Sniper

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  The sniper saw Houston dash out of the diner and race across the street. He was tempted to shoot again, ending the game once and for all. He lowered his pistol. “Not yet, Mikey . . . I have other plans.”

  He ran toward the adjacent building, vaulted across the narrow alley and hid behind an air conditioning compressor, waiting for Houston to appear.

  Houston was gasping when he reached the door at the top of the four flights of stairs. He forced himself to pause before charging through. Blood mixed with sweat on his face and it stung as it dripped to his chest, staining his shirt. He stood before the door, steeling himself against the almost-certain probability that a bullet awaited him on the other side. Houston took a deep breath, trying to get his labored breathing and heaving chest under control. He opened the door and cursed when the brilliant light hit his eyes. Everything on the roof was concealed in the intense sunlight and would be until his eyes adjusted. The brilliant light burned and he blinked numerous times, trying to clear his vision. After a few seconds, his sight cleared enough for him to discern shapes and he burst out of the stairwell. He sighted along the top of his pistol and spun around as he checked left and right. The roof appeared to be vacant. Squinting his eyes in a vain attempt to minimize the pain, Houston slowly walked to the edge of the building and for the first time heard the wail of sirens approaching from several directions. The reflection of the sun hitting something metal caught his eye. He walked over to the object and bent down over it. He studied the cartridge casing left behind by the sniper.

  The sniper watched Houston explode through the door and once again placed his sights on him. He waited for the most opportune moment to send his next message. The cop bent over and looked at one of the shiny cartridges he had intentionally left behind. He pulled the trigger. At the exact instant that bullet began its supersonic journey, Houston dropped onto his stomach.

  Houston’s peripheral vision detected movement on the roof of an adjoining building and he dove forward, losing his pistol as he hit the deck. The summer sun had already heated the tar to a semisolid state and his damaged hands burned as they slid through the soft, gooey roofing. Unable to support himself on the superheated surface, he went down on his face. A bullet passed near his head, marking its passage with an angry snap. Ignoring the pain in his damaged knees and hands, Houston was oblivious to the blistering tar and scrambled through the thick glaze. He hugged the deck, smearing his clothes with a mixture of black grit and roofing tar. He tensed and waited for the next bullet.

  After several seconds passed without another shot, Houston scrambled to cover behind an air conditioning compressor unit and pulled a .380 caliber backup pistol from his ankle holster. He curled into a ball, trying to present as small a target as possible. Once safely out of sight, his attention turned to his burnt and lacerated hands. Cursing and picking at the congealing roofing material, he sat up and rested his back against the compressor unit, placed the pistol in his lap and studied his wounds. Houston groaned when he saw that he had ripped open some stitches and blood seeped from the newly opened cuts. He picked and tugged at the loose end of the sutures, but the pain soon stopped him. Blood mixed with sweat, staining the cuffs of his shirt and stinging. Shaking off his pain and discomfort, he concentrated on his predicament.

  Evaluating the situation, he became more convinced than ever that the shooter was playing with him. On two occasions, the sniper had had him at a distinct disadvantage yet failed to follow through.

  Houston looked for his service pistol and saw it lying in the open. Time for him to make a decision; there were only two courses of action open and neither was appealing. The first option was to wait and hope the sniper had had enough sport for one day. The second was to go for his pistol, which would once again present the killer with a clear target. Houston settled back against the compressor and listened for footsteps. The only sound breaking the morning silence was that of sirens. After several long moments, he decided to take a chance and stood, leaving the protection of the air conditioning unit. Knowing there was no one else on the roof, he breathed a sigh of relief.

  Houston retrieved his service pistol before putting the hideaway back in its ankle holster. He quickly inspected the weapon to ensure that the action was free of tar and grit. Satisfied that all was in working order, he scanned the roof. “What do you want . . . what is your game?”

  A car door slammed in the rear of the building and Houston ran to the back of the roof. The soft surface of the roofing tar pulled at his shoes, almost tearing them from his feet and slowing him down. As he moved, he double-checked his pistol. He reached the edge of the building and peered over the abutment into the fire alley below. The white van raced down the narrow street. The speeding vehicle was out of pistol range and shooting at it would only endanger innocent people. He holstered his pistol and then, realizing he was hyperventilating, sat on the roof’s parapet and inhaled deeply until he regained his wind.

  He felt the exhaustion brought on by several nights of fitful sleep and the abatement of his adrenaline rush, and he let his head hang. He looked at the mess on the front of his shirt. Tar, mixed with his and Danny Drews’s blood, mired his chest and stomach. He shook his head, slid off his perch on the roof’s edge and felt the tar shift under his buttocks as he sat in it. “Houston,” he muttered, “you sure are fucking everything up . . . ”

  He was still there when three uniformed cops reached the roof.

  17

  “When you want to attack, you remain calm and quiet, then get the jump on your opponent by attacking suddenly and quickly.”

  — Miyamoto Musashi, The Book of Five Rings

  Anne and Houston left the crime scene shortly after noon. He carried Danny’s file to his car; the last thing he wanted was for the department to confiscate it as evidence, tying it up before he could make a copy of it. He would turn it in as evidence once he had a chance to review the database in depth. They drove their individual cars to the police station where Houston parked his car and got into Anne’s. He tossed the file on the seat.

