In his ghillie suit, Jacob moved into the tall grass, knelt down, and then virtually disappeared. Trompe l’oeil. Kathryn scanned back and forth trying to spot movement. All she could see was the gentle breeze ruffling the seeded tips of the switchgrass in the meadow.
“I’m working with a ghost.”
CHAPTER 13
Oswald sat on one side of a small table in an interrogation room at the Cameron County Sheriff’s Department. The two detectives sat in chairs opposite him. The laminate-topped table between them was spotted with brown blooms of cigarette burns from the olden days when everybody smoked. To Oswald, the burns looked like melanomas. One concession to modern times was that the two-way mirror had been drywalled over, and a reflective dome that concealed a closed circuit camera was mounted to the ceiling. Lieutenant Cowell and Sergeant Heidler watched the feed from the monitor room.
Cortez asked, “Any particular reason you would be cleaning a sniper rifle when you are no longer employed in that capacity?”
“I always keep it clean. Just the way I was taught. No matter what.”
Detective Hasan asked, “Not because you shot it earlier today?”
“You know, I didn’t give you guys permission to search my place.”
“Nobody searched anything,” Cortez said. “I was just taking a piss. I could smell the Hoppe’s.”
“Which prompted you to look and see if I let soap scum build up on my shower tile?”
“Some people do. It’s hard not to think less of them once you find out.”
“Did you have time to rifle through the medicine cabinet, too?”
Hasan jumped in. “That’s a good pun.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Rifle. You used the word ‘rifle’ as a verb meaning ‘to ransack’ when the real focus of our conversation is the Winchester rifle you tried to conceal from us by hiding it in your bathtub.”
“You have a great mastery of the English language. Preparing for the citizenship test?”
“I was born here, just like you.”
“And actually, Hay-Seed—”
“It’s Sayeed. Sayeed Hasan. Detective.”
“Fine. But I didn’t use rifle as a verb. I used the infinitive. As an adjective. Time to rifle. That’s what I said.”
Cortez said, “Are you two fucking kidding me?”
“I’m just trying to help your partner become a full-fledged American citizen.”
“Kiss my full-fledged ass, Lee Harvey.”
Cortez said, “Oz, maybe you could just tell us why you felt compelled to grease up and wipe down your scope-mounted sniper rifle on the same morning Captain Bryant was shot up like Sam Peckinpah was directing his life.”
“You’re full of film references. But you know there’s more to our culture than movies. There are books. Novels. Music. Painting. Poetry.”
“And TV. TV is a cultural force. So why did you clean your gun this morning?”
“Rifle.”
“How’s that?”
“Rifle. Not gun.”
Cortez frowned. “So we’re back to rifle. It’s an infinitive, right?”
“No, my weapon is a rifle, not a gun. ‘This is my rifle, this is my gun. This is for fighting, this is for fun.’”
“Full Metal Jacket.”
“Right.”
“Oz, for the last time, why did you clean your rifle this morning?”
“Because I wanted to.”
“Oz. C’mon.”
“Look, all I’m saying is that I’m allowed to own and maintain firearms. That’s one right I still have.”
Hasan said, “Which begs the question: Why conceal it from us? Why go to the trouble to hide something that’s perfectly legal? Why are you acting guilty?”
“Whoa, slow down there, chief. You’re rifling these questions at me pretty fast. See what I did there? Transitive verb.”
“Okay, okay, okay. Enough. Oz, you up for a powder residue test? That would put this to rest.”
“Residue test? What would that prove? I could’ve worn gloves. I mean, you know, if I was the shooter.”
“Seems to me, if I recall correctly, and I think I do, that you were kind of well known for your, oh let’s say, disdain, of gloves. That they were impure. An unnecessary barrier between the sniper and his tool. That sound about right?”
“Yeah, I was like Brooke Shields in that regard. Nothing came between me and my Winchester.”
Cortez said, “How about you let us run a ballistics match on your rifle against the .308s recovered from the murder scene?”
“Yeah, I could do that. But like I said, nothing comes between me and my Model 70. So I reckon I’ll decline that offer. I don’t trust you boys with my baby. Sorry.”
