Mommy was--oh, Daddy, she was right behind me.
Where's Mommy, Daddy? Oh, Daddy, what happened to Mommy?"
"Okay, sweetie, you have to be brave now and get a hold of yourself. We are going to have to ride out of here soon. You have to settle down and be calm. I'm going to go look for Mommy."
"No, Daddy, no, please don't go, he'll kill you too!"
"Honey, now, you be calm. I will take a look-see. You stay here in the shadows. When you feel up to it, gather your horse and get Junior's reins. We will be riding like hell out of here very shortly. All right?"
His daughter nodded solemnly through her tears.
Bob turned, whipped off his hat, and slithered along the wall of the pass toward the light. As he neared it, he slowed .. . way .. . down. Fast movement would attract the eye, draw another shot if the bad boy was still scoping. Swagger thought he wouldn't be. Swagger thought he'd hit his primary and his secondary and the girl couldn't figure in anything, and so he was beating it to higher elevations or his pickup or whatever. Who knew?
That had to be figured out later. The issue now was Julie.
He edged ever so slowly toward the light, at last setting himself so that he had a good vantage point. Some dust still hung in the air, but the sun was bright now. He could see poor Dade about one hundred-odd yards away, right at the edge. From Dade's broken posture alone it was clear the old man was finished, but a monstrous head wound testified to no possibility of survival. Bad work.
Expanding bullet, presumably fired in through the eye or something, a cranial vault explosion, gobbets of brain and blood flung everywhere.
He looked about for a sign of his wife, but there was none. He saw her horse over in the shade, calm now, chewing on some vegetation. He looked about for a hide in case she had gotten to one, but there were no rocks or bushes thick enough to conceal or protect her. That left the edge, he tried to recall what lay beyond the edge, and built an image of a rough slope littered with scrub vegetation and rocks, down a few hundred feet to a dense mess of pines where the creek ran through. Was that right, or was it some other place?
He thought to call, but held back.
The sniper hadn't seen him yet.
There really wasn't a decision to be made. He knew what had to be done.
He slipped back to where Nikki, who had now collected herself, stood with the two horses.
"Do you have any sense of where the shots came from, sweetie? Did you hear them at all?"
"I only remember the last one. As I was riding and had reached the pass. It came from behind."
"Okay," he said. If the shot came from "behind," that probably meant he was shooting from across the canyon, on the ridgeline that ran anywhere from two hundred meters to one thousand meters away. That jibed with the position of Dade's body, too. Whatever, it meant the shooter was cut off from where they were by the gap between the mountains and wouldn't be able to reach them from here on out, unless he came after them. But he wouldn't come after them. He'd fall back, get to safe ground, hit his escape route and be out of here.
"All right," he said, "we are getting the hell out of here and bee lining straight for home, where we'll call the sheriff and get him and his boys in here."
She looked at him, stricken.
"But, Mommy--she's out there."
"I know she is, honey. But I can't get her now. If I go out there, he may shoot me, and then what have we got?"
He didn't think he would be. He had worked it out to the next logical step: whoever had done the shooting, his target was not Dade Fellows but Bob Lee Swagger. Someone had reconned him, planned the shot, knew his tendencies and lay in wait from a safe hide a long way off. It was a sniper, Bob felt, another professional.
"She might be hurt. She might need help bad."
"Listen to me, honey. When you are shot, if it's a bad hit, you die right away, like poor Mr. Dade. If it ain't hit you seriously, you can last for several hours. I saw it in Vietnam, the body is very tough and it'll fight on its own for a long time, and you know how tough Mommy is! So there's no real advantage to going to Mommy right now.
We can't risk that. She's either already dead or she's going to pull through. There's nothing in between."
"I--I want Mommy," said Nikki.
"Mommy's hurt."
"I want Mommy, too," said Bob.
"But sweetie, please trust me on this one. We can't help Mommy by getting ourselves killed. He may still be there."
"I'll stay," said Nikki.
"You're such a brave girl. But you can't stay. We have to get out of here, get the state cops and a medical team here fast. Do you understand, baby girl? That's what's best for Mommy, all right?"
His daughter shook her head, she was not convinced and nothing would ever convince her but Bob knew in his Marine heart that he had made the right decision--the tough one, but the right one.
CHAPTER twenty-nine.
It had to happen sooner or later and he was glad it happened sooner. It had to be gotten out of the way.
"Mr. Swagger," said Lieutenant Benteen, the chief investigator of the Idaho State Police, "would you mind stepping over here for a second, sir?"
Bob knew what was coming. As he stood on the escarpment, two and a half hours had passed since the shooting. His daughter was with a female state police detective and a nurse back at the house, here, an investigation team and coroner's team worked the crime site, while below a team of sheriffs deputies struggled through the trees and underbrush for a sign of Julie Swagger.
Across the gorge, detectives and deputies looked for evidence of the shooting site, ferried there by a state police helicopter that idled on that side of the gap.
"I figured you would be talking with me," said Bob.
"You go ahead. Let's get it done with."
"Yes, sir. You know, when a wife is killed it's been my experience that ninety-eight percent of the time, the husband is somehow involved, if he didn't do the thing himself.
