Fuzzy Navel

by J. A. Konrath

  “I’m working on it!”

  I survey the room. Other than the injured techie, who is rapidly bleeding out, only four people are still alive: two uniforms, two plainclothes. I’m ranking officer, but I’m not about to order any of them to go after the rifle. Especially since I’m the closest one to it.

  I imagine the sniper. Probably crouching in a bush, as the other had. Peering through a scope, his sites locked onto the fallen rifle, waiting for someone to try for it.

  I’ve used scopes before. At distances longer than fifty yards, the slightest movement by the shooter throws them off target. If I distract him, then move quickly, I’ll have two or three seconds before he finds me again.

  Theoretically at least.

  Or I can sit tight and wait for the cavalry to arrive. But I don’t know if the injured cop can last that long. And I’ve had enough of people dying on my watch.

  I look to my left, see a small end table. Metal, solid, manageable. I kick off my heels and holster my gun. Then I lift the table above my head, aim at the window where the last bullet went through, and heave it hard as I can.

  Before it hits the glass I’m in motion… bending down for the rifle… hearing the window shatter… grabbing the barrel and hugging it to my chest… digging my bare heels into the carpet to change direction in case the sniper was tracking me… skidding…

  Falling onto my ass.

  The pain travels from my coccyx straight up to my neck like a lightning bolt, prompting instant tears and an immediate surge of panic.

  I’m sitting directly in the sniper’s sights. And he has an even clearer view of me now, because the window sports a large hole where the table broke though.

  Though I don’t remain still for longer than a second, it feels like a week, and my ears burn and my forehead gets hot where I imagine a bull’s-eye to be, where the shot is going to hit.

  The shot doesn’t come.

  I pull the gun closer to my body, drop my right shoulder, and quickly roll back to my original hiding spot alongside the window.

  Herb says, “I had seven heart attacks watching you do that.”

  I look down the hallway, lock eyes with Herb in the mirror reflection of a music CD he’s holding out the doorway. He’s using it like I’d used the lipstick, to see around the corner.

  Rather than respond, I do a quick inspection of the weapon. A Dakota rifle. Fixed sights. A twenty-four-inch barrel. Bolt action. I check the magazine. Three .458 rounds, plus one already chambered. I tuck the butt into my armpit and sight through the scope, aiming at the ceiling.

  The lens is cracked, and bent to the left side.

  “Scope’s dead,” I call to Herb. “Any more back there?”

  A pause. Then, “No.”

  “Bullets?”

  “I didn’t see—”

  The crack of the shot makes me flinch, and the CD disintegrates in Herb’s hand. I look around the room at my men. They’re hunkered down, terrified. I need to get them out of here. But I can’t if they’re too scared to move.

  “Looks like our sniper isn’t a music fan,” I say. The joke sounds forced, mostly because it is.

  “I can’t blame him,” Herb says. “I don’t like John Denver either.”

  I unscrew the scope from its mount and toss it aside. Then I swing the barrel around, toward the street.

  “Hold up another one.”

  “I could only find his greatest hits album.”

  I suck in air, blow it out hard, my cheeks billowing.

  “How about Neil Diamond?” I yell.

  I rest the tip of the barrel on the windowsill, an inch away from the glass. Not the best way to steady a rifle, but all I can manage given the situation.

  “No Neil. Is Jim Croce okay?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Time in a Bottle, or You Don’t Mess Around With Jim?”

  I’m about to tell Herb I don’t care, but I reconsider. “Time in a Bottle,” I yell.

  I was never a fan of sappy love songs.

  I stare down the street, waiting for it. The sniper’s muzzle flashes before I hear the shot. The CD explodes.

  “I couldn’t save Time in a Bottle,” Herb says.

  I line up the sights, fixing them slightly above my target, knowing the bullet will travel in a parabolic arc.

  “I’m going to fire four shots, four seconds apart,” I tell the room. “So you have between twelve and sixteen seconds to get the injured, and yourselves, out of the house. There’s an ambulance on the corner of Leavitt and Leland. You can get there using parked cars for cover. Understood?”