“Well Oz, you’re here right now. Let’s run the residue test then. You’re in, you’re out.”
“Look Cortez, I fire more days than I don’t. What else have I got to do with my time? You’d find residue on my hands, arms, clothes, hair.”
“So where were you between eight and ten this morning?”
Oswald said, “I was in bed. Asleep. Class dismissed.”
This was a lie. One of several he’d told. But Oz was through with these two. He was here as a courtesy only. Fuck ’em.
He looked up at the ceiling and spoke directly to the dark reflective dome that concealed the closed circuit camera. He figured Heidler and maybe Cowell were in the monitor room, watching. “You want my weapon? You want the residue off my body? Get a warrant. Otherwise, you’re wasting my time.”
CHAPTER 14
Kathryn had advanced about fifty yards into the meadow, snaking her way through dense clumps of deer grass, its long-legged seed stalks waving in the light breeze. She was sweating more than she thought she had ever sweated in her life. The full-on sunlight and the suffocating ghillie suit combined in a sauna effect. Using no extraneous movement, she pulled her canteen from her utility belt and took a gulp, conscious of the sound the water made as it flowed through the neck of the canteen, and the sound her throat and esophagus made squeezing the water down into her stomach.
There was a light hiss of radio static through her earbud, then Jacob’s voice. “Easy on the water, we could be here awhile.”
With no apparent need to worry about the sound, she threaded the cap back on the canteen and clipped it to her utility belt. Then she continued, crawling deeper into the brush.
In her ear, like the voice of her own conscience, Jacob said, “Hot, isn’t it?”
Kathryn scurried through the grass hoping to avoid Jacob’s gaze. She now realized that avoiding detection while simultaneously detecting the presence of another cancelled out the efficacy of each. She keyed her mic.
“Do you see me now?”
“Nope. But I know something you don’t.”
“What’s that?”
“That I can find you whenever I want to. I think you forgot something.”
Kathryn looked around her immediate environment, knowing Fuckin’Denton was probably fucking with her head. Still, her hands flew around her clothing, checking pockets and her utility belt for items that might be missing. She keyed her mic.
“Nice try, old man. You’re just messing with my head. I’ve got everything I’m supposed to have.”
His voice in her head: “You’ve definitely got all that you need. More than enough.”
She spoke into the air. It was like having a conversation with God. “Just watch your back. I’m coming for you. Hope you wore your Depends.”
Kathryn continued to crawl forward through the deer grass, the tufted blades of bunchgrass grabbing at her. Then, out of nowhere, her utility belt erupted in electronic noise so out of place out in the field. BEEP BEEP BEEP. Her phone letting her know she had a new text message.
Jacob stood up in the grass. A mythical god pronouncing himself real. He was only ten feet away from Kathryn.
Kathryn rose up, shoulders sagged in defeat. Jacob held his cell phone an
d pointed it at Kathryn like a gun.
Kathryn just shook her head. She ripped off the hat of her ghillie suit and took a long pull from her canteen. Then she upended the canteen and poured the rest of the water over her head. Jacob smiled and walked right by her back to the shooting range.
“That’s cheating,” she said over her shoulder. But of course it wasn’t. Her phone gave off a single beep to remind her she had an unviewed text message. She looked. It said, BANG BANG, SHOOT SHOOT.
Kathryn went to get more water, then followed Jacob.
* * *
The Cameron County shooting range was deserted except for Sesak and Denton. As leader of the SWAT’s sniper team, Jacob was accustomed to training either alone or with his spotter. The entry team—the doorkickers—still had to qualify as shooters, and Jacob and Kathryn would have to pass basic tests and perform at some level with every weapon and every specialty in case a team member went down. But the sniper team and entry team often trained separately, because doorkickers sometimes didn’t mix well with sharpshooters. They also trained together, obviously, because any man or woman assigned to SWAT would sacrifice for a brother or sister. Still, the star-bellied Sneetches often did not train with those Sneetches who lacked a green star.
Jacob and Kathryn laid at the hundred-yard mark, bellies down, gripping their sniper weapons.