Seen a lot of that."
"Sure, it figures."
"So I have to ask you to account for your whereabouts at the time of the shooting."
"I was on the other side of the pass, riding up to join my wife and daughter. We usually go out for an early morning ride. Today we had words, and I let the girls go alone. Then I got mad at myself for letting my damn ego seem so important, so I went after them. I heard four shots and rode like hell, to find my baby girl in the shadows of the pass. I looked out and saw poor Dade. I decided the best thing was to get Nikki back to the house, where I called you all and you know the rest."
"Did it occur to you to look for your wife?"
"It did, but I had no medical supplies and I didn't know if the shooter was around, so I thought it best to get the girl out of here and call in the sheriff and a medical team."
"You are, sir, I believe, a marksman of some note."
"I am a shooter, yes. I was a Marine sniper many years ago. I won the big shoot they hold in the east back in 1970. The Wimbledon Cup, they call it. Not for tennis, for long-range shooting. Also, I have been in some scrapes over the years. But, sir, can I point a thing out?"
"Go ahead, Mr. Swagger."
"I think you'll find them shots came from the other side of the gap. That's what my daughter said, and that's what the indication of Dade's body said. Now, there ain't no way I could have fired those shots from over there and gotten to my daughter over here in a very few seconds.
There's a huge drop-off, then some rough country to negotiate.
I was with my daughter within thirty seconds of the last shot. You can also see the tracks of my horse up here from the ranch house, and no tracks that in any way connect me with what went on over there. And finally, you have surely figured out by now that poor Dade is gone because whoever pulled the trigger thought he was hitting me."
"Duly noted, Mr. Swagger. But I will have to look into this further, to let you know. I will be asking questions. I have no choice."
"You go
ahead. Do I need a lawyer?"
"I will notify you if you are considered a suspect, sir.
That's how we do it out here."
"Thank you."
"But you were a shooter who used a rifle with a scope?
And if I don't miss my best guess, this was a pretty piece of shooting with just such a rig."
"Possibly. I don't know yet."
"This couldn't be some sniper thing? Some other sniper? Maybe someone getting even with you for something in your past?"
"I don't know, sir. I have no idea at all."
The lieutenant's radio crackled and he picked it up.
"Benteen here, over."
"Lieutenant, I think we found it. Got a couple of shells and some tracks, a coffee thermos and some messed-up ground. You care to come and look?"
"I'll hop right over, Walt, thanks." He turned to Bob.
"They think they found the shooting position. Care to look at it, Mr. Swagger? Maybe you can tell me a thing or two about this sort of work."
"I would like to see it, yes, sir. There's no word on my wife?"
"Not yet. They'll call as soon as they know."
"Then let's go."
Of course the chopper was a Huey, it was always a Huey and Bob had the briefest of flashbacks as the odor of aviation fuel and grease floated to his nose. The bird rose gracefully, stirring up some dust, and hopped the canyon to the ridgeline on the other side and set its cargo down.
Bob and the lieutenant jumped out and the bird evacuated.
A hundred yards away and up, a state policeman signaled and the two men followed a rough track up to the position. There, the younger cop stood over a little patch of bare ground. Something glittered and Bob could see two brass shells in the dust. There were some other marks and scuffs, and a Kmart thermos.
"This appears to be the spot," said the young officer.
"Maybe we'll get prints off the thermos," Benteen said.
Bob bent and looked at the marks in the earth.
"See that," he said, pointing to two circular indentations in the dust right at the edge of the patch.
"Those are marks of a Harris bipod. The rifle rested on a Harris bipod."
"Yeah," said the cop.
Bob turned and looked back across the gulf to where Dade's body still rested under a coroner's sheet. He gauged the distance to be close to two hundred meters dead on, maybe a little downward elevation but nothing challenging.
"A hard shot, Mr. Swagger?"
"No, I would say not," he said.
"Any half-practiced fool could make that shot prone off the bipod with a zeroed rifle."
"So you would look at this and not necessarily conclude that it's a professional sniper's work."
"No. In the war we did most of our shooting at four hundred to eight hundred meters, on moving targets. This is much simpler: the distance is close, his angle to the target was dead on, the target was still. Then he misses the other two shots he takes at my wife, or at least he didn't hit her squarely. Then he comes back and hits the old man in the head as he lays dead in the dirt. No, as I look at this, I can't say I see anything that speaks of a trained man to me. It could have been some random psycho, someone who had a rifle and the itch to see something die and suddenly he sees this chance and his darker self gets a hold of him."
"It's been known to happen."
"Yes, it has."
"Still, it would be a mighty big coincidence, wouldn't it? That such a monster just happens to nail your wife? I mean, given who and what you were?"
"As you say, such things have been known to happen.
Let's take a look at the shell."
"Can't pick it up till we photo it," said the younger man.
"He's right. That's procedure."
"Okay, you mind if I squat down and get a look at the head stamp?"
"Go ahead."
Bob bent down, brought his eyes close to the shell's rear end.
"What is it?" asked Benteen.
"Seven-millimeter Remington Mag."
"Is that a good bullet?"
