Dan Simmons - Darwin's Blade

“A shotgun,” said Dar.

“I know you were in the Marines,” said Syd. “I know you were trained in the use of weapons…”

“More than a quarter of a century ago,” said Dar.

“It’s like riding a bike,” said Tom Santana, no sarcasm in his words.

“You had a .410 Savage over-and-under at some point,” said Syd. “You probably recognize this shotgun. It’s a classic.”

“A Remington Model 870 pump-action twelve-gauge,” said Dar flatly. “Yeah, I’ve seen them.”

Syd reached into her big bag and then set two boxes of cartridges on the coffee table. Dar could see that one box held Smith & Wesson .40-caliber bullets, the other a yellow box of 00 buckshot shells.

The chief investigator nodded toward Dar’s front door.

“Somebody you don’t like comes through that door, Dar, a single pull on this trigger releases nine .33-caliber lead pellets at muzzle velocities ranging from eleven hundred to thirteen hundred feet per second. That means as much lead in the air as eight rounds from a ninemillimeter semiautomatic.”

“Close-range firepower,” said Tom Santana, “with quick-velocity drop-off and less risk of overpenetration than most firearms. It’s why police prefer them for close-in situations. And under…say, twenty-five yards…it’s almost impossible to miss.”

Dar said nothing. The three sat in silence for several minutes. The sunlight had gone.

“Dar,” said Syd at last, leaning over the table to touch his knee, “if you’re not going to work with us, or let me be around you, then you need some extra protection.”

Dar shook his head. “No on the pistol. That’s final. I’ll keep the shotgun under the bed.”

Chief Investigator Olson and Inspector Santana looked at one another. Then Syd took the Sig Pro and its ammunition and put them away in her bag. “Thank you for keeping the shotgun at least, Dar. The magazine holds five shells, and the pump-action—”

“I’ve fired a Remington 870 before,” interrupted Dar. “It’s like riding a bike.” He stood. “Anything else?”

Both Syd and Tom shook his hand at the door, but neither said anything until Tom handed Dar his card. “I can be reached at the last number at any time, day or night,” said the FIST investigator.

Dar slid the card in his jeans pocket, but said, “I’ve already got Syd’s card somewhere.”

For an hour after they left, Dar just paced the apartment, not even turning on the lights. He slid the shotgun and the shells under his bed and came back out into the main living area, restless. He poured another glass of Scotch and stared out at the lights of the city below and at the slow movement of boats in the bay. Aircraft landed and took off from Lindbergh Field, suggesting a purposefulness and energy that Dar did not share.

Finishing his drink, he went into his bedroom cubicle again. In the bathroom he turned on the shower and stood under the hot spray for several minutes, letting the water pound some of the whiskey fuzziness out of his head.

He came out into the dark bedroom carrying the towel and drying his short hair. He turned on a light. The bedroom was merely an enclosure created by built-in bookcases, but his closet was fully enclosed and its door had come with a full-length mirror that he had meant to take down. Now he blinked at his own reflection.

Is there anything sadder-looking than a naked middle-aged man? thought Dar. He started toward the closet door, as much to get the mirror out of view by opening the door as to find his pajamas, when the first shot was fired. The mirror shattered. Broken glass cut Dar’s face and chest. He stumbled backward, knocking the lamp off the low dresser.

The second shot was fired into darkness.

There were so many cops in Dar’s apartment that it looked like a donut shop during graveyard watch.

A ballistics team worked on re-creating the precise angle of the two bullets from where they shattered the high windows on the north side to their point of impact. Sheets and painter’s canvas had been hastily nailed up over the other windows. There were half a dozen uniformed officers in the room and more plainclothes people. Special Agent Jim Warren was there representing the FBI, with his assistant, a short, intense woman. Captain Hernandez from the San Diego Police Department was there with six or eight of his usual entourage, as was Captain Tom Sutton of the CHP. Syd Olson and Tom Santana were also there, sitting on the leather couch and staring at the rifle on the coffee table.

“I’ve never seen a rifle like that before,” said one of the CHP officers. The man was sipping coffee from one of Dar’s white mugs.

“It’s a civilian version of one of the sniper rifles your SWAT team would use,” said Syd.

“Have we run down the make?” asked Captain Hernandez.

“I recognize it,” said Tom Santana. “It debuted at an NRA show in Seattle a few years ago. It’s a Tikka 595 Sporter with a Weaver T32 scope.”

“How far away was the rooftop?” asked Captain Sutton.

“Almost seven hundred yards to the north of here,” said Syd. “I actually saw the first muzzle flash and was on my way before the second shot was fired.” She nodded toward two uniformed officers sipping soft drinks in the kitchen area. “I was staked out on the hill above the condo, so I radioed the unmarked car out front to check on Dr. Minor while I went in pursuit of the assailant.”

“But you didn’t know about the fire escape,” said Special Agent Warren.

“No,” said Syd. “I went up the main stairs and onto the roof as fast as I could. I saw the suspect on the second level of the fire escape and still descending. I fired two shots, but missed.”

“One of them was a warning shot, presumably,” said Captain Hernandez dryly.

“The shots made the assailant drop the heavy rifle into the dumpster below the fire escape,” said Tom Santana. “But then he reached his car and got away before Investigator Olson could get down the fire escape.”

“No make on the car, Syd?” asked Captain Hernandez.

“I couldn’t see any plate numbers. It was American-made. Compact. And it was long gone by the time I was down the fire escape.”

“You missed from three flights above the assassin,” said the CHP’s Captain Sutton, “but the marksman put two bullets right on the mark from seven hundred yards…in a light drizzle? Incredible.”

“Not so remarkable,” said Syd. “The shooter had been up there for some time, waiting for Dr. Minor to turn on a light. He’d even dragged up two sandbags to create an optimal shooting position. You notice that the cheekpiece on the hardwood stock of these military-style sniper rifles is adjustable…Our man had time to adjust the locking screws so that the cheekpiece was raised just the perfect height for his angle shot.”

“No fingerprints,” said one of the forensics people.

Syd and the others gave the man a tired look. “Of course not,” said Captain Hernandez. “We’re dealing with a professional here.”

One of the ballistics men came over to the rifle. “Remarkable shooting from six hundred and eighty yards. We’ve calculated that the first was a perfect heart shot. We dug the slug out of the rear wall of the closet. The shooter was using Winchester .748 forty-five-gram handloads—”

“We know that,” said Syd. “There were still three cartridges in the five-capacity chamber when we recovered the weapon. No brass at the shooting site.”

“Bolt action,” continued the forensics man, undeterred. “He pocketed the brass from the first two shots, but he still got off the second shot in less than two seconds. And it would have passed right through Dr. Minor’s skull on the floor if Dr. Minor had fallen where the shooter rightly expected him to be. Also—”