Work Done for Hire (9 page)

I
t wasn't Kit; she always called the cell. And not before dawn. I let it ring four times and picked it up. “Well?” I said.

A woman's voice. “If it was the right person, would you do it?”

I should have said, “I don't know what you're talking about,” and hung up. Instead, I said, “I don't know enough. Who are you?”

“I can't tell you that. I can tell you that we are not the government or enemies of the government; it's not a political assassination.”

“Why should that be a plus? Being a gun for hire, with no principles involved, isn't appealing.”

“You didn't agree with the principles behind the war for which you killed sixteen people.”

“Apples and oranges. I didn't have a choice.”

“You did, though. As you have said and written. If you had gone to jail for refusing the draft, it would have been less time out of your life. Less moral complication.”

“Yeah, happy hindsight.” Any way I could trace this call? I took the cell phone out of my shirt pocket.

“Put the cell down,” she said. “If you call anyone I'll hang up.”

The blinds were closed. “You have a bug in this room?”

“There are other ways we can tell what you are doing. I need an answer.”

“Why me? I need
that
answered.”

“Expert marksman, unmarried, apolitical and agnostic, low-income disabled veteran against the war.”

“Okay, that must narrow it down to a thousand. Why me?”

“Because we can trust you to do the right thing. You wouldn't want Kit to come down with a rare blood disease and die slowly. Would you?”

“What?
Blood
disease?”

“Timothy Unger. Google him. We're serious.” The line went dead.

That was Timmy's name, the e-mail ammunition boy. I looked him up and found that he was born in Iowa City twenty years ago and died last year of a heart attack.

Too young. There was an autopsy, the obit said, but no follow-up story except for funeral arrangements. But then I tried “rare blood disease” + “Iowa City” + “fatality” and his name came up, dead last year. It was supposedly myelofibrosis rapidly transformed into secondary acute myelogenous leukemia leading to massive cardiac failure. The doctors were “mystified” by the sudden onset of the disease.

Maybe there was some mysterious poison that mimicked myelofibrosis, whatever that was. Or maybe they just put a nickel in the Google machine and asked it for the name of someone local who had died of a rare disease last year.

No. That wouldn't explain the e-mailings.

Anyhow, this was way beyond the possibility of a hoax, for any reason. Too complicated and expensive and incriminating.

I sat down by the rifle and rubbed its smooth stock. They're giving me time to think this over, before they identify the victim. I have to kill X or they kill Kit. For what values of X would I refuse?

How had they found me; why had they chosen me? My slight prominence as a writer? Well, I did write about war and about being a sniper. I should've chosen Gothic romance.

The phone rang. I picked it up and got a recorded message—same female voice—that was repeated once: “Take the rifle and targets and ammunition
right now
and drive to the east end of the Coralville dump, where people go for shooting. When there's enough light, sight in the rifle. Collect all your brass and your targets and leave. You will be watched.”

It was just starting to get light in the east. I zapped a big mug of water and stirred in enough instant coffee and cocoa to wake up the dead, and took it out to the car, and came back for the weapon and targets and ammunition. It felt odd, carrying a rifle without a sling, just walking out to the car like any garden-variety nutcase out to shoot a president or a classroom full of innocents. I knew the bad guys were watching me, but who else? Was one of my nutty neighbors calling the cops, and would they listen?
He always acts funny and keeps to himself, says he's some kinda writer. I always knew there was somethin' wrong with him.

So if I zero in the rifle, am I complicit? Yes and no; I could still decide not to shoot or to miss the target.

No car was following me as I drove out to the Coralville dump. If they really would be watching me, as they said, they were already there. Or in orbit, for all I knew.

Tried to hatch a plan as I drove through the hazy dawn. There was one aspect I could control: I didn't have to sight the rifle accurately. I could misalign the finderscope and send the bullet anywhere.

