
Susie fought back her urge to run. She knew there was no chance she could outrun a bullet. Before Susie overcame her indecision, the woman stepped from the van, the ominous gun never deviating.
“That was not a request. It’s an order.” She grabbed Susie’s backpack, shoved her into the van and jumped in after her.
The driver turned and smiled at Susie, his face a hideous mass of burn scars. “Hey,” he said, “I know you! I’m an old friend of your father’s.”
When he laughed a deep belly laugh, Susie wasn’t sure if the distinct odors of smoke and burnt flesh that she smelled were real or imaginary. “We’re gonna be good friends too,” he said and laughed louder.