Lawrence Block - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 129, No. 6. Whole No. 790, June 2007

At dawn, after the Shiite fighters had melted away and Sean’s unit was being relieved in its place, Ibrahim bid his farewells and glided warily away to wherever it was that he called home. Sean glared resentfully at the destroyed buildings that grinned back like a mouthful of broken teeth, and cursed. Something had changed, just when things were going his way, and he couldn’t understand why. He shouldered his weapon and turned to leave, then noticed something about twenty yards out.

Cans. Ordinarily, he would have paid no attention to any of the debris or garbage that lay strewn between CP 69 and Hooterville, but one can in particular had caught his attention. It appeared to be a gallon paint container that lay empty on its side, an errant bullet having punched through it and rolled it over. One side was coated with a greenish fluorescent paint. The paint reminded Sean of the kind the Americans used to dot tent pegs and other small, necessary objects so they could find them in the dark. He began walking towards it into no-man’s land. Several voices were raised in alarm at his back and he called out over his shoulder, “Cover me.” Even the bad guys had to sleep, Sean thought, though he really didn’t care.

Looking down at the battered can, he was sure it was the same kind of paint they kept stored within the marine compound. He lifted his gaze to CP 69. From the can to the spot where he had placed the searchlight the previous night was a straight line. He looked from right to left. A series of cans, of all sizes and roughly aligned, stretched away in both directions, and seen from this side, each was painted a fluorescent green. Sean strode to each can, turned, and looked back at the marines’ bunker complex. Each marked a prepared fighting position that could easily be targeted with the use of these glow-in-the-dark aiming stakes. Sean heard his sergeant bellowing for him to get back behind the line.

Turning his back to Hooterville, he selected a smallish can that had possibly contained soup in gentler times, and tipped it over. Being careful to keep his actions from being seen by interested eyes in the ‘ville, he slipped a hand grenade from his vest, pulled the pin while keeping pressure on the spoon, and slid it cautiously into the empty can. It was a good fit. He left that can on its side and walked away, kicking over a few others at random before returning to his unit. Sean was satisfied that whoever had set them up would be convinced that their disarray was the natural result of the previous evening’s firefight. Undoubtedly, he would want to repair his handiwork.

Sean had briefed his squad on his discovery, and when they returned that night they were in a high state of excitement. They quickly settled in to await the unfolding of events.

Less than an hour into their vigil, the word came down the line that someone was moving out front and to the right of their position. Every head swiveled in that direction, eyes and ears straining. Sean thought he heard the scrape of metal against a rough surface, but could see nothing. Based on the noise, he calculated that their visitor was roughly two overturned cans away from Sean’s surprise. A few moments passed in deathly silence. It seemed the marines were holding their breath as one. Then, another faint scrape of metal. Silence returned, and held this time even longer than the last.

“Sonofabitch,” Sean said under his breath. “Get on with it!”

At last, Sean was rewarded with a repetition of the previous sound. Obviously, their visitor was checking each of his ad hoc aiming stakes with great diligence. He was one cool customer, Sean thought.

Then nothing. Minutes of nothing. Sean began to become alarmed that somehow his invisible antagonist had gotten wise to the booby trap that lay next in line. Sweat was running freely now beneath the collar of his flak jacket. Still there was nothing. No sound, no scrape of metal followed closely by an explosion. Nothing.

He looked wildly about for Ibrahim, but couldn’t locate him in the trenches. Instead, he grabbed one of his fellow squad members and told him to stand by the battery. Sean hoisted the searchlight up on top of the sandbags. “We can’t wait,” Sean whispered harshly to the squad. “When I hit the light, fire ‘em up!”

Sean brought his own rifle up to his shoulder, then called softly to the man on the battery, “On three. One, two...” He adjusted his aim to where he remembered the rigged can to be. “Three!”

Ibrahim was revealed as a chalky statue, frozen in the act of betrayal. Even as his arm flew up to shield his eyes, the can he was holding dumped its deadly contents onto the earth at his feet, the spoon flying away and setting in motion the three seconds remaining that he had to live. In those moments, an eternity to Sean, the little militiaman had just time to recognize his peril before looking straight into the faces of the marines. In the unforgiving illumination his eyes were as black as obsidian and glittering with defiant malice. He thrust his thin arm into the air, but did not have time to complete his signature salute.

When the tall man in the baseball cap reentered the store, Sean’s head snapped up from his chest, and he realized that he had been caught napping. His head felt swollen with woolly, disparate images; his limbs heavy and spellbound. There were three of them now. Obviously, they had just entered the store, as they stood close together at the doorway looking back at him. They could have been posing for a family photograph, Sean mused, even as he fumbled clumsily for the stock of the gun and switched off the lamp that shone down on him. They were not what he had expected.

He reached for the switch on the spotlight, then hesitated. The man and his bedraggled mate appeared to be urging the boy to approach Sean, whispering in his ear and gently shoving him forward. Sean was reminded of himself at that age, reluctant, yet eager, his parents coaxing him to sit on the mall Santa’s lap.

The boy began his hesitant approach, his eyes on his dirty, scuffed sneakers. His parents, if that’s what they were, drifted into the aisles on either side, peering anxiously over the display cases as they barely pretended to be shopping. Sean watched mesmerized as the child shuffled forward. Was he being sent to beg, Sean wondered? His finger rested on the double trigger.

At last, the boy reached the counter, the top of his shaggy head barely on a level with it. Sean glanced quickly around the store at the man and woman, who continued to play their bizarre and obvious game of peekaboo. The boy remained immobile, looking down at his shoes, even as he tugged at something in the pocket of his shabby hooded pullover.

Sean felt the unreality of his situation, even as he debated inwardly the reality of the events unfolding before him. He determined that he must speak, say something to break the spell. “Mister,” he croaked, his throat choked with sleep, “is there somethin’ your boy...”

The gun the boy brought forth from his parka was a .25-caliber, just as Sergeant Fullerton had said, a ladies’ gun that fit just as well in the hand of a child. As the boy’s arm extended to its full length, Sean understood that the bullet that would issue from it would exactly duplicate the trajectory the good sergeant had so graphically demonstrated.

Sean knew that if he pulled the triggers his finger lay curled around, he would unleash a deadly hail of buckshot that would surely pierce the thin plywood partition that separated the boy from this world and the next. He hesitated only long enough to look into the boy’s eyes, eyes that danced and sparked with triumphant, inexplicable hatred — Ibrahim’s eyes; then, with a tired sigh, he relaxed his grip on the triggers.