The big man grabbed the phone and punched in a three-digit number. “Doctor Russell, I got a police officer here who wants to see Northrup. Yes, ma’am, right away.” He gently placed the phone in its cradle as if he were afraid the doctor would take offense if he were to replace it too hard. “Someone will be right out. Please take a seat.”
Anne and Houston strolled into the waiting room. They sat in a couple of plush easy chairs. For some reason that he could not understand, the room made Houston feel like he was a teenager picking up the daughter of the richest man in town for their first date. He realized he was picking at the chair’s upholstery. He stopped digging at the fabric and slid his hand across the smooth surface of the chair’s arm. Nice, he thought. This must have cost more than I make in a month. Several expensive paintings—most of them seascapes—hung on the walls, giving the room a relaxing tone. Houston realized he could wait in this room for hours and not be upset. Every doctor or dentist should see this place. How they got away with condemning patients to waiting rooms—many of which were as pleasing and comfortable as cattle pens—was beyond him. Invisible speakers played soft, relaxing music. Houston was engrossed, trying to locate the enclosures, when he heard the electric bolt open.
He turned toward the sound and saw a tall brown-haired woman come through the door, her hazel eyes appraising them. Houston was glad he didn’t have to undergo the scrutiny that Anne did. The woman ignored him at first, concentrating on Anne. What she saw must have satisfied her. Anne, in turn, gave her the same scathing inspection.
Houston got the distinct feeling they were never going to be friends. There was something in the way they studied each other that reminded him of two wolves sizing each other up for a tussle. He thought the match had the potential of a successful pay-per-view event. However, rather than rising to the challenge, Anne, ever the consummate professional, whipped out her credentials and had them ready.
“I’m Doctor Lara Russell,” the woman said, her eyes never breaking contact with those of Anne.
“I’m Detective Bouchard and this is my partner Detective Michael Houston.”
Russell glanced at their IDs. “How can I help you?”
Houston said, “We believe one of your patients, Stephen Northrup, may have some information that could help us in a case we’re working on.”
She shifted her attention from Anne to Houston. “He isn’t with us any longer.”
“Oh?” Houston said.
“He was discharged two weeks ago.”
“Do you have an address where we can reach him?”
“I’m sorry, Detective, but one of the most important components of an addict’s recovery is anonymity. We’re not at liberty to give out any information.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Houston saw Anne tense and moved quickly to defuse the situation. He took the doctor by the arm and guided her to a remote part of the room. As they walked he decided that given the situation a small lie would not hurt. “Listen, Doctor Russell, I’m a friend of Bill W. myself and I was with Steve in the service. This is not exactly all business—you know what I mean?”
Mentioning Bill Wilson, the co-founder of Alcoholics Anonymous, took most of the tension out of her. She seemed to overcome the strain that for some reason had developed between her and Anne. She visibly relaxed and motioned for them to have a seat. She looked at Anne. “You’ll have to forgive my defensiveness but it hasn’t been one of my better days.”
Anne accepted the doctor’s apology. “That happens.” She too seemed to relax.
“Getting back to Steve.” Russell seemed tentative, still unsure of how much she should tell the police. “Well, his prognosis isn’t as good as I had hoped it would be. We discharged him to a halfway house. This morning I got a call from Dave Kapoor, one of the counselors there. Steve’s been acting strange lately, coming in late and leaving early. He’s beginning to act as if he’s using again—he seems to be regressing, exhibiting some of his old behavior patterns.” Her eyes seemed to bore into Houston’s. “And I don’t have to tell you how dangerous that can be. In here, he was doing okay, but he seems to have started to slip right after an old friend suddenly appeared—”
“Do you know who this friend is?” Houston asked.
“Unfortunately, Steve is being very secretive—another bad sign.” As she spoke, her hands were in perpetual motion. “Discharging Steve was against my better judgment. I didn’t feel he was ready. His program is shaky—and that’s when he works it. Nevertheless, when he agreed to enter the halfway house, I acquiesced.”
“Where is this halfway house?”
“In Mattapan. I’ll get the address from Charlie and give it to you.” She walked to the window to speak with Mr. Universe for a few seconds, then came back with a slip of paper. She handed it to Houston, then looked at Anne. “Detectives, if there is any chance he has slipped please tell him we’re still here for him.”
Once they were in their car, Houston looked at Anne. “What was that all about in there?”
“I don’t know. Have you ever met someone you immediately didn’t like?”
“A time or two.”
She put the car in gear. “So, what you say we go find Steve Northrup?”
As he had been doing for the past three days, the sniper followed Houston and the woman to the rehab center. He parked down the block, backing into a narrow driveway that separated two of the triple-decker houses. He rolled down his window and lit a cigarette. He settled back and sipped on a takeout cup of coffee—who knew how long Houston would be in there?
Less than twenty minutes later, Houston and the woman reappeared. He watched them walk to their car and drive off. There was no need to follow them; he knew where they were going. He drove out of the alley.