  “What’s that?”

  “It might be the reason the sniper targeted Danny.”

  When Anne didn’t comment, he elaborated. “It’s a roster of scout/ snipers who have stayed in touch with each other, most of whom have attended one of their reunions.”

  “They have reunions?”

  “Yeah, a lot of military units have them.”

  “I never would have guessed. What do they do at them?”

  “Never having attended one, I don’t have firsthand knowledge. I assume they tell lies about their time in the service and get drunk—just like any reunion or convention.”

  “Sounds like every man’s idea of a good time.”

  “It’s a strange thing about military service. It seems that the older we get—the better we were.”

  “So that’s what the reunions are about? Telling each other how great you all were?”

  “More or less. It sounds boring to me. Then again, what do I know about having a good time? I’m just a cop.”

  Anne smiled. “Well, if you ever do decide to check one out let me know so I can have a hangover remedy on hand when you get back.”

  Anne pointed at his shirt. “I think that we need to get you cleaned up.”

  “Why? Isn’t this what every well-dressed cop wears?”

  “Our next stop is your place so you can get a change of clothes and a quick shower. Quite frankly, you’re ripe. You look more like a homeless person than a cop.”

  “I’m shocked. I put my best cologne on this morning.”

  “Just what every woman wants to smell on a man, eau d’tar with an ever-so-slight dab of BO.”

  “If it’s so alluring, I’ll bottle it.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  Houston opened the file and scanned its contents. If nothing else, Danny was organized. The database was extensive. The names were alphabetized, creating a master roster, cross-referenced by their years of service
and the state in which each member currently resided. Houston flipped to the page containing Edwin Rosa’s information. Beside Rosa’s name, Danny had written MIA, Mogadishu, Somalia, 1993.

  Anne had been driving for fifteen minutes, allowing a now clean Houston time to be alone with his thoughts. She saw him staring out the side window. “So where to? You want lunch?”

  “Oh, hell.”

  “What is it now?”

  “I was supposed to be at my sister’s at noon. Susie and I were going to do lunch.”

  Anne turned on the car’s emergency lights and performed a tight U-turn. She handed him her cell phone. “Call them and explain that you got tied up.”

  “My car is still at the station.”

  “Not a problem, I’ll have you back to your car in no time.”

  Maureen saw Mike’s car pull up and shook her head. It was so like him to be over two hours late. She turned and walked upstairs, stopped before the guest room door and knocked. A muted voice invited her in.

  She opened the door and stood in the threshold for several seconds, watching her niece. Susie had pulled her hair into a ponytail and could have passed for fourteen. It had been over a year since Maureen had last seen Susie and, while she had matured into a beautiful young woman, she still clung to certain little girl habits. Maureen wondered how Mike had dealt with seeing his daughter as a grown-up rather than an awkward young girl.

  Susie sat in front of the dresser, staring at a picture. Maureen’s heart caught in her throat when she saw that it was a photo of Pamela and Mike on their wedding day. The picture was one she had seen before. “Your father is here.”

  “So?”

  “Susie, dear, this is hard on all of us.”

  “Must be really hard on him. Why else would he bring some stranger with him to tell me about Mom?” Anger temporarily pushed aside her grief. “Just tell him to go away and I’ll handle this alone, as usual.”

  “Susie, she’s a police officer, your father’s partner.”

  Maureen could not take her eyes off the photo, especially her former sister-in-law’s face. An older version of the young woman who sat before the photo, Pam too had been beautiful and on that long ago late spring morning, she had been so radiant that she outshone the sun.

  It broke her heart when Susie picked up the portrait and studied it for a few seconds, then placed it on the dresser, taking care to place it in the exact spot and angle.

  Maureen sighed and left the room.

  As he walked to the house, Houston felt as if he were wading through a knee-deep swamp. Standing before the door, reluctant to press the doorbell, he kept telling himself there was nothing to worry about. After all, it was his daughter he was meeting, not some homicidal maniac. Before he could press the bell, the door opened and Maureen stood in the threshold.

  “Not only are you late, but you look like you’ve just been through a meat grinder. What happened to your face and hands?”

  Houston smiled and knew he looked sheepish. “Occupational hazard.” He shuffled his feet. “Why do I feel as if I’m about to be thrown into a threshing machine?”

  “You look as if you already have been.” Maureen smiled and hugged him.

  He returned her embrace, taking care not to put pressure on his bandaged hands, and grinned. “Yeah, but eventually I always show up.”

  “Bad pennies always do. Get in here.”

  Once Houston was inside, Maureen touched his arm and said, “It will be all right.”

  “That’s easy for you to say.”

  Maureen led the way into the living room and paused. He hadn’t visited his sister and her family for several years. His usual excuse was that he was too busy, but he knew that was not the reason. The truth was that he felt uncomfortable in Maureen’s impeccable world. The living room was an example of her quest for perfection. It was beyond neat; it was spotless, with everything in its place, and not so much as a speck of dust was visible. Typical Maureen, he thought. Even when they were kids, her room had always been immaculate—a stark contrast to the mish-mash of sports paraphernalia and dirty laundry in which he had lived. He smiled and turned to face her. “You still paint all your interior walls every six months?”

