“The sniper must be camouflage conscious from the time he departs on a mission until the time he returns . . . . He must master the techniques of hiding, blending, and deceiving.”
—US Marine Corps Scout/Sniper Training Manual
Night fell with no sign of his quarry. Houston settled on the side of the ridge, in a small copse of alders nestled in a grove of large, gray-barked beech trees, munching a cold meal. It was the last of his food and he would have to live off the land until this was over.
He wondered if Anne had gotten help in time. He was not a corpsman, but he had seen enough wounds to know a serious one. The way she rasped when she breathed and the blood that seeped from the corner of her mouth was disturbing, both symptoms of a lung shot. He forced his mind to more pressing matters.
Houston stared up through the trees at the moon and knew the brilliant orb was both a blessing and a curse. The spots where openings in the trees allowed the moonlight to penetrate were lit up almost to the level of daylight and it would be easy to see anyone attempting to close in on him; on the other hand, it also made him visible. It was a night best suited for staying put.
He sat back against a tree and fell into a light slumber.
Noise in the woods woke Houston. He glanced at his watch: 5 a.m. He didn’t move, but strained his ears for the sound that had awakened him. He heard a grunting noise to his left and slowly shifted position so he could see the source. In the early-morning light, he saw a black bear and her cubs. The cubs cavorted in the trees and brush while their mother ripped apart an old stump, digging for ants and bugs. Houston let the unsuspecting animals entertain him for more than twenty minutes. Suddenly the mother bear stood on her hind legs and turned, looking up the ridge. She sniffed the air for a few seconds then dropped down onto all four legs and herded the cubs out of the area.
Houston froze, wondering what could make the bear react in such a manner. Surely, it wasn’t another animal. It had to be the shooter and, some way or another, he had gotten behind him.
Houston dove to his left and a hole appeared in the trunk of the tree where he’d been sitting, immediately followed by the sharp crack of a supersonic bullet passing close by and the bark of a rifle.
A second bullet slammed into the maple and Houston drew back further behind its protective bulk.
Houston ventured a look, peering around the tree and detected a slight movement. He sighted in. Through the scope, he saw an unnatural line in the flora, maybe two inches of a human arm.
He fired.
The shape disappeared and Houston knew he had scored a hit—albeit a minor one.
Houston studied the terrain, hoping to see movement. All he saw was the intermittent oscillations of branches and bushes as the breeze blew across the ridge. He crawled toward the spot where Rosa had been. Without warning, the ground beneath him gave way. He rolled into a copse of alder bushes and silently cursed in frustration. As quickly as his anger had exploded, it waned and he lay still studying the area around him. The bushes swayed in the gusting morning wind and all he heard was a sound similar to a cat wailing. It took him several seconds to identify the sound—it was nothing more than a tree rocking back and forth.
Houston had no idea how long he had been hidden in the alders. Certain that Rosa had departed, he crawled until he found the spot from which he had shot at him. In seconds, he found blood splatters on some leaves and verified that Rosa had indeed been hit. Knowing he’d scored a hit, no matter how superficial, felt good. Rosa could make mistakes too. He followed the blood trail, looking for marks left behind when Rosa had crawled away. The trail led higher, up the ridge.
Marsh was familiar with the island and spent the night in the cabin. Knowing that the nearest officers available for backup were several hours away, he came to the island alone . . . a mode of operation not unusual for Maine game wardens. Soon after arriving on the island he was convinced that he had found the right place. First he had found a discarded bed frame near the shore where there were signs of a boat being launched, and then there was the blood sign. This was where the wounded woman had been shot. The ravaged carcass of another woman meant that something very wrong was happening on the island. He tried to ignore the wasted state of the body as he searched it for identification. He found a US Marine Corps identification card and read it. The first thing he noticed was that the card was green, indicating that at the time of death she had been on active duty. Then he read her name: Francis K. Estes, USMCR. Her rank was listed as a major. Marsh rocked back on his heels. “What in Christ is goin’ on here . . . World War III?” A military assault rifle lay partially hidden by underbrush. He picked it up and read the information engraved on the barrel. It was an M-16A4, the model currently used by the armed forces and capable of automatic fire—which made it illegal for use everywhere except on military bases. “Guy hit the nail on the head,” he muttered. “This sure as hell isn’t a hunting rifle—not unless these people are hunting men.”
He slung the rifle over his right shoulder, then hefted the corpse into a fireman’s carry and carried it into the clearing. He had placed Estes’s remains in the small shed behind the cabin and latched the door so that predators would be unable to damage it further.