Jacob carried a Model 700 Remington .308 with a Brown Precision Fiberglass stock and a U.S. Optics Fixed 10X scope. He had camo’d the stock himself with paint and leaves native to this area of Northern California. In an urban environment, like a city street or rooftop, he simply used black netting to conceal his weapon.
Kathryn’s newly issued rifle was also a Model 700, with a 4.5 X 14 Leupold Scope. The fiberglass stock on her rifle was done up in forest green camo straight from the factory.
They both wore ear plugs and safety glasses. Kathryn discharged her rifle. Jacob looked through his scope and pulled out one earplug. Kathryn did the same.
“Aim point?” Jacob asked.
“Left eye.”
“Your hit?”
“It’s low. Left cheek.”
“I guess she won’t be singing for Destiny’s Child anymore.”
“Uh, Lisa ‘Left Eye’ Lopes sang for TLC, not Destiny’s Child. And besides that, she’s dead now.”
“Yeah, I know. You just killed her.”
“Cute. Maybe you should stick to Beatles references.”
“Fair enough. Okay, refocus on your breathing. Half breath out, and hold.”
“Wait.”
Kathryn rolled over to her sniper case. Identical to Jacob’s, it was a Pelican-Hardigg hard-shell resin composite case capable of holding two M16s with or without grenade launchers. Inside, each case was unique in that the air-compressed foam conformed to each individual sniper weapon. Meaning, no two cases held the exact same weaponry or paraphernalia.
The Pelican case also had a pressurized O-ring seal with a pressure release valve in case there was a need for air travel. There was a humidity indicator. And the case was weatherproof and the foam eliminated any vibration to the rifle while it was being transported. It was virtually indestructible. It could take a direct hit from a mortar round.
In addition to her rifle, Kathryn’s case held what Jacob referred to as wazoo gadgets. Modern tactical technology. Gizmos.
She now extracted a rangefinder and affixed it to her weapon. Jacob didn’t comment. He didn’t approve, but he didn’t comment. He knew what it was. What it would do. It was an instrument that sent out a laser beam and then told the user the distance. He knew they were currently one hundred yards out, the length of a football field—the distance at which most trainees start to balk—but of course Kathryn was not yet familiar enough with this range to know that. But he also knew that the hardest thing for anyone—sniper or not—to judge was range. Distance. And the size of the objects in your line of view and how they changed your impression of distance.
Jacob knew that it was critical she be able to plug these targets dead on at one hundred yards. Anything beyond that was less critical, because on call-outs, the sniper team was almost always able to get to one hundred yards or less. The more populated the area, the more accurate your shot needed to be. Especially if there were houses next door, across the street, etc.
He considered what Kathryn was doing with the rangefinder to be cheating. But he also didn’t want to be thought of as a Luddite. So he made no comment. Not yet. But it rankled. Sharpshooting was a skill that was earned, not accomplished with the flip of a switch. It took real shooters to do it correctly. Guys who’d grown up hunting and bringing meat home for dinner. Guys, if he was being honest, like himself.
Kathryn resumed her belly-down position next to him. She flipped on the rangefinder and put her eye to the scope. Then she lifted her head, looked at Jacob, embarrassed.
“What? Does it pull the trigger for you, too?”
“Battery’s dead. No beam, no ping. I’ve got a backup.”
She started to roll back to her case, but Jacob grabbed her by the wrist and stopped her.
“Are you on fire or what? Stop with the rolling thing. It draws attention. A sniper never gives away his location. And why isn’t all your gear right here next to you?”
Using elbows and toes, Kathryn slithered low to the ground to retrieve her gear, but once again, Jacob stopped her.
“No. Uh-uh. You’re on a mission. Call-out simulation. You can’t change your batteries. Those few seconds mean someone’s life. You’ve got the green light. You’ve got to take your shot. What we do is not a video game. It doesn’t run on batteries.”
Kathryn nodded.
“Don’t think about the crutch you don’t have. Just remember your breathing. Half breath out, and hold it.”
They replaced their ear plugs. Kathryn sank into her scope, breath out halfway. The sharp report was a muffled crack to them, but it rolled across the range like a dire warning. Kathryn looked through her scope and smiled.