  I count five yeses, including a weak moan from the injured techie. One voice is conspicuous in its absence.

  “You too Herb.”

  “No way. I’m liking this CD collection too much. When was the last time you heard the Kingston Trio?”

  “That’s an order, Herb.”

  “I’m not leaving.”

  Goddammit. If Herb died his wife would kill me.

  “Fine. Hold up the other Croce CD, then stay hidden. We go after I fire my first round. Everyone get ready.”

  I hold the rifle tight against my armpit and rest my chin on the stock, sighting down the barrel. I test the trigger pull, apply enough pressure to barely move it. Then I wait, breathing slow and easy so it doesn’t throw off my aim.

  It doesn’t take long. The killer can’t resist showing off his marksman skills, and he blows away the second Croce CD.

  “Go!” I tell the room.

  Then I squeeze the trigger.

  6:53 P.M.

  MUNCHEL

  MUNCHEL GRUNTS in satisfaction after the CD shatters, and then he moves the scope ever so slightly to watch the split-tail. He’s ready for her to fire back. Hell, he wants her to fire back. That’s why he didn’t kill her when she went for the rifle, even though he had a bead on it. Confirmed kills are great, but real snipers must also contend with return fire. The cops in the street, they’re all too far away, their guns not powerful enough to reach him. There’s no threat or danger.

  He wants a little danger. And the ultimate danger is when you go up against another sniper. An anti-sniper.

  Munchel doesn’t expect her to come close to him. Her rifle is a toy compared to his, and she doesn’t even have a scope. But this will be a much better story to tell Swanson and Pessolano if the cops send a few rounds his way.

  “Show me what you got, baby,” Munchel says, baring his yellow teeth in a grin.

  When her first bullet connects with the concrete planter he’s resting his gun on, Munchel jerks like he’s had acid thrown in his face. He drops the TPG-1 and ducks down.

  How the hell did she make that shot?

  “Lucky,” he says aloud, his voice cracking.

  As the word leaves his lips, another shot blasts into the planter, tossing up stone chips, burrowing a hole into it.

  Munchel backs the hell away. He checks his clothing. Why isn’t the camouflage working? Is she using night vision?

  A bullet zips over his head, its wind practically parting his hair before burying itself into the building behind him. He hunkers down even lower, thinking he should be returning fire, knowing he should, but too scared to move.

  One more shot, and the planter shatters, large chunks falling to the ground, a puff of dirt forming a cloud that settles in his eyes and on his lips.

  Munchel holds his breath, waiting. His bladder feels like a water balloon being squeezed in a vise. Sweat pops out of his body in places he didn’t even know he had pores. He doesn’t dare move, convinced that she can see him.

  A full minute passes.

  He wonders if she’s out of bullets, or simply toying with him. Maybe she has the shot, has him all lined up, and is enjoying watching him squirm.

  Sirens, in the distance. Munchel knows that must be SWAT. He needs to break camp, get the hell out of here. His heart is thumping. His mouth is dry. His palms feel like he just soaked them in water. He’s more scared than he�
��s ever been in his life.

  But he’s also exhilarated.

  This is what combat is like, he thinks.

  The feeling is intoxicating.

  Munchel knows the news cameras are rolling, knows that the split-tail can see him, knows that what he has in mind might be suicidal. But he decides to go for it anyway.

  No one expects a pinned down man to charge. So Munchel charges.

  The suitcase in one hand, the TPG-1 in the other, he sprints across the sidewalk, across the street, daring the woman cop to shoot him. He knows to zigzag, to make himself a harder target. He maybe even yells a little, an animalistic war cry, the sound of a hero facing certain death.

  No bullets hit him. No one even shoots at him. Munchel pauses behind a car to catch his breath, marveling at his own bravery. It’s dark, and the streetlight he shot out earlier helps him hide in the shadows. But if the cop has some sort of optical enhancer, it’s possible she can still see him.

  The sirens are getting closer. He needs some kind of distraction, something that will confuse the night-vision goggles the woman cop must be using.

