Point of Impact (57 page)

He walked around behind the woman.

“You just relax now,” he said. “This is nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

She looked as if she’d never worried about anything in her life.

Setting the shotgun down momentarily, he plucked a roll of black electrician’s tape from his pocket. With swift and sure motions, he unstripped the end of the tape, planted it squarely in the middle of her forehead, and began to run loops of the tape around her skull, drawing them tight.

She whimpered as the greasy stuff was yanked tight about her head, cutting against her eyes so that the vision was destroyed, between her lips so that her voice was stifled and across her nose so that the breathing was impaired and around her hair, where its adhesive quickly matted to her skull, but he said, “There, there, it’s nothing, baby, it’s nothing.”

Having constructed a snare of tape, he then brought the little shotgun up and began to unspool yet more tape, wrapping it crudely about the barrel and fore end of the piece, entwining the woman’s head and the gun in the same seven-yard-long constriction, until both were joined. Then he cut the tape.

He reached down with his left hand and engaged the
pistol grip of the weapon, inserting his finger in the trigger guard. He felt the tension in the trigger.

“Colonel Shreck?”

Shreck took the spool and continued the ritual of the binding, until Payne’s hand was almost one with the shotgun’s pistol grip and trigger in a solid, gummy nest of tape. Shreck bent and jacked the shotgun’s bolt, and both men felt the shiver as the bolt slid back, lofted a shell into the chamber, then plunged forward to lock the shell in.

“You know what to do?”

“Yes, sir,” said Payne. In case of trouble, he was to blow the woman’s head off; then swing the short-barreled weapon and blow away whoever stood against them. At the same time, he was untouchable: no bullet could penetrate his vest and a head shot would produce either by spasm or by the weight of his fall the blast that would destroy the woman. Nobody was going to play hero with Payne booby-trapped to the woman like this.

It wasn’t going well. These Arkansas types were close-mouthed, clannish and not terribly interested in helping.

Still, the reports that reached the headquarters of Task Force Swagger, now in the basement of the Sheriff’s Office, were persistent, if vague. Two hunters off on a preseason scouting hike had watched through binoculars as a stocky man had laid and moored coils of rope to a ridge deep in the Ouachitas. They didn’t move any closer because through the glass the guy had looked as tough as a commando. And no, they probably couldn’t find the place again anyway.

“Maybe just some other hunter,” said Hap. “Laying in ropes to get up that ridge in the dark on the first day of the hunting season.”

“Ummm,” was all that Howdy Duty would commit himself too.

Then someone swore he’d seen a lean blond man talking to Sam Vincent, the lawyer who had sued the magazine on Bob’s behalf. He was Bob’s oldest friend, demi-daddy and hunting buddy of years gone by. The man could have been Bob the Nailer, and the talk took place on a high road miles off a main highway that the observer, a postman, had just happened to breeze by.

But Sam Vincent was a wily, tough old bird and he knew the law as well as any man alive.

“Now, sir,” the old lizard had said to Utey, leaning forward and fixing him with what was known as the “chair-eye” (for Sam, as a state prosecutor in the fifties and sixties had sent thirteen men to the electric chair), “you know a damned sight better than I do that I cain’t be compelled to cooperate unless I want to, and no subpoena and no threat of government harassment’s going to change that. I’m too old to scare and too stubborn to budge. If I seen Bob Lee Swagger and ain’t told you, I’ve committed a federal felony. So essentially”—and here his shrewd old eyes knitted up—“you’re asking me to testify agin’ myself. Against the Constitution, young feller. And against Arkansas state law, Code D-547.1, see
Conyers
v.
Mercantile Trust
. You got that?”

Howard got it indeed, but assigned a tail on Sam. No such luck; within the hour an injunction arrived from the Third District Court of Arkansas, the Hon. Justice Buford M. Roubelieux presiding, requiring the government to show cause for assigning surveillance upon a distinguished eighty-one-year-old citizen like Sam Vincent and issuing, until such compliance could be met (the next available court date was July 1998), a cease and desist order, under penalty of law.

