Time to Hunt (66 page)

But he did not fire.

She opened them.

He had fallen halfway, but then he pulled himself up, and thrust the gun at her, his eyes filling with mad determination.

B
ob ran until he had a good angle into the door.

He’ll stop. He has to wait for his eyes to adjust
.

He saw it. The man would step into the darkness and pause as his eyes adjusted. He’d be there, just beyond the door, for the length of time it took his pupils to adjust. With Solaratov, that interval would be a second or so.

He dropped to one knee, braced the rifle on his leg, found the good shooting position. It was five hundred yards if it was an inch, but that had to be the zero on the rifle, for Solaratov had come so close to him so often.

Without thinking, he wrapped the sling tight about his left, supporting arm as he slipped into a good Marine Corps position, feeling a bite of pain from the opened wound, but leaning through it. He took three breaths, building up his oxygen, and looked for his natural point of aim as something in him screamed
Faster! Faster!
and another part cooed
Slower, slower
. He laid the crosshairs dead-center on the door, just a patch of gray wood smeared with snow, and prayed for the extra oomph of the 7mm to do its thing.

He had one moment of clarity, and at the subliminal level willed all he knew of shooting into the effort: the relaxation of the finger, trained over the hard years; the discipline of the respiratory cycle, and the rhythm of deeper and shallower exhalation; the cooperation of rods and cones in the back wall of the eye, the orchestration of pupil, eye and lens, and the overall guidance and wisdom of the retina; but most of all, that deep, willed plunge into stillness, where the world is gray and almost gone, yet at the same time sharp and clear.

Nothing matters
, the man coached himself when things mattered most.

And then it was gone as the rifle fired, kicked against him, blowing the sight picture to nothing but blur, and when he came back on target he saw a mushroom of snow mist floating from the vibes where the bullet had blasted through the wood.

T
he pistol settled down; she saw the hugeness of its bore just feet away from her and then felt—

Splatter in her face, a sense of mist or fog suddenly filling the air, a meaty vapor.

Mixed into this sensation was a sound which was that of wood splitting.

In it too was a grunt, almost involuntary, as if lungs gurgled, somehow human.

She found herself wet with droplets that proved to be warm and heavy: blood.

The sniper transfigured before her. What had been the upper quadrant of his face had somehow been pulped, ripped open, revealing a terrible wound of splintered bone and spurting blood. One eye looked dead as a nickle; the other was gone in the mess. Even as these details were fixing themselves in her memory, he fell sideways with a thump, his head banging on the cement floor, exposing the ragged entry wound in the corresponding rear quadrant of the skull, where the bones now seemed broken and frail.

A single light beam came through the cellar door where the bullet had passed.

She looked down, saw the stumpy little man fallen like a white angel into a red pool, as his satiny blood spread ever wider from his ruined face.

She turned to her daughter and her friend, who regarded her with mouths agape, and horror, more than relief, registering in both their eyes.

Then she spoke with perfect deliberation:

“Daddy’s home.”

H
e had not fired a second time because he had no more ammunition. But in another second, the cellar door had been flung open and he recognized Sally, leaping to signal him that it was over.

By the time Bob got to the house, three Air Force Hueys and a state police helicopter had landed and more were on their way. Then another Air Force job, a big Blackhawk, arrived and disgorged still more staff. It almost looked like an advanced firebase when the war was at its hottest, the way the choppers kept ferrying people in.

He got the news immediately: everybody was all right, though medics were attending them. The sniper was dead.

His own wounds were tended: an emergency technician resewed, with anesthetic, the gash in his thigh that had opened up under the pressure of all the moving and jumping, and then picked stone and bullet fragments out of his face and eye for half an hour, before disinfecting, then covering the raw cuts with gauze. Nothing appeared to have hit the eye proper; more shooter’s luck.

There was little to be done about the back wound. It had penetrated his camouflage and grazed the flesh of his back, scoring both burn and bruise. But other than disinfectant, only time and painkillers would make it go away.

