“Peter, what’s up? Why the fuck you wanna know about a rifle?”
“Gregor, thanks for calling me back. You called back almost before I hung up.”
“I was monitoring my calls. Somebody is after me for money, but I don’t really owe them anything. It’s complicated.”
“Yeah, my thing is complicated too. I have a sort of ‘assignment,’ and I need to know about a particular kind of rife. What is the army currently issuing to snipers? Is it still that Remington .308?”
“Well, there are snipers and there are snipers. The real specialists have got all sorts of sophisticated weapons, including the .50 caliber, but they’re still using Remington 700 action with various scopes at the unit level. Why do you want to know this stuff? You thinking of buying another gun? You don’t have a real meat-getter gun in your cabinet, do you - just a lot of target 22s and shotguns, eh? But what’s with the sniper stuff?”
“I want to get the details right for this thing that I’m working on. You know, vivid description backed up by real factual information.”
“You mean you’re going to write an ad for sniper rifles? That would be cool. Maybe they’ll give you a sample.”
“No, the Remington Arms Company isn’t a new client of mine; I wish it was. My money problems would be over. It’s just some personal stuff. Hey, Gregor, when you were in the reserves around here, how did they store the weapons at the local base? Who had the keys and what kind of lockup was there?”
“Peter, you aren't planning to steal rifles from the army, are you? It can’t be done. They’re in a vault in a secure building that’s all alarmed and guarded. How come you need to steal a sniper rifle? Why not just buy one?”
“Gregor, I’m not going to steal anything. I’m just curious because I’m writing something. By the way, who has the keys to the vault?”
“When I was in the reserves, it was the armorer, the quartermaster, and some officer, probably. Back then at our base, the quartermaster was also the armorer. It was a small operation.”
“Thanks, Gregor. I’ll buy you a beer sometime. And I’m not thinking of stealing anything, I just need the info for this thing I’m doing.”
“Peter, I think you’re getting more and more nuts.”
“Thanks a lot, Gregor - on second thought, maybe you can buy your own beer.”
“Fuck you, too.”
Gregor was always short on subtlety and politeness and Peter treated him in like fashion.
“Bye.”
Peter knew Gregor didn’t believe his story, but he wasn’t the kind of guy to ask a lot of stupid questions, either.
Chapter 9
After his second latte of the day, Peter was prompted by Rex’s whining to phone Marty, his dog-walking pal. “Marty, it’s Peter. How about we take the dogs for a run sometime today?”
They had met walking their dogs on the same path and had become friends. Marty was younger and taller than Peter and had fifty pounds on him, most of it muscle. Marty had been regular army his whole life as a combat infantryman. He was so rugged looking that he almost appeared fearsome, until you saw his eyes. He had the eyes of sweet little boy, kindhearted and tender to the point of being mushy. Both men lived alone and depended on their dogs for affection far more than either would admit.
“Sure, Peter. When?”
“How’s 3 o’clock? See you and Dudley-dog on the path.” It was an old rail bed that ran north of the village. This time of year, the landscape was especially pretty.
Peter arrived at the path early and saw Marty coming over from the park side. “Marty, we’re over here! Rex found a dead groundhog and is happily munching on it.”
Slipping the lead off Dudley, Marty called back, “Ewwww, gross! Keep my Dudley away from that garbage. Your dog’s gonna get sick if you let him do that; he’s already listing to port when he runs.”
Peter joked back, “Rex is a dog. It saves me money on food bills letting him eat wild meat. And his limp isn’t caused by eating a little garbage. He’s been limping on and off for a while.”
“Yuk, Peter, you can’t be so poor that you have to let Rex eat garbage! And why don’t you take him to the vet to have that limp checked out?” Marty was a regular at the vet’s office, pretty much every other week. Peter suspected most of these visits were for imaginary ills. Dudley looked pretty healthy to him.
“Actually, I really am poor. I guess we haven’t seen each other since the previous administration cleaned me out of sixty-five grand or so.”
“What’s this ‘previous administration’ who took all your money? I never know what the hell you’re talking about.” Gregor wasn’t the only friend of Peter’s who lacked the ability to grasp innuendo.
