J. Konrath - Fuzzy Navel

“You sure?” Harry asks.

“You want to drag your refrigerator up there and double-check?”

“Why don’t you go check, Jumbo? I’ve got a buddy with a crane.”

“Enough,” I say. “How else can I get up to the roof?”

“Do you have a ladder?” Latham asks.

“No good,” Herb says. “They’ll see the ladder, know she’s up there.”

“One of us could take the ladder away,” Latham says.

“Who?”

Herb has a point. No one in the room is in any shape to help out.

“Why don’t we just set the house on fire?” McGlade asks. “Cops will come, and bring reinforcements.”

“Good idea,” Herb says. “We’ll start with that shag rug on your chest.”

“Sis, the mean fat man is picking on me.”

Herb raises an eyebrow. “Did he just call you sis ?”

“Long story. And we’re not setting the house on fire.”

Harry appears crestfallen.

“Can’t we wait them out?” Latham suggests. “Maybe they’ll leave when the sun comes up.”

I shake my head. “They’ll rush the house before then. Or set fire to it themselves, and pick us off when we run outside.”

“How about a decoy?” Harry says. “We’ll kick Alex outside, and while they’re shooting her you can run for help.”

“Alex?” Herb asks. “I thought she was dead.”

“Another long story,” I tell him. “And we’re not kicking anyone outside. The snipers are surrounding the house. There’s nowhere to run.”

Herb tries his cell phone. Harry found half a bottle of Grey Goose vodka in my freezer and he takes a swig. Latham has his arm around Mom. I wonder if I can get on the roof by climbing onto the veranda in back. Maybe I can stand on the patio table and pull myself up. But even if I manage, I’ll probably be seen doing it.

“I was saving this, because I wanted to keep a clear head,” Mom says. “But I think we could all use a couple.”

She holds up a bottle of OxyContin – her prescription arthritis pain medication. It has an extra-large cap, and she spins it off like a pro.

“Who needs a hit?” she asks.

Herb takes four. Latham takes two. Mom takes two. I decline – opiates aren’t wise with a head injury. Harry takes two, and washes them down with a swig of Grey Goose.

“You shouldn’t mix codeine and alcohol,” Mom chides. “It intensifies the effect.”

“I sure as hell hope so.”

Harry passes Mom the bottle. She takes a nip, as do Latham and Herb. I get it last, and since I’m not mixing it with drugs, I take the biggest swallow. It burns going down, and sits in my empty stomach like a lump of charcoal.

We’re all quiet for a moment. It isn’t hard to read everyone’s thoughts, because we each have the same one: We’re all going to die.

“Okay,” I say. “I bet I can pick one of them off from the living room.”

“That will still leave two,” Herb says.

“But it will be tougher for two to watch the whole house. If I get one, then I’ll have a better chance at getting away, getting help.”

No one argues. I pull out my Kimber, offer it to Harry.

“If they get in,” I say.

“You know I suck lefty.”

“Latham’s never shot a gun, Mom can’t fit her fingers in the trigger guard, and Herb just took enough codeine to kill Keith Richards.”

Harry takes the gun.

“You’ve got five rounds left. Use them wisely.”

Harry nods, then says, “When we get out of this. I want to go to one of those department store portrait studios. Get a family photo. I’ve never been in a family photo.”

I consider making some sort of comment about waiting for the DNA test first, but instead I pat his shoulder.

“Hematoma!” he yelps.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” I say. “Everyone stay put.”

Then I slip out into the hallway.

IGIVE THE DRAIN JOINT one last turn and it comes loose. My fingers are torn and bloody, and my hands feel like lead weights. I raise them up, pull the handcuff chain between the sink and the pipe, and then I’m free.

I don’t waste time celebrating the victory. Jack had turned off the lights in the kitchen, so it’s tough to see, but I locate the utensil drawer from memory. I feel forks and spoons and assorted cooking supplies until I find what I’m after – a lever action corkscrew. The curly end fits nicely into the keyhole of my cuffs, and I have them off within a few seconds.

Even if the house wasn’t surrounded by snipers, running wouldn’t be an option. Before I leave here, Jack Daniels, and everyone in this house, must die.

I bump against the counter and spread my hands over the top, seeking out the knife rack.

SWANSON IS TEMPTED to move farther away. Those two shots the woman cop fired from the garage came very near him, kicking up dirt just a few feet in front of his face. But he’s the one who gave the order to get in closer, so he’s determined to stick it out.

He and Pessolano shoot the last of the outside lights, then change back to night scopes. The constant juggling of scopes bugs Swanson. A lot of things about this situation bug Swanson. But this will all be over soon. When the cop fires her last rifle round, he’s going to order his men to break into the house and finish the job point-blank. Enough of this long-distance bullshit.

In concept, The Urban Hunting Club was brilliant. Dazzle the police and the media with three sex offenders who all die at the same time. Do it from a distance, so there’s less likelihood of witnesses, and no personal contact with the targets. Kill three more offenders a few days later, to make it seem like the targets are random. Write a note to the newspapers, explaining the goal of ridding Chicago of perverts. Then disappear into legend.

Swanson even thought about the far future, forty years from now, making a deathbed confession and stunning the world. Explaining he did it all for his precious Jen. Making a grand speech about how it is every private citizen’s duty to protect the people he loves. Along with the right to bear arms, there is a responsibility to use those arms for truth, justice, and the American way.

It would have been a damn good speech.

But Munchel had to fuck everything up. Now TUHC are cop killers. Instead of being admired by millions, they’ll be hunted forever, chased to the ends of the earth. They’ll be called psychos instead of vigilantes. In the TV movie, Swanson will be played by Harvey Keitel or Christopher Walken, instead of Ben Affleck or Bruce Willis.

It’s all gone to hell. Best to get it over with as quickly as possible.

Swanson sights down the night-vision scope, looking into the dark house through the front bay window. He’s moved ten feet to the right, away from the spot where the cop came close to hitting him. The stretch of grass he’s on is slightly elevated. Not quite a knoll, but raised enough so he can see into the living room and look down from a slight angle.

He sees green. A world of blurry, indistinct, phosphorescent green.

Though he doesn’t admit it to the guys, the starlight scope isn’t the easiest thing to use. With Swanson’s whole field of vision monochromatic, the only way to identify people is by shape and movement. Earlier in the night, Swanson put three rounds into a chair, thinking it was a crouching body. And he also discovered that the house has a cat in it, which kept darting back and forth, messing up his concentration and his aim.

The ever-increasing wind has also been a factor, throwing off several shots that were otherwise on the money. That fat cop should be dead three times over. Swanson knew Pessolano felt the same frustration, because the Desert Storm vet had been only fifteen yards away, and Swanson heard him swear after every miss.