That had been the low point.

There hadn’t been any high points.

Until today, just now, when the phone rang.

Hap answered it, spoke for two minutes, then said, “I’ll call you right back.”

Howard looked up; two of the other men watched as Hap shot over to Howard. They gathered round.

“Maybe this is nothing, I don’t know,” said Hap. “But I just got a call from a guy in the National Forest Service. Says three hunters, at three different times this morning, saw military flares being shot into the air deep in the Ouachitas.”

“Somebody in trouble?” asked an agent.

“More like a signal,” somebody else said.

“But no fires started,” said Hap. “The service ordered up a couple of flybys out of their spotter planes, but there were no fires. And the flares seem to be coming from different locations, spread over about a twenty-mile-square area.”

Howard concentrated on this. Who would use flares in daylight? Who would even see a flare in daylight, unless they were looking for it? It had to be a kind of signal.

“Did they get a location?” he asked.

“Well, they’ve had several, but the Forest Service guy says his people plotted it out on a big map they’ve got, and the direction is largely trending north by northwest.”

“Okay,” said Howard. “Toward what? Toward anything?”

“There’s a big flat, nearly inaccessible valley way up there they call Hard Bargain Valley,” said Hap. “It’s way the hell off the mainstream. The Forest Service says hardly any hunters go up there because the deer much prefer the lower forest land. It’s flat and barren and almost a mile across.”

Howard thought.

Hard Bargain Valley?

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s saddle up. Full SWAT gear. Call the field. I want the chopper to pick us up in ten minutes. Hap, call the Forest Service back and tell them we need a guide to get us to Hard Bargain Valley.”

“There,” said Payne, seeing them first.

The two figures had emerged from the trees across the wide valley.

Shreck looked at them through his binoculars but they were too far off for details. Their faces were green, like commandos.

He snorted.

“He thinks he’s going to a war,” he said to Payne.

Payne stood up, and gingerly drew the woman up off her haunches.

“Now, honey,” he said. “You walk real slow. Don’t you trip or stumble, or you’ll be history.”

She moaned, then made a noise through the tape.

“Shut up, Mrs. Fenn,” said Shreck. “Damn, she’s come out of it. You should give her another injection.”

“I can’t,” said Payne. “Not taped up like this.”

“Look, lady,” said Shreck, “I want you to know this is the end, you’ve only got another few minutes. We make the swap, and off you go with your boyfriend. That’s a security arrangement; the gun isn’t even loaded.”

Under the bonds of the tape, her eyes tightened in terror.

He ignored her and signaled to Payne to get her moving. Haltingly, the three of them began to walk across the wide field. It had turned into a lovely, sunny fall day, about fifty-five, crisp and clean. Around them, like waves, were the ragged ridges and crests of the Ouachitas, now brilliantly ablaze in color.

The sniper’s breath came in soft spurts. He was trying to keep himself calm for what lay ahead. It was time to shut down. It was time to get into the zone.

He felt his body complying. He had known it would; he trusted it. He watched his target, exactly where it was supposed to be, in the most obvious place. It wasn’t even an ant, but a speck, the dot over an
i
. He’d never hit at this range before but he wasn’t scared. This was a shot he’d owed himself for a long time; it was time to get it right.

His eyes were dilating, his ears sealing off, his breathing going softer. He was sliding into tunnel vision, where the concentration was so intense that all other cues in the world dropped away and respiration bled to a hum.

He pulled the rifle to him. No time now to think of it: he could not allow himself to be aware of the instrument because he had to be beyond the instrument. His will was the instrument.

Now he slid behind the scope, finding the spot-weld, where cheek and gun joined while his fingers discovered their place by slow degree. That was the secret; to make everything the same. Simplify, simplify. To make of oneself nothingness; to slide into the great numbness beyond want and hope; to simply be.