“It’s a nicest term I can come up with to refer to Kathryn.”
“Oh, the bossy bitch. Fuck, Peter, sixty-five grand? You had that much to steal?”
“Well, most of it is debt she ran up in my name, but some was real cash. And she spray painted and slashed my paintings.” Purposely changing subject, Peter said, “Anyway, Rex’ll be done eating his roadkill pretty soon, and we can start our walk. How’s your dog doing?”
“He’s fine. Dudley pooped in the house when I was at the base yesterday, but I think it’s from all the medication he’s on.”
Peter decided not to ask any more questions about Dudley’s health. That could lead to a long, long story. “So, you’re still at the base? I thought they kicked you out of the army or you quit. Are you still on leave for post-traumatic stress disorder, or whatever it’s called?”
“Oh, Peter, it’s a mess. I really have to stay in the army at least one more year or I don’t get my pension. And I’m still on leave, but only sort of, and the army doesn’t know how to handle post-traumatic stress disorder. I hate even being on the base when the rest of my unit is there. A lot of the guys think you’re a coward if you crack. I’ve never run away from anything in my life. A good soldier runs toward trouble, not away; that’s how we’re trained. And I’m a good soldier - or I used to be.”
“Marty, if you didn’t run away, you’re not a coward.”
“I never ran away over there. The thing is, I can’t sleep anymore. I get frightened by loud noises and sometimes I can’t even remember where I am when I’m driving. It’s like I’m back there in a Humvee. I look at all the crap along the road and all I see are hidden IEDs waiting to blow me up.”
“Is that why you won’t let me pick up beer cans and trash on the path when we’re out with the dogs?”
“Yeah. I’m trying to protect you from exploding beer cans. It sounds stupid, but I can’t let you get near ’em. I almost shit myself when you touch ’em. All kinds of stuff scare me, and I can’t make it stop, and I can’t make the nightmares stop - day or night. Plus I’m broke. I hate the army now, but all I’ve ever done my whole life is be a soldier. So I’m back working at the base, at night when no one from my unit is there. They said I could get my combat pay extended for a year if I just showed up for duty once in a while, instead of staying at home. And I’m so busy in the daytime during the week with my three individual therapy sessions and my two group sessions …”
Marty went on and Peter let him get it off his chest. “How can they send us to that hellhole and expect us to come back sane? Those Taliban fucks cut off noses and ears if the villagers don’t support ’em and they bomb the schools that let in girls. Sometimes the girls are still in the schools when they bomb ’em. Those aren’t made-up stories - I saw that shit with my own eyes. Can you imagine a little boy with his nose cut off because his father refused to grow opium for the Taliban? It was way worse than seeing my buddies get zapped. We’re volunteers, but those little kids didn’t sign up for war.”
Marty stopped talking. He stood rigidly in place. Silent tears rolled down his rugged cheeks. He was staring off a thousand yards into a hell no one could imagine who hadn’t been there.
“Marty, it’s okay to cry; you know me. I’m not judging you. I don’t think you
’re a coward.” At that moment, Peter was overcome with love for his friend. He meant every word.
Marty shook his head to clear it and said, “I’ll be okay now. Let’s walk.”
Peter changed the topic to smooth things over. “What do you do at the base in town?”
“I’m a quartermaster clerk.”
“Where’s your boss at night?”
“Sleeping, fucking, drinking, how should I know? He goes home at 18:00 hours. I’m my own boss at night.”
“Is your boss the unit’s armorer too?”
“Yeah. How do you know about armorers?”
“I read a lot. So, what kind of weapons are in your vault? Any fancy sniper rifles?”
“Peter, stop walking and look at me. Peter, I am not at liberty to divulge things like that to a civilian. I may hate the army, but I’m not giving you info on our weaponry. I’m not going to be your partner in crime just because we walk our dogs together.”
“You’re jumping to conclusions, Marty. Look, we’re friends, okay? Tell me how - from what I just said - you concluded that I wanted to steal state secrets? Maybe I just wanna borrow a gun or two. Nah, I’m just kidding about that. C’mon, bad joke, okay?” Peter chuckled unconvincingly.
