GUNNER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 5)

by Lawrence de Maria

  It was pure chance that I just happened to be looking at the sycamore when the bullet smashed into it with a “thump” that sent a shower of bark in all directions.

  A high-powered rifle bullet travels faster than the speed of sound, so the “thump” preceded the “whack” that was the round breaking the sound barrier as it passed over my head. Finally, there was the distinctive “pow” made by the gasses exiting the rifle barrel. To unpracticed ears, the last two sounds can be hard to discriminate. But my ears, for better or worse, had a lot of practice. I immediately looked across the river to where the “pow” had come from. I knew it wasn’t deer season, but that didn’t mean much. The economy upstate was depressed and the kind of people who would kill 3,000 cormorants at a clip to preserve their livelihood wouldn’t be above a little poaching to fill the larder with some venison. I couldn’t see anything. Then I caught a glint of reflected sunlight. The canoe shuddered as the next shot tore into the hull at the waterline just below my seat. A third round crashed into the stern.

  I was the venison.

  The canoe began taking on water. There was a copse of trees on the bank that I thought would offer enough cover and I paddled toward it furiously. I felt like Daniel Day-Lewis in The Last of the Mohicans trying to put distance between himself and several canoes full of Huron warriors. Except the Hurons didn’t have a high-power rifle with telescopic sights.

  My dash for the shore had a major disadvantage. I was almost heading directly away from the shooter, which meant he’d have an easier shot. The hairs on my neck stood on end. I felt like I had a huge bull’s-eye on my back. It’s not easy to zig and zag in a canoe, especially when you hunker down, and I almost tipped over. Another shot whizzed by my ear and thudded into the bank, which was about 20 feet away. I actually felt a rush of air as the round passed me.

  I wasn’t about to chance a fifth shot. I pitched out of the canoe into the water and dove under. I swam to the front of the canoe and, putting it between myself and the rifleman, pulled it into the brush lining the bank. I positioned myself behind it and a small log jutting out from the bank. It would take a lucky shot to do me any damage, although I wasn’t feeling particularly lucky at the moment. Someone, I think it was Churchill, said that getting shot at with no effect was very exhilarating. I didn’t feel particularly exhilarated, either. There were more shots. The first few continued to splinter the canoe and, then, the shooter, probably assuming that I was making a run for it, sprayed the shoreline. But the rounds went wide and high. Whoever it was couldn’t see me now. The canoe, now well-holed, settled into the water. I was about to chance reaching into it for my windbreaker and the gun in its pocket when another shot rang out and a round whizzed by. I could tell from the sound of the shot and the angle of the bullet’s impact that the shooter was probably moving upstream on his side of the river for a clearer shot. He was a determined son of a bitch. Surely, all the racket would attract the cops; the area wasn’t that rural. The last couple of seconds had sounded like The Battle of Fallujah. Another shot. Closer. I hated leaving my Taurus revolver but I surged out of the water onto the bank and bolted into the brush, collecting several nasty cuts on my face and arms. Three more shots and then nothing. He had to be using a semi-automatic rifle. Not as accurate as a bolt-action deer rifle with a scope. Otherwise, I’d probably be dead.

  About 50 yards into the woods I stopped. I couldn’t even see the river.

  But now what? I was a cliché. Up the creek without a paddle. Hell, I was up the creek without a canoe. I estimated that I was about halfway back to the motel, which put me about a mile from the Salina Street bridge. I figured I was pretty safe on my side of the Salmon River, as long as I stayed away from the shoreline. I could hear traffic and I walked toward the sound. The woods and brush were still thick and I picked up a few more cuts and scrapes but I soon came upon a road that paralleled the river. I headed back toward town, where a man shooting at me with a high-powered rifle might stand out. I assumed that whoever had hired Vernon Maples, and tried to hire Veronica, Arman Rahm’s pet hit woman, had found a taker for the $20,000 on my head. They had obviously overpaid. I doubted Maples or Veronica would have missed me. Not that I was complaining.