  He unzips the suitcase, removes one of two whiskey bottles. Inside is kerosene mixed with laundry detergent. Poor man’s napalm. Munchel would have preferred real napalm, or a grenade, but he couldn’t get those. He tried to order some, on the Internet, and the prick took his money and didn’t send him shit. Hopefully the homemade stuff will be good enough.

  Munchel unscrews the bottle cap and shoves in a braided wick from a camping lantern. He uses a Zippo to light the wick and then shouts, “Semper fi!” as he throws the flaming bottle at a parked SUV. It bounces off the hood and shatters on the sidewalk, soaking someone’s lawn with liquid fire.

  He doesn’t stop to acknowledge his handiwork. He’s on the move again, tugging the suitcase behind him in a crouch, changing direction several times, making it to the Chevy Nova parked in the center of the street.

  The split-tail’s car. He considers using his second Molotov cocktail to set it ablaze, to teach her a lesson, but changes his mind and reaches for something else instead. Something electronic, that Pessolano let him borrow.

  This woman is a worthy opponent. It isn’t enough just to destroy her car. Munchel wants to best her. To beat her. And he’s already formulating a plan on how to do just that.

  He turns on the device and attaches it to the underside of her rear bumper. Then he lights the second bottle of napalm, yells “Recon!” and chucks it at a patrol car.

  Munchel runs back the way he came, slipping between houses, making it to his car a block away. It had taken him almost forty minutes of circling to find that parking space, and even though he was clearly the required twenty feet away from the fire hydrant, he still got a ticket. Assholes.

  Rather than dwell on it, Munchel throws the suitcase and the rifle into the backseat, hops behind the wheel, and beelines for the rendezvous point, imagining Pessolano and Swanson watching his heroics on CNN and cheering him on.

  6:54 P.M.

  KORK

  JACK’S BOYFRIEND LATHAM is kind of cute. Red hair, a strong chin, broad chest. He doesn’t cry out when I crack him in the nose with the butt of my revolver, and doesn’t beg for his life when I stick the business end under his chin.

  “On the sofa, next to the old lady.”

  He complies, but takes his time, fixing me with what he probably thinks is a cold stare. He’s about as menacing as a teddy bear. If he wanted to learn cold stares, he should have grown up in my family.

  “When’s your girlfriend getting home?” I ask.

  He reaches out, holds the woman’s hand. Doesn’t answer. Which pisses me off.

  I’ve lost track of how many people I’ve killed, but I know I’ve killed men for annoying me less than Latham is doing right now. But I don’t want to do anything permanent until Jack gets home and is able to watch. So I settle for smacking him with the gun again.

  I hit him pretty good, opening up a cut on his cheek, and he refuses to meet my eyes. So much for the tough guy act.

  “I don’t like repeating myself,” I say.

  “She told me nine.” His voice is soft, dull. “She’s on a case.”

  I check my new watch. Heathrow didn’t allow watches. Or jewelry. Or makeup. Or bras. Or shoes. We had our unisex cotton pants and top, and slippers with flimsy rubber soles. I could understand them keeping security tight. A few of the women in there were crazy. But my minders confused insane with feeble-minded. Big mistake.

  My watch tells me I have about two hours left before Jack arrives. I’m hungry. Maybe I can get Mom to serve me some of that stew she’s making. I also haven’t gotten fucked in forever. The last time was with my so-called husband, and he was as in effective in bed as he was at everything else. I eye Latham’s broad shoulders, trim waist, then move my eyes lower, to his crotch. I wonder if he is up for the job. I know from experience that a man sometimes has problems getting it up when a gun is jammed in his mouth.

  But when they can manage, the sex is mind-blowing.

  Later, I decide. One more thing that Jack can watch.

  “Who else is hungry?” I ask.

  I smile, not the easiest thing to do when you’ve lost most of the nerves and muscles in half of your face. Mom grimaces. Latham stares at the floor.

  “Both of you, stand up. Slow and easy. If you move too fast, or if I get the feeling you aren’t going to behave, I’ll shoot your knees.”