Sighting in a rifle-and-scope combination is simple if the equipment is good. This was all solid and new, the same combination I used in the desert, a red-dot Insight MRD on the M2010 sniper rifle. To sight it in you put a “dot” target—a spot on a piece of paper—a measured distance away, and fire carefully from a stable platform. Once you're comfortable with the rifle, you try to get three-shot groups within about a one-inch circle—smaller circle for a real pro. Then you click the rifle sight for windage (left and right) and drop (up and down) until that group consistently appears where the scope's crosshairs intersect, on the printed spot.

Hunters often sight for seventy-five yards; in the desert we usually went out to four hundred. So I was to do half that.

There were no obvious witnesses at the Coralville dump. A lot of crows and a slightly pungent atmosphere. A hand-lettered sign saying SHOOTERS led me to the left.

The setup was simple. Two weathered picnic tables set up with sandbags, next to a plank platform for sighting in from a prone position. I would sit.

There were thick wooden supports about a yard square, spray-painted 100, 200, and 400. I went out to the 400-yard one and thumbtacked four targets there, and returned to the picnic tables.

I filled the magazine and slid it into place, seated the first round, and clicked off the safety. It was going to be loud. What would I say if a cop showed up? “Don't bother me; I'm getting ready to shoot a bad person.” I put earplugs in deep, lined up the rifle, and peered through the scope.

It was so dim. Well, it was barely dawn. A long way from desert glare.

There was nobody around, but I said, “Ready on the firing line” in a loud voice. What did civilians say?

The first shot was pretty loud, even with the earplugs. Missed the target completely. They obviously had the wrong guy for this job.

I took a couple of deep breaths and did the zen thing, floating up there watching myself calm down. I quietly touched the hair-trigger and willed the bullet downrange. It did hit the target, about 11:00.

It had occurred to me that someday I might wind up being the target of this rifle, rather than the shooter. One way to protect myself would be to zero it off-center.

Upper left-hand quadrant, about 10:30, halfway from the crosshairs to the edge. So if anybody else used the rifle on you, the bullet would whish by harmlessly over your right shoulder.

And I didn't plan to kill anybody with it anyway.

Z
eroing took less than an hour. No witnesses until I was packing up to leave. He nodded hello, unsmiling, and went to set up his equipment on the other picnic table. Checking on me? Not obviously. Old guy in an old car, local plates. I wrote down the plate number just in case, feeling a little foolish.

So I had taken the first step leading to a rewarding career in civilian assassination. Or the second step; I should have called the cops when I opened the box. Called the feds.

First I had to protect Kit. Get her way out of town before I went to the cops. The woman on the phone had been scarily specific.

I was going to meet Kit for lunch. She'd probably be safe at work. Better not call. Just pick her up and go to some random place.

Money. I could get $500 from the ATM. But the bank would be open in an hour. Empty out my accounts. Then have Kit do the same, and run like hell?

Maybe I was thinking too much like a storyteller. I should do the rational thing and go to the authorities.

Did I have enough evidence? A note that could be printed anywhere, a phone call I didn't record, a rifle you could buy at Sears. And a story that sounds like something a storyteller would make up. A storyteller who wanted publicity, they would assume.

I should at least wait until I knew who the target was supposed to be. A recording of the next time they call wouldn't hurt, either.

Did Kit still have a recorder in the glove compartment? I pulled over and found it, but it was the big high-fidelity one we'd used to interview Grand-dude. I'd want one I could carry in a pocket—surely the cops or spooks could extract the other side of a telephone conversation recorded from a couple of feet away.

If I went straight to the Radio Shack at the mall, it would be open in an hour. The rearview mirror showed a half mile of open road behind me; no one on my tail.

Do it. Get the small recorder . . . but also go to the savings bank and empty that account, then go to the checking bank and max out cash on AmEx and Visa. Then have Kit do the same?

Maybe I shouldn't go home at all. They were watching. It wouldn't be smart to rush in and start packing suitcases. But what
would
be smart?