  A few cars passed me and I stuck out my thumb. They all sped up. I’m not sure I would have picked up someone looking as bedraggled as I did, dripping wet and cut up as I was. I eventually spotted a service station near the Salina Street bridge. The owner stared at me.

  “What the hell happened to you?”

  I said I’d overturned my canoe. He looked dubious until I took my dripping wallet out and flashed some cash. He let me wash off in a restroom while he called a cab for me.

  “I wouldn’t try any white-water rafting, I was you,” he said when I left.

  The boys in his shop got a kick out of that.

  When I finally got back to the Salmon Villa Motel, I apologized to the owner for sinking half his canoe fleet.

  “I must have hit a rock,” I said. “She went down like the Lusitania.”

  “Gee,” he said, “I’m sorry. But that’s funny. I just bought those Dakotas. Cost me $500 each. Company says they’re almost impossible to sink.”

  Not when someone turns them into Swiss cheese, I thought.

  “I guess the emphasis is on ‘almost’,” I said.

  He looked uncomfortable.

  “Uh, technically you’re responsible for any damage to my property, Mr. Rhode. I carry insurance, of course, but there’s a hefty deductible.”

  “How much is hefty?”

  “Well, it’s $250, but then there’s the life preservers and paddles, unless you managed to save them.”

  “No, they went down with the ship. How does $300 grab you?”

  ‘That sounds fair.”

  “You have my card. Just add it to my bill. If you need me to sign something, I will.”

  He looked relieved.

  “I’m glad you’re taking it so well.”

  “Hey, I made it back in one piece.”

  “You really should have been wearing a life vest.”

  Only if it was bullet-proof, I wanted to say.

  “But, you are right, at least you are safe. That’s the important thing, isn’t it?”

  I decided not to call the local cops. There would be too many questions. And there was nothing they could do. The sniper was a pro. The fact that he tracked me to Pulaski so easily bothered me. But he would probably assume I would call the police and would now be on guard. I didn’t think he’d make another run at me for a while. He could bide his time.

  When I got back to my room I called Joan Tolentine at her Pilates gym. I got an answering machine. I didn’t leave a message. I’d talk to her when I got back to Staten Island. Perhaps Panetta had confided in her the identity of his Army “buddy.” I doubted it, since it was the kind of information I was sure she would have told me. I figured I might have better luck with Victoria Gustafson.

  I hated killing a whole afternoon and night doing nothing, but I thought it wise not to do any canoeing, swimming or sunbathing. I wanted to go back and look for my gun, but decided to wait until morning, just in case my sniper friend wasn’t the biding type. I watched some ball games on TV and ordered in a pizza.

  I slept well, but wished I had my revolver under my pillow.

  CHAPTER 19 - THE FRAME

  I didn’t think anyone would be waiting for me to emerge from my room the next morning. But I didn’t waste any time getting into my car, either. I’d chance a bomb. It’s not that easy to car bomb someone anymore, what with sophisticated and sensitive vehicle alarms. Not that my car had anything more than the factory installed variety. A good demo expert could probably have rigged a Minuteman missile warhead to my manifold. But the car was parked right outside my door. And the fact that the Salmon Villa was virtually deserted worked in my favor. Anyone planting a device in my Hyundai would have stuck out like a sore thumb.

  And the more I thought about it, killing me in pu
blic while I was asking questions about Panetta made no sense for anyone trying to keep a lid on things. Shooting me out of a canoe wasn’t the brightest idea, either, but the isolated area I’d been in suggested that whoever tried to kill me probably would have known what to do with my body. The river was narrow enough at that point so that the shooter could have retrieved me easily. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something didn’t fit.

  I drove to town and crossed the Salina Bridge again, of which I was becoming quite fond. If they’d put up a toll booth I could probably revive the local economy all by myself. I drove to the approximate spot I’d entered the road after emerging from the woods the day before. It didn’t take me long to reach the shoreline and I quickly spotted the big sycamore by the spot where I’d been sunk.