19
“ . . . mobility multiplied the effectiveness of snipers in urban environments . . . ”
—Gunnery Sergeant Jack Coughlin, USMC
The halfway house’s appearance was nothing like the Belknap Foundation’s rehabilitation center. In fact, it was far from being the most impressive house on the block, yet it was far from being the least. Houston thought that a coat of fresh paint would do wonders for the place. As they approached the door Anne asked, “How do we play this one?”
“By ear. I don’t think Northrup’s going to buy any bullshit about my wanting to get together with an old comrade-in-arms. We were never that close and were never on friendly terms. Besides, if he’s the sniper, he’ll know why we’re here.”
An emaciated man answered the door. He was so gaunt and frail that Houston couldn’t estimate his age, but knew that he was probably younger than he appeared. He wore a T-shirt that was way overdue for an appointment with the inside of a washing machine and a cigarette dangled from his lips. His eyelids closed to slits as they fought a losing battle to avoid the steady stream of smoke that rose along his face. When he said “Yeah?” the inch of ash that drooped from the end of his cigarette fell, bounced off his chest and he rubbed at it—grinding yet another gray smear into his filthy shirt.
Houston suddenly understood how Anne had felt with Lara Russell. This punk had only said one word to him and he didn’t like him. He presented his badge. “I’m looking for Steve Northrup.”
“He ain’t here.”
“Well, maybe you can tell us where he is.”
“Sure, he walked down to the corner for a pack of butts. He’s been gone about twenty minutes. I expect him back anytime now.”
“We’ll wait.” Houston started to push past him. Before he could pass him, the man raised a scrawny, tattooed arm and pointed down the street. Houston’s nose was on an even plane with his underarm and the musky odor told him the man hadn’t showered since he had last laundered the grungy T-shirt. “There he is now.”
Houston spun on his heels and looked down the street. Northrup wore a blue Patriots jacket, jeans and running shoes and shuffled toward the halfway house. The years had been hard on him. His hair was unkempt and a week
’s growth of beard made him look twenty years older than he was. Still, in spite of his appearance, Houston recognized him.
When he turned onto the street where the halfway house was located, the sniper immediately hit the brakes. Somehow or another, the cops had beaten him there. He saw Houston’s familiar figure standing on the porch, talking to the loser who managed the place. Then he saw Northrup strolling along the street. When Northrup spun on his heels and ran into an alley, the sniper backed up and turned down the first street. He knew where Steve would come out and in which direction he would run. He had no reservations as to whether or not Northrup would spill his guts to Houston—after all, he was a junkie and everyone knew how untrustworthy they were.
The street passed through the parking lot that bordered an athletic field/playground complex. The sniper pulled into a parking spot that gave him a good view of the park’s rear exit. He reached behind his seat, grasped his rifle and placed it across his lap.
Northrup turned into the walk, saw the people on the porch and stopped abruptly. Houston wasn’t sure if Northrup recognized him or not, but he was positive that the addict’s police detection system went off and he identified them as cops. He spun around and ran down the block.
Houston sprinted after him and Anne ran for the car.
Northrup turned into a narrow alley and Houston lost sight of him. By the time he followed him into the alley, Northrup was through the other side and out of sight.
Houston skidded to a stop before the narrow passage, trying to figure out which direction his quarry had taken. He heard the loud bang of garbage cans falling and ran toward the sound. He paused for a second and viewed the alley. Debris and garbage lay everywhere. Two garbage cans were on their sides, still rolling. Houston ran into the alley. He leapt over the rolling cans and concentrated on the lane before him. Either Northrup was in better shape than he appeared at first glance or he was scared out of his wits—the speed at which he ran surprised Houston. He accelerated, ignoring the stitch in his side. By the time he broke out of the alley, his breathing was labored. Just as Houston was about to give up the chase, he saw Northrup race through a small park and vault over a bunch of toddlers at play.
Houston was tempted to call out to him, but decided to save his breath for running. Seeing his target so close made him forget his pain and he put out another burst of speed. When he entered the park, he could see that Northrup was finally tiring. Out of a corner of his eye, Houston caught the flash of light shining from something in the parking lot alongside the softball field. When Northrup ran up some old wooden bleachers, he was able to close the gap.
Then Northrup made a fatal mistake. He might have gotten away if he hadn’t paused and looked back to see where Houston was before jumping from the top row of bleacher seats. He coiled, preparing to leap when there was the unmistakable sound of gunfire. Northrup’s arms windmilled and flapped like a baby bird attempting to fly for the first time. For a second or two he fought to maintain his balance, lost his battle against gravity and fell back, turning in the air.
Houston stopped running, took his pistol from its holster and quickly checked to ensure the kids were all right. He saw an adult herding the children away from the area. Believing that the kids were safe, he scanned the area, hoping to find the sniper’s position. He noted a line of maple trees bordering the parking lot beside the softball field and knew that had been the sniper’s location. He vacillated for a second, decided that determining Northrup’s condition was the most pressing issue and then circled the bleachers. Northrup lay on the ground, blood pulsing from his chest as his heart pumped like a piston. Houston knew he’d be dead in minutes.
Houston ran to him. “Who’s the sniper, Steve?”
