Stephen Hunter - Point Of Impact

“Oh,” said Sam, finally, “yep, I s’pose he did, but Bob had a damn practical streak and if the dog were dead, I can’t for the life of me figger out why he went and did such a fool thing.”

The old man blinked into the camera.

“He weren’t no fool,” said Sam Vincent, “and you can put that in the damn bank.” Then he spat into the dirt and walked away.

It puzzled her too, and she turned it over in her head that night, trying to make sense of it. It was a sleepless night. Once, she drifted off, and came awake an hour later in the dark with her head racing with memories.

“Bob? Bob Lee?” she called into the darkness. There was no response. She heard the ticking, the random noise, the sound of a car on the road, and far off in the desert, the cry of a coyote. But there was nothing else. Or was there? She felt something, a presence, or maybe just a sense of being watched. She shivered, and reached under the bed to the Smith & Wesson.32 camp gun, but nothing came of the feeling that night.

Nick sat in front of the tube the whole damned evening, drinking more and seeing nothing. Around eleven, not drunk but slightly blurry, he ambled to bed. That night he had a dream, involving Bob Lee Swagger and Myra and somehow also that terrifying crash down the mountainside, with the green branches beating at the windshield until the windshield went. Then he saw the door post as it came forward and hit him in the skull.

Myra! he screamed in his dream, Myra, I didn’t mean it.

When he got out of the cab and reached for his little.38, he saw Bob Lee Swagger and Myra dancing on the green grass. Myra was barefoot and lively as a country tune. Her whole face radiated pleasure.

Stop or I’ll shoot, he screamed, the little pistol tight in his big hand. Then he fired. In the dream he fired just as surely as in real life he had not, and Myra’s back spurted black blood and she went down, crying, Nick, you killed my spine, you killed my spine. And Howdy Duty was there telling him what a terrible job he’d done, how he’d wrecked his career. And Bob was dancing away into the flames.

Nick sat up, blinking. He was covered with sweat. Someone was screaming. It was himself.

After that, he had trouble getting back to sleep, though he may have dozed some around dawn. He finally awakened for good about eight-thirty in the morning, dissociated and hung over. His head ached; he needed a shave. This was life after the Bureau. Another pointless day stretched before him. He had no will to go on, but he decided out of habit to shower and have a cup of coffee. Then he put on a summer-weight suit and a white shirt, just as if he were going to the office.

I will go to the office, he decided. He had a desk to clear out, farewells to be said, and there was some paperwork to be attended to. It was the one place that made him happy and though the happiness it gave him now was phony, he realized, he could not deny it. All right, I’ll go, he thought. Have to anyway, sooner or later. Might as well be now.

Nick drove downtown and parked in the usual lot and went upstairs by the usual elevator. God, it was so familiar. He couldn’t believe he’d never do this again. He walked in, through the foyer and the door marked GOV’T EMPLOYEES ONLY and down the corridor. In all the offices people were already busy. Clerks filed or worked at computer terminals, secretaries typed, special agents bustled about importantly. Nick knew the rhythms of the place, knew exactly what the men’s room smelled like, and which of the three people who tended the coffee machine made the best coffee, and when the supervisory agent would be in and how long he took for lunch and what happened when he came in and what happened when he did not, and who was testifying in court that week and who was not. He knew the fastest way out; he knew where the rifles and the M-16’s were stored for SWAT usage; he knew who was designated SWAT team leader on the Reactive Team that week (it was a rotating duty); he knew who was new to the office and who was due to be shuffled soon, and who was producing and who wasn’t and – subtly different – who was thought to be producing but actually wasn’t.

And he loved every damn bit of it.

He entered the big room where the agents sat at their desks. In a police station it would have been called a Squad Room, but here it was simply known as the bull pen. It was surprisingly empty today, because of course Howdy Duty had drawn primarily on New Orleans agents to staff the big stalk in Arkansas. Nick went to his desk, took his key out and opened it.

On a normal day, this was when he’d take off his pistol and put it in the upper-right drawer. Today he had no pistol.

Instead, he opened the big central drawer. So little to show. A few files from cases he’d vetted for others, a few pencils, a few notepads. That was it. It was so empty.

Ahead of him, tacked on the burlap of the cubicle wall, was a picture of Myra, taken five years ago. It was an extreme close-up and she was smiling in the sunlight. You couldn’t see her disability. She looked like a bright, pretty young woman who had her whole life ahead of her.

On the desk itself was the Annotated Federal Code and the huge green Federal Bureau of Investigation Regulations and Procedures , plus assorted carbonized forms for reporting incidents, for logging investigative reports, for filing for warrants, and a small pile of pink message slips, which, riffled through quickly, revealed nothing at all worth noting.

“Nick?”

He looked up. It was a guy named Fred Sandford, another special agent. Nick didn’t know him well; he hadn’t made the trip to Arkansas.

“Hi ya, Fred.”

“Hey, just wanted to say, was real sorry to hear how it went down out there for you. I’m sure there was nothing you could do.”

“I just did my best,” he said, “and it didn’t quite pan out.”

“Wanted to tell you, my brother is a police chief in Red River, Idaho. You always were a good detective, Nick. I could give him a call. Maybe he’s looking for someone.”

“Ah, thanks. I’m not sure at this point I’m going to stick with law enforcement. Too much hassle for too little satisfaction and too little money.”

“Sure. Got you. If you change your mind – ”

“I appreciate it, Fred, really I do. I’m thinking about going back to school, getting my master’s, and maybe taking up teaching. Something nice and quiet.”

“Sure, whatever you say.”

With that, he was alone again. He took the picture off the wall, retrieved his abortive LANZMAN file, hoping that one last scan might reveal a pattern where nothing else had. But it was another big zero. The reason why that poor guy was whacked in that motel room near the airport so horribly all that time ago would remain completely unknown, RamDyne or no RamDyne. Somebody else got away with it. Too bad. You were trying to reach me, and somebody put a big finger on you with about a million bucks worth of electronic gear, and it’s just going to fall through the cracks, like seventy-one percent of the crimes in this country, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.

Hap’s secretary, an officious woman named Doris Drabney, came by next. There was no sympathy in her eyes or face, but then there was no sanctimony either. There was simply nothing. “You’ve got some paperwork to sign,” she said.

In spite of himself, Nick was slightly frightened by her.

“You mean about the, um – ”

“The suspension, yes. Please stop by my desk on the way out.” And she turned and left.

Nick watched her march off. There was something rigid and jointless in the way she moved. She was one of those people who’d just let the Bureau sink into her life until it filled her whole personality. Until it became her personality. She was a lifer in the worst possible way, so gone in the life no other was even possible.