“You want to borrow a sniper rifle from the army? Tell me you’re not hearing voices telling you to ‘Kill the Pope. Kill the Pope.’”
“No, no, I think the Pope’s a fine fellow. Dresses funny but … I’m just doing a little research to see if maybe borrowing a sniper rifle is even possible. It was just a joke, kind of. It’s personal research, so don’t even ask. And anyway, you’re the one who’s nuts. Who else do you know who sees three different therapists and goes to two group sessions every day? Someone like you might just let me borrow a few things once in a while. Maybe if I offered you enough money or … Awww, fuck, I’m sorry. Are you crying again? Fuck. Sometimes I get carried away and shoot off my mouth. I’m sorry, Marty. I really like you and your dog too. You know that, I hope. I wouldn’t do anything to get you in trouble. You’re in enough shit already.”
“Oh, just forget about it; I don’t expect you to understand. I’m crying all the time now. It’s not all your fault; I’m just feeling weird today. Shit, every day … Can we go back now? I really need a nap. It’s all the drugs I’m on.”
“Hey Marty, I wasn’t trying to upset you or anything. Sometimes I forget that other people have problems, too. I didn’t mean to be an insensitive prick. Sorry.” Peter was sorry. He didn’t like picking on a guy who seemed to have no defenses left.
“You’re insensitive every day, I’d say, or maybe it’s me being sensitive every day.” Marty sounded defeated.
“Whatever. I’m sorry, Marty. We should go back now. The dogs are getting thirsty and so am I.”
Chapter 10
Peter and Rex returned home after the walk and Peter opened a Belgian Wit beer, adorning it with a slice of orange. Rex ate his bowl of brown slop. Peter got himself another beer and fell onto the sofa to contemplate his predicament. He soon found his imagination drifting to thoughts of a sniper scenario for killing Kathryn. Being methodical, he began at the beginning by selecting the proper bullet weight and style to fit the particular firearm he intended to “borrow” from the army. His fantasy went on to include going to the rifle range to sight in and test several bullets for their accuracy at his intended shooting distance. Peter speculated how close he would have to be to ensure a clean kill, yet still be far enough away to make an easy escape.
When Peter woke up, he remembered dreaming about being in a gun store purchasing a bipod for the rifle. He told the newbie clerk how a bipod was a better tool for steadying a sniper rifle than using sandbags for a rest. The “dream” Peter explained to the “dream” clerk that sandbags would be a bitch to carry away after an assassination.
Getting lost in the exquisite detail of bullet weight, rifle type, scope magnification, rangefinding and support systems was such a comfort to Peter that he almost forgot why he wanted to kill Kathryn. When he was engaged in the fantasy, his anger was pushed to a distant horizon. Lisa’s suggestion that he write out his fantasy was really working, and he hadn’t even written anything yet. It was still percolating in his imagination. He planned to start the actual writing on Sunday after the first run of his new fitness plan.
Chapter 11
On Sunday, Peter woke up early, just barely hung over after drinking three beers – or was it four? - and smoking a tiny joint on Saturday night. He had dusted off a little bag of pot he’d found in Kathryn’s sock drawer. The dog was still sleeping on the big sofa the two had shared since Kathryn left. Rex relished the experience – previously forbidden - and seemed more content than ever. Having risen to the “number 2” position in the pack meant that he was no longer banished to sleep on the cold, hard kitchen tiles. Kathryn didn’t like dogs or dog hair or dog smell or dog drool. Peter liked all those things. The bond between dog and man was much stronger now that she was gone.
Peter brewed some espresso for his latte in the little Italian pot that Kathryn had somehow overlooked in her rampage. He drank his latte, Rex now at his feet. How lovely it was to be alone in the house with his dog and fantasizing about a good, clean, quick kill of the woman who had made his and Rex’s life so difficult for so long. Life seemed brighter and cleaner for Peter when he thought about Kathryn’s death. He could almost hear the sharp crack of the big rifle, smell the cordite left by the burnt powder residue in the air, and see the bright brass casing as it arced to the ground from the gun’s ejection port.