  “Oh, I’m not that bad.” She gave him an impish smile. “Am I?”

  “Well, I always thought you were the family’s token obsessive compulsive. Hell, sis, compared to you, I was a feral child.”

  Houston walked deeper into the room, stepped over to the fireplace and stood mute, staring at the pictures on the mantle. The centerpiece of the display was a family photo; Houston was in his Marine uniform.

  “Do you remember when that was taken?” Maureen asked him. “It was the morning you left for Somalia.” The fact that she felt it was necessary to provide him with commentary was not lost on Houston.

  “Dad died a year later,” he said. “I couldn’t make the funeral.”

  “That’s a lot of bull and you know it. The Marines would have let you come home.”

  “The Marines had nothing to do with it.”

  “Most of the family was very upset with you. However, I knew the real reason you didn’t come. You idolized him—and he you.”

  “I didn’t want my last memory of him to be him in a coffin. I guess I thought if I never saw him like that it would be easier to pretend he was still around.”

  “Nothing ever gets resolved by running, Mike—or by hiding behind a macho tough-guy persona.”

  Houston sighed. Where his family was involved he had made a great number of mistakes—many of which could have been avoided. He took a deep breath. “Where’s Susie?”

  “In the guest room. Go up and see her. When you weren’t here by one, I made something for us. I can make you a sandwich if you’d like.”

  “I’m fine.” He looked at the top of the stairs. “I’ll just go on up.”

  With each step up the stairs, Houston’s apprehension grew. He could not forget his daughter’s anger when he had visited her dormitory. Never in his wildest fantasy had he thought he would see a look like that on her face—at least not directed at him. He remembered her as a two-year-old daddy’s girl and preferred that memory over the image of her as an angry adult. As he approached the closed door, each step seemed like a mile. He forced a smile, knocked on the door and opened it before she asked him in.

  Susie sat on the bed and when he walked through the door, she stared at him, her face a mask of accusation and anger. Without a word, she got up, pushed past him and left the room.

  “Susie . . . ”

  She ignored his call and dashed down the stairs.

  Houston followed her. When he reached the living room, Susie stood beside Maureen. She glared at him as he descended the stairs. Maureen’s back was to him as she tried to intervene, hoping to avoid another bad scene. “Susie, for all your father’s faults, he does love you . . . ”

  “I’m sorry I’m late. The sniper struck again this morning and . . . well you know how it is.”

  Maureen turned and from her expression he knew that he’d said the wrong thing. Suzie’s face reddened with horrific anger. “Stop it, Dad. You and I both know your job has always come first—it always has and it always will. Why are you here anyway? You’ve already told me Mom was murdered. Isn’t there somebody who needs you to rescue them?” Her face torqued frightfully and she began to cry. Her tears made him feel that all he was to her was a symbol of loss. She turned away from Houston and wrapped her arms around her torso. “How could you leave me like that?”

  He misunderstood her meaning. “You told me to get out . . . ”

  “I’m not talking about the dorm.”

  Houston stepped forward, turned her, and then draped his arms around his only child, keeping his injured hands from contacting her. When Susie pressed against his chest, he held her as she sobbed.

  Fighting valiantly to maintain self-control, Houston swallowed the lump that stuck in his throat. Hot tears streaked his cheeks and he forgot about his d
amaged hands and pulled her snug against him. Ignoring the throbbing pain in his hands, he held his daughter. At that moment, Houston felt that maybe things would be all right between them. As quickly as it started, Susie’s anguish burned itself out. She pushed against his chest and pulled free from his arms. His hopes were dashed when she curled her hand into a fist and confronted him. Then she stopped, her arm poised, like an angry rattlesnake ready to strike.

  Maureen stepped between them. “No . . . there’s been enough hurt and pain already. Don’t add to it.”

  Susie’s arm slowly dropped to her side. She spun away and flopped into a chair.

  Houston backed up a step and sat in a chair across from her. “Susie, I know I was wrong and I made some poor choices. Now I’m trying to make up for all that. I came here because I thought you might need me.”

  “I might need you? Where were you for the past six years when I needed a father? You were off saving Boston. For you everything came before Mom and me. You didn’t come for my birthdays or even my graduation. How could you not be there? I kept scanning the crowd, searching for you, but you couldn’t—or wouldn’t—be there for me.”

  She was right. He had not been there and, given the situation, to tell her that her mother had requested that he stay away would not help matters. It would only sound like an excuse.

  “Susie, you’re right. There’s no arguing that I haven’t been anything close to a father for a long time. But we can talk about that later. For right now, let’s call a truce. I won’t act like nothing has happened for the past six years . . . ”

  “Why shouldn’t you—isn’t that exactly what has happened for the past six years?”

  “I screwed up. I won’t deny that. But right now we have more pressing issues to discuss.”

  Susie stared at him. “I hope you haven’t come here expecting to take over the funeral arrangements, because if you have you can just forget it. Aunt Maureen, Uncle Lee, and I have already made the arrangements.”