"Yes, sir, it is. Very flat shooting, very powerful. They use them mainly in hunting over long distances. Rams, 'lopes, elk, the like. Lot of 'em in these parts."
"A hunter's round, then. Not a professional sniper's round."
"It is a hunter's round: I've heard the Secret Service snipers use it, but nobody else."
He stood, looked back across the gap. Bipod marks, circular, where the bipod sat in the dust, supporting the rifle. Two 7mm Remington Mag shells. Range less than two hundred meters, a good, easy shot. Nearly anyone could have made it with a reasonable outfit. Now what was bothering him?
He didn't know.
But there was some oddness here, too subtle for his conscious mind to track. Maybe his unconscious brain, the smarter part of him, would figure it out.
He shook his head, to himself, mainly.
What is wrong with this picture?
"I wonder why there's only two shells," said Benteen, "if he fired four times. That would be two missing."
"Only one," said Bob.
"He may not have ejected the last shell. As for the third shell, maybe it caught on his clothes or something, or he kicked it when he got up. Or it was right by him and he picked it up. That's not surprising.
The shells are light, they get moved about easily. You can never find all your shells. I wouldn't pay too much attention to that."
Was that it?
"Good point," said the elderly officer.
But then the radio crackled again. Old Benteen picked it off his belt, listened to the stew of syllables, then turned to Bob.
"They found your wife."
CHAPTER thirty.
She would live. She lay encased in bandages. The broken ribs, five of them, were difficult, time alone would heal them. The shattered collarbone, where a bullet had driven through, missing arteries and blood-bearing organs by bare millimeters, would heal with more difficulty, and orthopedic surgery lay ahead. The abraded skin from her long roll down the mountainside, the dislocated hip, the contusions, bruises, muscle aches and pains, all would heal eventually.
So now she lay heavily sedated and immobile in the intensive care unit of the Boise General Hospital, linked to an EKG whose solid beeping testified to the sturdiness of her heart despite all the fractures and the pain. Her daughter sat on her bed, flowers filled the room, two Boise cops guarded the door, the doctor's prognostication was optimistic and her husband was there for her.
"What happened?" she finally said.
"Do you remember?"
"Not much. The police have talked to me. Poor Mr.
Fellows."
"He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I am very sorry about that."
"Who did this?"
"The police seem to think it was some random psycho in the hills. Maybe a militia boy, full of foolish ideas, or someone who just couldn't handle the temptation of the rifle."
"Have they caught anybody?"
"No. And there were no distinguishable prints on a cheap thermos they recovered. They really don't have much. A couple of shells, some scuffs in the dust."
She looked off. Nikki was coloring steadily, a big Disney book. The scent of flowers and disinfectant filled the room.
"I hate seeing you here," Bob said.
"You don't belong here."
"But I am here," she said.
"I've asked Sally Memphis to come up and stay with you. She's a couple of months pregnant but she was eager to help. I called Dade Fellows's daughter, and she said her father has a ranching property over in Custer County, remote and safe in a valley. When you get better, I want Sally to move you up there. I want you and Nikki protected."
"What are you talking about?"
"Nikki, honey, why don't you go get a Coke?"
"Daddy, I don't want a Coke. I just had a Coke."
"Well, sweetie, why don't you get another Coke. Or get Daddy a Coke, all right?"
Nikk
i knew when she was being kicked out. She got up reluctantly, kissed her mother and left the room.
"I haven't told the cops," he said, "because they wouldn't get it and they couldn't do anything about it. But I don't think this is a wandering Johnny with a rifle. I think we got us a big-time serious professional killer and I think I'm the boy he's after."
"Why on earth?"
"There could be many reasons. As you know, I have been in some scrapes. I don't know which of 'em would produce this. But what that means is until I get this figured out, I believe you are in more danger around me than less. And I need freedom. I need to get about, to look at things, to get some items sorted out. This guy's got a game going on me, but now I have the advantage because for a few days more he won't know he missed me. I have to operate fast and learn what I can in the opening."
"Bob, you should talk to the FBI if you don't think these Idaho people are sophisticated enough."
"I don't have anything they'd recognize yet. I have to develop some evidence. I'd just get myself locked in the loony bin."
"Oh, Lord," she said.
"This is going to be one of your things, isn't it?"
There was a long moment of quiet. He let the anger in him rise, then top off, then fall, then he began to hurt a little.
"What do you mean, 'things'?"
"Oh, you have these crusades. You go off and you get involved in some ruckus. You don't talk about it but you come back spent and happy. You get to be alive again and do what you do the best. You get to be a sniper again. The war never ended for you. You never wanted it to end. You loved it too deeply. You loved it more than you ever loved any of us, I see that now."
"Julie, honey, you don't know what you're saying.
You're on painkillers. I want you to be comfortable. I'm just going to look into some things for a while."
She shook her head sadly.
"I can't have it. Now it's come to my daughter. The war. It killed my first husband and now it's come into my life and you want to go off and fight it all over again, and my daughter, who is eight, had to see a man die. Do you have any idea how traumatizing that is? No child should have to see that. Ever."
"I agree, but what we have is what we have and it has to be dealt with. It can't be ignored. It won't go away."
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