“Left eye.”
“Well done. Okay. Make your weapon safe. I’m going downrange and put up a new target.”
Kathryn thumbed back the metal bolt and cleared her weapon.
“Clear to go downrange.”
Jacob rose, opened his bulky camo bag, and pulled out a new target and a staple gun. Once downrange, he stapled the new target right on top of the one Kathryn had just shot. The target was the size of a sheet of paper—8½ by 11. There were two black-and-white heads copied on it. The bad guy was wearing a ski mask and was only half visible behind Lieutenant Cowell’s face. The overlap was several inches.
Jacob walked back to his bag, replaced the staple gun, and lowered himself back down between his bag and Kathryn.
“Okay. On my command. Ears on.”
They both replaced their ear plugs.
“Okay. Target acquisition.”
Kathryn looked through her scope and the face of her lieutenant came into sharp focus. Jacob was fucking with her head. But the margin of safety was comfortable. Plenty of room. Let him fuck with her.
She said, “On it,” meaning that she had picked where she was going to place the shot—be it the bad guy’s cheek, forehead, eyehole, whatever, it was her decision.
“Green light.”
A loud crack as Kathryn discharged her weapon.
Jacob said, “Don’t look at your hit.”
Kathryn averted her gaze from the scope.
“I’m going back downrange and retrieve the target.”
Kathryn thumbed back her bolt again, clearing it.
“Clear to go downrange.”
Kathryn tapped her fingers on the side of her weapon, watching Jacob make his way to the target and then back to her. A hundred yards took some time to cover round-trip on foot.
“How do you think you did?”
“I really don’t know. I think I shot the bad guy. It was a tight shot, but not that tight. I’ve had slimmer margins for error. You know that. It wa
sn’t a hard shot. You know what I’m capable of.”
“Then why aren’t you sure? Why do I hear hesitation?”
“Probably because you’re acting all Zen Master on me all of a sudden. And it’s freaking me out.”
He showed Kathryn her target. She had shot Lieutenant Cowell. Barely, but she shot him.
“Shit.”
“What happened? Like you said, you’re capable of much tighter shots than this.”
“I’m not sure. My aim point was right in line.”
“With…”
“The bad guy’s left eye.”
“And you hit…”
“Higher and to the right. I hit the hostage.”
“Lieutenant Cowell. You shot Lieutenant Cowell.”
“Yeah, I know who the hostage was. What’s your point?”
“My point is that you knew who the hostage was. And that affected your shooting. You hesitated. You doubted. You know Lieutenant Cowell. You like Lieutenant Cowell. He hired you. Your hesitancy and uncertainty made you—”
“Pull my shot. High and right.”
“Just so you know, every sniper has trouble shooting at someone they know. Even in effigy. The first few times you can expect this. It’s human nature.”
Kathryn nodded.
“You have to learn to look past them. Make them obstacles, block them mentally, do whatever you need to do in your head to negate that familiarity. If you can’t do that, bad things happen.”
“Like Oswald?”
Jacob stared at her. Then said, “What happened with Oz was different. But it underscores the mental aspect to all of this. Doubt. Hesitation. Guilt. These things can destroy you. After the shot is taken. Doubt. Hesitation. Guilt. These things can destroy the hostage. Before the shot is taken.”
Jacob was amazed at his little speech. He really was getting all Zen Master and shit. Over his career, he had trained many spotters. Only a few had gone on to become primary snipers in other jurisdictions. The only way for anybody to take Jake’s job in this jurisdiction was to outshoot him or kill him. He figured Kathryn might be considering both of those options. But the odds were that Kathryn would wash out as well. That was just the reality of it. But he was treating her differently. Training her differently. He was giving her of himself. Not just the technical training, but what he had learned. And it wasn’t because she was different. It was because Jacob himself was different. He had reached a point in his life where he felt a need to pass on the real things to another human being. He had no child, no son, to give this to, so he was giving it to Kathryn. And maybe the fact that she was a woman did make a difference. Maybe that was why he was able, for the first time in his life, not to just teach, but to give of himself, to reveal.
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