A cop wanted to take a statement, but Bonson pulled rank and declared the ranch a federal crime site, until corroborating FBI agents could chopper in within the hour from Boise. In the cellar, a state police crime team worked the body of the dead sniper, hit twice, once through the left lung, once in the back of the head.

“Great shooting,” said a cop. “You want to take a look at your handiwork?”

But Swagger had no desire to see the fallen man. What
good would it do? He felt nothing except that he’d seen enough corpses.

“I’d rather see my daughter and my wife,” he said.

“Well, your wife is being treated by our medical people. We’ve got to debrief her as soon as possible. Mrs. Memphis is with Nikki.”

“Can I go?”

“They’re in the kitchen.”

He walked through a strange house full of strangers. People talked on radios, and computers had been set up. A squad of uninteresting young people hung about, talking shop, clearly agitated at the prospect of a big treat. He remembered when Agency people were all ex-FBI men, beefy cop types, who carried Swedish Ks and liked to talk about “pegging gooks.” These boys and girls looked like they belonged in prep school, but they sure made themselves at home, with the instant insouciance of the young.

He walked through them, and they parted, and he could feel their wonder. What would they make of him: his kind of war was so far from their kind it probably made no sense.

He found Sally in the kitchen, and next to her, there was his baby girl. These were the moments worth living for. Now he knew why he bothered to survive Vietnam.

“Hi, baby!”

“Oh, Daddy,” she said, her eyes widening with deep pleasure. He felt a warmth in his heart so intense he might melt. His child. Through it all, after it all, his own: flesh, blood, brains. She flew to him and he absorbed her tininess, felt her vitality as he picked her up and hugged her passionately.

“Oh, you sweet thing!” he sang. “You are the sweetest thing there is.”

“Oh, Daddy. They say you shot the bad man!”

He laughed.

“You never mind that. How are you? How’s Mommy?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine. It was scary. He came into the basement with a gun.”

“Well, he won’t bother you no nevermore, all right?”

She clung to him. Sally fixed him with her usual gimlet eye.

“Bob Swagger,” she said, “you are a mean and ornery piece of work, and you aren’t much of a husband or a father, but by God, you do have a gift for the heroic.”

“I can see you’re still my biggest fan, Sally,” he said. “Well, anyhow, thanks for hanging around.”

“It sure was interesting. How are you?”

“My back hurts,” he said. “So does my leg and my eye. I am plenty hungry. And there’re too goddamned many young people out there. I hate young people. How is she?”

“She’s fine. We’re all fine. Nobody was hurt. But only just barely. Another tenth of a second and he would have pulled that trigger.”

“Well, to hell with him if he can’t take a joke.”

“I’ll leave you two alone.”

“See if you can get one of these Harvard kids to fix some coffee.”

“They probably don’t do coffee, and there isn’t a Starbucks around, but I’ll see what I can manage.”

And so he sat with his baby daughter in the kitchen and caught up on the news and told her about the superficiality of his wounds and made a promise he hoped he’d now be able to keep: to return with her and her mother to Arizona, and resume the good life they had together.

I
n half an hour a young man came to him. “Mr. Swagger?”

“Yes?”

“We’re going to have to debrief your wife now. She’s asked that you be present.”

“All right.”

“She’s very insistent. She won’t talk unless you’re there.”

“Sure, she’s spooked.”

“This way, sir.”

Sally came back to take care of Nikki.

“Sweetie,” he said to his daughter, “I’m going to go with these people to talk to Mommy. You stay here with Aunt Sally.”

“Daddy!”

She gave him a last hug, and he now saw how deeply she’d been traumatized. The war had come to her: she’d seen what few Americans ever saw anymore—combat death, the power of the bullet on flesh.

“Sweetie, I’ll be back. Then this’ll be over. It’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

They took him upstairs. The Agency team had set up in a bedroom, pushing aside the bed and dresser and installing a sofa from the living room and a group of chairs. Cleverly, they weren’t arranged before the sofa, as if to seat an audience, but rather in a semicircle, as if in a group counseling session. Tape-recording equipment had been installed, and computer terminals.