After coffee, Rex and Peter were out the door and onto a trail that wound its way around the little commuter village. It was nice and quiet on Sunday mornings. Rex was running as if he was born to run, except for limping a little on his left front leg for the first few minutes. Peter was running like the over-50, semi-sedentary guy he was. More precisely, Peter jogged instead of ran, and he wasn’t even truly jogging all the time as he had to stop and catch his breath every minute or so. But he felt good, in a “bad” kind of way, to be out doing something.
As he ran, he found himself filling in all kinds of missing details in his plan to shoot Kathryn - the proper clothing to wear, camouflage netting and the need for a laser rangefinder. He fancied no one but another assassin could truly appreciate the planning involved in committing a perfect crime with a rifle.
At home again, and refreshed in an odd way from the first run of his new life, Peter fired up the computer to start writing out his criminal plans. He had only eight more days until his next session with Lisa, and he thought it might take that long to get it right.
As Peter sat at the computer, he realized that a lot of the information he needed to plan the crime was available online. Peter was a pretty good researcher, and he got right down to business. His first task was to find some ballistics tables for the bullet-and-gun combination he intended to use.
Three hours of research passed in the blink of an eye. Peter had written nearly 700 words of a rough plan to assassinate the former head of the State Department of Education with the big plastic tits whom he’d had the misfortune to marry. After all his research, Peter found he still had a few supplementary questions for Gregor and Marty about the army rifle he intended to borrow - questions about whether they favored a wood laminate or nylon composite stock, and whether free-floating or bedded barrels worked best in a tactical situation. Neither of his “consultants” answered his calls, so he left voice messages. He backed up his phone queries to them with e-mails regarding the weapon he intended to use to assassinate Kathryn.
At noon, satisfied with his run and his fantasy crime’s progress, Peter opened a small bottle of Red Hills Brewery’s Organic Red Ale and made a sardine-and-Brie sandwich for himself. He let Rex lick the empty fish can. Rex was happy.
Peter called Frannie and got her voicemail. BEEP. “Hi, Frannie, it’s Peter. I’m just kind of kicking around the house today, and I wondered if you wanted to do something with me �
�out in the world.’ Give me a call.” Peter wanted to talk about the attack on his paintings. He had already e-mailed her about his misery, but he wanted to tell her in person. She might take pity on him in a physical way. Frannie was the only person in his circle who loved his paintings as much as he did. Some of his friends didn’t even to know that he painted.
On the other hand, it was just as well Frannie didn’t answer. Peter was afraid that if he told her the story and she was too sympathetic, he might cry. Frannie always opened Peter up emotionally. He trusted her, and he could afford to be emotionally naked around her. In her line of work, she held more secrets in trust than any shrink.
Chapter 12
The next couple of days passed quickly despite the fact that no one, including Frannie, returned Peter’s calls. He started each morning with a halting jog north of the village with Rex. Peter stumbled and puffed and Rex ran like the wind despite limping in certain of his gaits - sometimes badly. Afterwards, Peter spent the day working on ads for a new duct-cleaning account. He used his evenings to build an increasingly perfect fantasy crime while enjoying a few bottles of Smith’s Oatmeal Stout. The writing and the Oatmeal Stout were a perfect one-two punch for a sound night’s sleep - the best sleep he’d had since Kathryn’s theft and vandalism spree.
On Wednesday, Peter gave in to his concern about Rex’s limp and contacted the vet, conveniently located less than a block away. Both Rex and Peter liked her gentle folksy ways and Peter respected her thoroughness and intelligence. Andrea-the-vet had an enviable combination of great bedside manner and real competence. She explained everything to worried pet owners in detail. She would even admit to not knowing everything but by promising to find out, she inspired even more confidence in her patients. Andrea was a great vet.
“Hop up here, Rex.” Rex hopped up onto the exam table. Andrea knew Rex loved to jump and would do so on command.
How to Kill Your Wife Page 5