Northrup stared at Houston, his eyes glazed with shock. When he smiled, frothy blood and sputum dripped from his mouth. Even if he wanted to talk, he couldn’t. His lungs were filling with blood, drowning him. He coughed and another dark clot dripped from his mouth and stuck to his chin. Houston knew that Northrup understood what had happened and had come to grips with it. He gave Houston a mocking smile, hacked up another wad of blood and died.
“I’m exhausted.”
Anne looked at Houston with concern. “You’ve been burning the proverbial candle at both ends since this case started.”
He picked up the bill, glanced at it quickly and placed a credit card in the small plastic pouch in the folder. The waiter immediately appeared, scooped it up and walked away.
“It must be time to leave,” Anne said. “They want the table.”
“It’s been another bitch of a day,” Houston said.
“They all will be until we bring this guy down.”
“I think we’re close.”
“I get the feeling this perp is playing us, making sure we stay close.”
“I know,” Houston replied. “He wants to ensure we stay on his trail. I only wish I knew what his agenda is.”
“It’s pretty obvious that you’re his agenda, Mike. He’s done everything he could to make that clear.”
Houston stared out the window. It was dark outside. In the glass he saw the reflection of a man battling stress and fatigue. He turned away and faced Anne. “What bothers me is that he seems to show up wherever we are. His being in position to shoot Northrup was no coincidence.”
“Are you implying that he’s stalking us?”
“Nothing else makes sense. He’s killed three people that we interviewed and could have had me any number of times. I’m starting to feel like a mouse that has been caught by a cat. He’s toying with me and I don’t like it.”
Anne’s eyes softened and she took a final sip of her margarita. “Do you think he has an inside source?”
“Inside what?”
“Inside the department. How else could he possibly know our every move?” She grew pensive. “I guess that doesn’t make sense. Most of the time we don’t know what we’re going to do until we do it.”
“Snipers seldom, if ever, work alone. It wouldn’t surprise me if he has a network of accomplices. As for a source inside the department, I doubt it.”
The waiter returned with the receipt, put it on the table and left. Houston reviewed the bill, added the tip and signed it.
“Maybe,” he said, “we should be looking for them rather than the sniper. They might lead us to him.”
The sniper phoned at eleven o’clock that night. Houston picked the phone up on the second ring and heard the raspy voice. “Too bad about Northrup, huh?”
“You’re a sick bastard.”
“C’mon, Mike, let’s be grown up about this. Calling me names isn’t going to goad me into making a mistake. I’m too good for that.”
“What’s this all about?”
“It’s about us. You and me on a private island I know about. I want to settle this the way we should have years ago—one-on-one, mano a mano. Think about it this way—at least you’ll have a better chance than most people.”
“I’m going to bring you down, and when I do you won’t have to worry about due process either.”
The sniper laughed. “I ain’t letting go of this, old buddy. You’ll come around, you’ll see—even if I have to kill every friend and relative you have. Your partner and daughter for instance. So think it over, Mike. One way or the other you’re gonna do it my way. If you don’t believe me, turn on the local news. The shit is hitting the fan.”
He broke the connection.
Houston hung up and turned on the television. Amanda Boyce stood in front of a hospital, the entrance to the emergency room behind her. “Son of a bitch.”
“William Tyson, an appliance repair man was attacked and seriously injured by a mob of panicked residents of Dorchester, this afternoon. At this time, Tyson’s condition is unknown. WBO news will keep you abreast of events as they occur.”
The screen split, showing the in-studio anchor on one half and Boyce on the other. “Amanda, has anything been announced as to what motivated the att
ack?”
“Tyson was driving a white van. A witness to the attack told me that the mob believed the van was that of the sniper who has been terrorizing the city for the past several days, Paul.”
“Thanks, Amanda.”
Houston turned the TV off and called Anne to fill her in on the sniper’s most recent contact.
“Did he say what he wants?”
“What we thought. Me—only he’s got some crazy idea about us playing sniper on an isolated island.”
“That’s insane. You’re not considering it are you?”
“Only as a last resort.”
Anne detected concern in his voice. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong—I guess that’s what’s wrong.”
“He’ll make a mistake, Mike. They all do.”
“Maybe what bothers me is that he hasn’t yet.”
The sniper hung up the phone and poured more bourbon in the plastic hotel glass. He gulped the whiskey down and picked up the bottle. He stared at the label. “Here’s to Kentucky—the home of good whiskey, fast women, and beautiful horses.” He barely recalled life there, one to which he could never return.
A local cable news channel was on the television; the anchors rehashed the story of Steve’s death for the fifth time in an hour. He poured another glassful of alcohol and toasted the TV. “Here’s to fallen comrades: past, present, and future.”
He poured the liquor down his throat, flopped on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He hoped the sour mash would hit him and let him sleep without dreams of fire and agonizing pain—he hoped that, just once, he could have a night without reliving that part of his life. Eventually, he drifted off and in no time, he began to sweat and toss about.
As soon as he descended into REM sleep, they came back. The snarling black faces with yellowed teeth closed in on him, poked at his charbroiled body and tested his ability to withstand pain. The ghostly figures tormented him through the night as he twisted and struggled. . . .
Sniper Page 14