  They stand, and hero boyfriend puts his arm around Mom’s shoulders. It’s touching, the warmth. Really. When the time comes, I don’t know which one I’ll kill first.

  No need to think about that now. We have all night. And what a night it will be. These aren’t the only guests I’m inviting to this party. With some duct tape to keep everyone manageable, and some delivery pizza, we could keep this going for a few days.

  First things first, Mom can serve some dinner. And I can warm loverboy up for our floor show later on. He looks to be the loyal type. Tough to break.

  But I’ll break him. When I was growing up, Father used the stove for more than just cooking. He used it for punishment. Showed me up close and personal all the ways a stove can make a person scream.

  And I’m more than happy to share the knowledge.

  6:56 P.M.

  JACK

  WHILE I FIRE at the sniper the cops in the house clear out, carrying their injured team member. Herb comes up behind me, and we watch through the window as they make their way down the street. They join the others who were lucky enough to have gotten away, to the end of the block where the ambulances are.

  We also watch our perp run around in jerky patterns, dragging a suitcase behind him and holding a huge sniper rifle, occasionally yelling something incoherent. He stops twice to throw homemade bombs at cars. Each one bounces off and causes a small fire on the sidewalk.

  “This might very well be the world’s stupidest criminal,” Herb says.

  I’m out of rifle ammo. Herb and I pull our ser vice pistols, keeping the perp in our sights. Though he keeps zigzagging and ducking down, he would have been a cinch to shoot if he came within our range. We could even have nailed him without looking, because he kept whooping like a drunken sports fan, giving away his location. Unfortunately, he stays at least fifty yards away the entire time, and eventually disappears between two houses, running off into the night.

  Herb and I meet the Special Response Team in front, and I send them in the direction the sniper had gone. By that time the small fires have almost extinguished themselves, and the cops who’ve been in hiding come out and attend to the dead.

  The sniper might have been an idiot, or a lunatic, or both. But he still managed to kill ten of my men. I maintain a brave face for the TV cameras, but each time I see a body bag being loaded into an ambulance my throat closes up.

  My boss, Captain Bains, arrives in a patrol car. He has his dress blues on, ready to make a statement for the press. Deputy Chief Crouch, the superintendent’s
right hand, is also present, setting up interviews with everyone involved. I’m first in line.

  I’m bone tired, but I know I’ll be debriefed over and over again for the next few hours, and there’s no way to postpone it. I go back into the house and use the bathroom, doing a mediocre job washing off the blood. Then I call home, get the answering machine. Leave Mom a message that I won’t make dinner to night. I also call my long-suffering fiancé to let him know he’s welcome to stay the night, and I’ll make it up to him by cooking breakfast in the morning. I get his voice mail. Perhaps he and Mom are in a heated match of rummy.

  Internal Affairs shows up — a bystander had been nicked by police crossfire. It wasn’t by me, but they take my gun anyway; standard operating procedure so ballistics can rule out my bullets as the lethal ones. I’m too numb to argue. My phone rings, and I excuse myself for a minute.

  “Jack, it’s an emergency.” Mom sounds frazzled. “You need to come home.”

  “Mom? Are you okay? What’s going on?”

  I’m talking to a dead line. I call back. Get the machine. Call again, get the same results. Try Latham once more, go directly to voice mail.

  What the hell?

  “I need to check on my partner,” I tell the IA guys. Then I catch up with Herb as two paramedics assist him into the ambulance. The assistance involves a lot of lifting and grunting.

  “I need a favor, Herb.”

  “No problem. I’ll make a copy for you.” He taps his jacket pocket, which held the Kingston Trio CD. “And yes, it’s got ‘Tom Dooley’ on it.”

  I lean closer. “I need you to cover for me, for a few hours. The deputy chief wants answers. The Feds are coming, probably to compare this to every other sniper incident in the past seven hundred years. Plus I’m going to have to tell the same story again for IA.”

  “Are you going to tell them I stole folk rock?”

  “No. I’m going to tell them to talk to you first. I just got a weird call from my mother, and something’s not right. I have to run home. And as you’re well aware…”