He was beyond computation. He knew the range, he knew the angle, he knew the wind, he knew the bullet’s trajectory and velocity, he knew its drop and how it would leak energy as it sped along. He had accounted for all this and he now engaged his target through the bright circle of the scope.

Even magnified, the man was a small, a very small object, hardly recognizable as human. Just a squirming dot. He watched the tremble in the reticle as he willed himself through minute subverbal corrections, not thinking so much as feeling. It was very, very close now.

Don’t blow it
, he ordered himself.
Not this time!

Nick breathed out a little. Lon Scott was just where Bob had said he would be, beneath the crest line where the osage had been crushed by an all-terrain vehicle as it delivered him. He was in a spider hole, only his painted face and the rifle barrel visible.

At a hundred yards, Shreck put up his hands.

“No guns,” he shouted. “No guns or the woman is dead. You got that?”

Each of the two men raised his hands, pirouetted slowly to show that he wore no visible weapons, then let his hands stay high.

“You got the cassette and Annex B?”

Bob raised the knapsack he was carrying.

“Right here,” he yelled back.

“Okay. You bring the stuff. When I authenticate it, we’ll release the girl. You see how we’ve got her? You make a funny move, you look funny, you do anything stupid, you get unlucky and trip, anything,
anything
, my friends, and she’s fucked. Payne’ll do it, you know he will. Only chance she’s got is our rules.”

“You’re calling the shots,” Bob said. “Now just take it easy with that damned shotgun, Payne.”

Slowly and warily, the two men approached, hands held high and stiff.

At last Shreck faced Bob the Nailer, big as life, who stood but six feet away and he looked him in the eyes. He looked as calm as a pond on a summer day.

“Hello, Colonel,” came a familiar voice.

Shreck looked to the other man, the young FBI agent. Only it wasn’t the young FBI agent, even though he wore a black FBI raid jacket and baseball cap and greenish paint on his face. It was Dr. Dobbler.

Shreck looked back to Bob, realized in a flash the game had changed. He pressed the button on a unit on
his belt, sending a shriek of radio noise that would signal Scott to fire.

There came the sound, from far away, of a rifle shot.

The shrillness of the beep somewhat surprised Lon and he saw the cross hairs dance a tiny jig and come off Bob.

So soon?
he thought.

He exhaled half a lungful of air and gently as a lover squeezed the reticle back onto Bob, center chest, and began to draw the slack from the trigger and—

Nick fired and in the split second the rifle jumped and the scope-picture blurred, he called it a hit. He looked back quickly in recovery. The bullet had struck Lon Scott in the head. It was the brain shot. Blood seemed to have been flung everywhere by the impact. Lon sagged back and slid into his spider hole. Only the rifle was left to show.

Nick, in his own spider hole in the vastness of Hard Bargain Valley, threw the bolt and tried to bring Bob’s Remington to bear on the party of five in the open. A sudden wave of weakness thundered over him.

Jesus
, he thought,
you just hit a thousand-yard shot!

He started to tremble.

The woman screamed, but Payne pulled her down, twisted her to brandish the shotgun, and didn’t panic.

Bob said to the colonel, “My boy just tagged your boy. You’re all alone.”

The colonel was calm. Maybe a half-smile played across his mouth. At some not so secret level he was a happy man.

“It doesn’t mean a thing, Swagger,” he said, thinking quickly. “Now let me tell you what’s going to happen. Nothing’s changed. Only thing we want now is out. We’re going on a nice slow walk out of here with the
woman and with the cassette and the documents. You follow, she’s wasted. So don’t you try a goddamn thing. You put the gun down. You got that?”

“I’ll kill this fucking woman,” said Payne. “You know I will. I got the gun taped to her head. I swear, I’ll blow her away. Now you back off.”

Bob dropped the knapsack. Only his hand wasn’t empty. It held a Remington 1100 semiautomatic shotgun, cut down to pistol grip and sawed-off barrel.