My heart was hammering and my breath was short. Try to stop shaking. Try to think. Make a list.

1. Go to the police.

But then
they
would control whatever “
2
.” was going to be, and every number thereafter. My own main concern was protecting Kit, and then covering my own ass—or maybe it was the other way around, to be honest. Whatever came third was a distant third, though.

Would the police actually be protecting us? The mystery woman watching me would know when they showed up. How long would they stay interested if nothing else happened? Whoever was behind the rifle must have an agenda, but I didn't even know whether they were left, right or orthogonal. Or how patient they might be.

If not the police, our only protection would be flight. No way we could hide in Iowa City.

I could pursue my writing career online; my agent could make credit transfers to a bank anywhere. I knew from research for my first book how to build a new identity, a bogus paper trail, without spending a fortune or breaking any serious laws.

I'd be asking Kit to throw away her past and future. But if we were going to stay together, we didn't have much choice.

Well, we did have one, Plan A. Go to the police. This is not a TV show. Just go to the fucking cops.

My reverie was broken by the crunch of gravel behind me, and I looked in the rearview mirror . . . and saw that I didn't have to go to the cops. They had come to me. State trooper.

A short muscular guy with a Smokey-the-Bear hat stepped out of the car. Sunglasses. I rolled down the window while he was writing my license number into his notebook.

“Good morning, sir,” he said, exhaling tobacco and Clorets. “Is there a problem?”

“No, sir, nothing.”

He looked into the backseat. “Nice rifle.”

“Yes, sir. I was just down at the dump—”

“We know. We got a call.”

My mouth went dry. But why should it? “I haven't . . . have I broken some law?”

“No, not really. The dump isn't open to the public till nine, but it's not posted. Some sport stole the sign.” He studied the gun. “You had pulled over, and we thought you might need assistance.”

“No, um . . . I was going to make a call. I don't like to use the cell while I'm driving.”

“That's smart; that's good.” He was still looking at the rifle. “New gun?”

Better not say
I think so
. “Yes, sir.”

He nodded slowly. “You have papers on it?”

“Papers?” Oh, shit. “Do I need a permit for a rifle?”

“No. Not unless it's full automatic. You got a bill of sale?”

“It was a gift.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Of course not.” Not a good time to rant about “search and seizure.” I started to open the door.

“Stay in the car. Sir.” He opened the back door and lifted the weapon out. He looked it over carefully and sniffed at the receiver.

“I just fired it,” I said helpfully.

“Hm . . . excuse me.” He carried it back to the squad car. He and the other cop sat there for a few minutes. I could hear the radio crackling but couldn't understand what it was saying.

He came back without the rifle and asked for my driver's license and registration. I gave him the license. “I don't know where the registration is. It's not my car.”

“No. You're not Catherine Majors,” he said, deadpan. He walked back to the squad car and returned with the rifle. He put it in the back and closed the door with a quiet click.

“Thank you for your cooperation.” He gave the license back. “Please drive carefully.”

__________

I looked at the batteries and recorder on the seat next to me and had a melancholy recollection: the last time I saw my grandfather before he died, just before I shipped for the desert. He and my dad and I had all had too much to drink. It was his eightieth birthday, and we had a recorder like this one going, while he talked about the past.

Grand-dude and I shared the bond of both having been drafted (Dad's generation was spared), and we traded Basic Training memories. Then he started to talk about combat, which he never had done before.

He started to cry—not weeping, just his eyes leaking a little, dabbing, and he delivered a slurred soliloquy about how useless it all had been—how much
less
freedom we had after his war, Vietnam, than before; how the government used war to increase its control over its citizens, what a fucking waste it had all been. Dad got upset with him, me headed overseas in a couple of days.

But I said it wasn't that different from what I heard in the barracks every night. Grand-dude said yeah, same-same. Soldiers aren't fools.

But we go anyhow.