The room was crowded and hushed, but finally, he saw her. He walked through the milling analysts and agents, and found her, sitting alone on the sofa. She looked composed now, though her arm was still locked in its cast. She’d insisted on dressing and wore some jeans and a sweatshirt and her boots. She had a can of Diet Coke.

“Well, hello there,” he said.

“Well, hello yourself,” she said with a smile.

“You’re okay, they say.”

“Well, it’s a little bothersome when a Russian comes into your house and points a gun at you and then your husband blows half his head away. I’m damn lucky to have a husband who could do such a thing.”

“Oh, I’m such a big hero. Sweetie, I just pulled a trigger.”

“Oh, baby.”

He held her tight and it was fine: his wife; he’d slept next to her for years now, the same strong, tough beautiful
woman, about as good as they made them. Her smell was achingly familiar. Strawberries, she smelled of strawberries always. He first saw her in a picture wrapped in cellophane that came from a young Marine’s boonie hat. The rain was falling. There was a war. He fell in love with her then and never came close to falling out in all the years since.

“Where did you come from?” she said. “How did you get here so fast?”

“They didn’t tell you? Damn idiot me, I got me a new hobby. I parachuted through the storm. Pretty exciting.”

“Oh, Bob.”

“I never been so scared in my life. If I’d had clean underwear, I’d have pissed in the ones I was wearing. Only, I didn’t have no clean underwear.”

“Oh, Bob—”

“We’ll talk about all that stuff. That’s up ahead.”

“What in hell is this all about?” she finally asked. “He came for
me?
That’s what these people say.”

“Yeah. It has to do with something that happened a long time ago. I have it half figured. These geniuses think they know all the answers, or they can figure them. You up to this?”

“Yes. I just want it over.”

“Then we’ll get it all straightened out, I swear to you.”

“I know.”

“Bonson?”

Bonson came over.

“She’s ready.”

“That’s terrific, Mrs. Swagger. We’ll try and make this as easy as possible. Are you comfortable? Do you want anything? Another Coke?”

“No, I’m fine. I want my husband here, that’s all.”

“That’s fine.”

“Okay, people,” Bonson said in a louder voice, “we’re all set. The debriefing can begin.”

He turned back to her.

“I have two lead analysts who’ll run this. They’re both
psychologists. Just relax, take your time. You’re under no pressure of any sort. This is not adversarial and it has no legal standing. It’s not an interrogation. In fact, we’ll probably share things with you that you are not security-cleared to hear. But that’s all right. We want this to be easy for you, and for you not to sense reluctance or authority or power or discretion on our part. If you can, try and think of us as your friends, not your government.”

“Should I salute?” she said.

Bonson laughed.

“No. Nor will we be playing the national anthem or waving any flags. It’s just a chat between friends. Now, let us set up things for you, so you have some idea of a context in which this inquiry is taking place, and why your information is so vital.”

“Sure.”

It began. The crowd settled, the kids obediently found chairs, and Julie sat relaxed on the couch. There were no harsh lights. One of the questioners cleared his throat, and began to speak.

“Mrs. Swagger, for reasons as yet unclear to us, factions within Russia have sent an extremely competent professional assassin to this country to kill you. That’s extraordinarily venturesome, even for them. You probably wonder why, and so do we. So in the past seventy-two hours, we’ve been poring through old records, trying to find something that you might know that would make your death important to someone over there. May I begin by assuming you have no idea?”

“Nothing. I’ve never talked knowingly to a Russian in my life.”

“Yes, ma’am. But we’ve put this into a larger pattern. It seems that three other people in your circle in the year 1971 were also killed under circumstances that suggest possible Soviet or Russian involvement. One is your first husband—”

Julie gasped involuntarily.

“This may be painful,” Bonson said.

Bob touched her shoulder.

“It’s all right,” she said.

The young man continued, “Your husband, Donny Fenn, killed in the Republic of South Vietnam 6 May 1972. Another was a young man who was active with you in the peace movement, named Peter Farris, discovered dead with a broken neck, 6 October 1971, dead for several months at the time. And the third was another peace demonstrator of some renown, named Thomas Charles ‘Trig’ Carter III, killed in a bomb blast at the University of Wisconsin 9 May 1971.”