  The canoe was gone. I was surprised. It had seemed securely lodged on the bottom and stuck behind the logs and branches that had probably saved my life. The current looked a little swifter than I’d remembered, although I couldn’t be sure. I had other things on my mind at the time. But it seemed likely that the canoe had drifted downstream. That was a bit worrisome. Unless it was swept into Lake Ontario, it might be found and then I might have some explaining to do. My rock story wouldn’t hold up in the face of a canoe that had more holes in it than the Japanese Navy after World War II.

  Thinking of those holes gave me an idea. It didn’t take me long to find several of the bullets that had impacted in the sycamore and elsewhere. I dug a few out. Or rather, I dug out grotesquely flattened hollow points. Had they hit an animal, or me, they probably would have been only half flattened, and there might have been enough pristine metal left to provide a forensic expert with striations that could have identified the weapon. These bullets looked like coins, totally worthless for identification. Not that I would have preferred better-looking bullets inside me. The expanding bullets also explained why I sank so fast. They passed through, but not before tearing out large chunks of my canoe.

  The loss of my Taurus revolver bothered me. I was fond of that piece of iron. But there was nothing for it, so I went back to my car and drove into town. I found a crowded diner and killed a couple of hours eating, drinking coffee and listening to the locals complain about cormorants. I called Victoria Gustafson just after noon.

  “Oh, Mr. Rhode. I got back earlier than I expected. I’ve been going through some of John’s old stuff. I found some pictures you might be interested in. Come on over. I’ll make us some sandwiches.”

  “I just ate, Victoria. But I’ll be right out.”

  “Well, you’ll have something, I’m sure. Chief Rizzuto will be here. I told him I’d have something.”

  “Rizzuto? Why will he be there?”

  “He called. Said he knew you were coming by and wanted to sit in. He’s known the family for years. He and Johnny were great friends. Went into the Army together.”

  That didn’t make any sense. Rizzuto told me he hardly knew Panetta.

  “Vito Rizzuto? The Selkirk Chief?”

  “Yes, of course. He’s in one of the photos I found. Johnny and he and Nate all went to Vietnam together. Peas in a pod. They were inseparable in high school. Always getting in trouble. Just boys’ kicking up their heels, of course. They did everything together and when Nate got drafted the other two enlisted. Of course, Nate came from some money and became an officer, but he pulled some strings or something and Johnny and Vito wound up in his unit.”

  “Who is Nate?”

  “Nate Yorke.”

  It took a second to register.

  “Nate York? Nathaniel Yorke? The guy running for Borough President on Staten Island?”

  “Staten Island? Where John settled? I hadn’t heard that. Last I knew, Nate was state senator. Are you sure we’re talking about the same person.”

  Before I could reply, she said, “Oh, Vito just pulled up. I bet he’ll get a kick out of these photos. Hurry on out.”

  “Victoria, wait.”

  But she had hung up.

  ***

  It took me 10 minutes to get to her house. All the time I had a funny feeling in my gut. When I pulled up I saw the Selkirk police car. I walked through the junk on the lawn and went up to the door. I heard a low, animal moan.

  I went in. Vito Rizzuto was curled up in a ball in the middle of the living room. There was a pool of blood spreading from his midsection. He was still alive. It was his moaning I’d heard.

  Victoria Gustafson was sprawled on her back by the dining room table. I went to her but knew right away that she was dead. Her eyes were open and a red stain had spread across her white blouse. She had been shot twice in the chest. One round must have gone into her heart and stopped it, because the stain wasn’t that large. Otto was sitting by the kitchen doorway, with his shotgun lying next to him. I could tell from the angle of his head and his slack jaw that he was also dead. He’d also taken one in the chest.

  I felt the gorge rising from my stomach as the blood from all the wounds started to fill up the floor. There was so much of it I could smell its sour iron odor.

  “For Christ’s, sake, help me! I’m gut shot. The fucker belly shot me.”

  Chief Rizzuto had managed to push himself half upright against the wall by the front door. He had both his hands over his stomach wound. Brownish blood seeped through his fingers. I went to help him and saw the gun lying on the floor in front of him. My gun. My Taurus. I picked it up and sniffed. It was empty, and recently fired. His pearl-handle revolver was still in his holster. I took it out. It was a .38 Smith & Wesson Police Special. I put it in my belt. I looked into his eyes. He was having trouble focusing.

  “Call an ambulance. I’m bleeding to death.”

  I slapped him. Hard. He focused.

  “You killed them. Why?”

  “For the love of God, Rhode! An ambulance!”

  “Only if you tell me why.”

  He looked at me. I’m sure he didn’t like what he saw in my eyes.

  “Otto went crazy. I had to protect myself.”

  “What about Vicki?”

  “It was an accident. Innocent bystander. I was shot.”

  I slapped him again.

  “With my gun? Where did you get it? You want to live? Tell me everything. Or I’ll let you bleed out. So help me, God.”

  Rizzuto moaned.

  “I found the canoe. And the gun.”

  “You were the shooter on the river.”

  “Yeah. I wanted to finish you there. I couldn’t believe I missed.”

  The bastard had done pretty well with my handgun, I reflected bitterly.

  “Then I didn’t know what to do.” He groaned. “Jesus, it hurts. I need a doctor.”

  “Just press it tight,” I said, pushing down on his hand over the wound. He screamed in agony. Which was my intention. “So, you took my gun and killed Vicki and Otto with it. To pin it on me. What went wrong?”

  His breathing was ragged.

  “I only meant to kill Vicki. I knew she would tell you about me and John. I couldn’t have that. I figured if I shot her with your gun and then killed you, we’d be in the clear. But fuckin’ Otto walked in just when I did her. He’s not supposed to be here. I shot him but he got one off, too.” He groaned. “God, it hurts.”

  Jesus! A deer slug in the gut. I didn’t think an ambulance would help. And I needed more information.

  “Stay with me, Vito! What didn’t you want me to find out?’

  He stared at me. I took out my cell phone.

  “See this, Vito. I’m holding your life in my hands. Talk!”

  “The three of us were in Nam together. We grew up together. Yorke fixed it so we’d serve with him. Me and Gunner kind of looked up to him, bein’ a college guy and an officer, comin’ from money, not like us. Only he was yellow, through and through.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Rizzuto’s breath was more ragged. I could tell from looking at his face and hearing his voice that his pain had lessened. But his color was worse
. I knew from experience these were bad signs. He was dying.

  “Nate was a fucking coward,” he rasped. “He ran away and left Johnny holding the bag when the gooks attacked us. I found him crying like a baby hiding behind a hooch. Our leader. Our captain. We could hear Johnny firing that machine gun all by his lonesome. I told Yorke to get his shit together. We had to go back and help Johnny. But he’d already wet his pants. He was useless. I told him I was gonna report him. Would have, too. Except Johnny held off about a million fuckin’ gooks and survived.”

  A shudder went through Rizzuto’s body, but then he steadied himself.

  “Nate told me he would get Johnny the Medal of Honor if I kept my mouth shut about his running away. Silver Star for me. Johnny about wanted to kill him but I talked him out of it and even told him that the Medal was more important than Yorke, who was due to rotate stateside anyway. Said we had our courageous Captain Yorke by the balls. We could drain him dry, money-wise. But Johnny wasn’t like that. Plus, the war had screwed his head up. He wanted nothin’ to do with Yorke. Or me, I guess. After he got his medal, he moved away. I lost track of him.”

  “But you didn’t lose track of Yorke’s balls, did you?”

  “No. The cocksucker got himself a Silver Star, too! I’ve been on the tit ever since. He was ambitious. Got elected over and over tellin’ people what a war hero he was. I kept my mouth shut as long as the checks kept comin’.”

  “And now 20 grand to shut me up.”

  Rizzuto looked at me.

  “What the fuck you talkin’ about?”

  He didn’t know about the contract on me.

  “Who told you I was coming up here?”

  He shook his head. I held up the cell phone. He started crying.

  “Jesus.”

  I just smiled.

  “Bowles.”

  Yorke’s campaign manager.

  “How did he know?”