Джон Гришэм - Camino Winds

“I really worry about you, Bruce,” Dane said. “You’re just so vulnerable, just sitting there in your little store where anyone can find you.”

“And do what? Gun me down in the streets? What would Reed and his boys gain by coming after me? They can’t stop the publication. They tried that with Nelson, which, the more you think about it the dumber it gets. The guy was writing a novel that was complete fiction. Reed finds out about it and assumes that when people read the book they’re going to automatically assume he based it on Grattin and their Medicare scam gets uncovered. Kind of a stretch, right?”

“No. Reed didn’t know the book was fiction. He thought Nelson was writing an exposé, a real story about his company.”

“Still, killing him scored no points for the bad guys. The book was finished.”

“They’re nasty people, Bruce. And they are desperate. I think Ken sees it all slipping away.”

“I don’t care, Dane. I’ve changed phones and email addresses and I’m still being careful, which by the way is tiresome. We’re leaving Saturday for a month on Martha’s Vineyard. Noelle wants a change of scenery and there’s nothing happening here at the store. The island’s dead. I’ll be okay. And you?”

“I’m fine. Just keep in touch.”

Bruce ended the call and stared at the phone. If not for his latest wedding vows, he would really like to see Dane again.

Go, Nelson.

3.

Sooner or later, as they say in the trade, luck swings your way.

The sniper hiked a quarter of a mile uphill, through thick woods and without the benefit of a trail. The perfect spot was deep in the trees. He and his partner had walked it four hours earlier and now knew the terrain. He found his perch, a thick white oak with low branches, and he climbed up forty feet and rose above the tops of the other trees. Down below, three hundred and eighty yards away, was the rear patio door of a sprawling and gaudy country home owned by Mr. Higginbotham, the largest asphalt paving contractor in western Ohio.

Higgs was off to Vegas with the boys, a gambling trip he made several times a year. He was now certain that his younger second wife was seeing one of her ex-boyfriends while he was away. The sniper had never met Higgs and wouldn’t know him by sight. Their contract had been arranged by a trusted broker. Higgs had hired some good investigators who had hacked phones and passed along the terrible news that a rendezvous was planned for this afternoon around 4:30, after the housekeeper left.

Once secure and wedged between the trunk and a limb, the sniper slowly opened his case and began assembling his rifle, a military-grade beauty that cost twenty grand. In his business, one could never have enough weaponry. He had never used it before in a live situation, though after hours at the range he was confident he could hit anything at five hundred yards or less. He adjusted the scope, took a close look at the patio door, and shoved in three cartridges. Hopefully he would use only two. Each could be worth a million dollars.

The house was isolated on a paved country road without a neighbor in sight. All the toys were down there: a large, odd-shaped blue pool, a tennis court, a separate garage where Higgs stored his vintage cars, and a small barn where the missus kept her horses. His kids were with the first wife on the other side of the county.

At 4:40, a black Porsche Carrera appeared and slowed and turned into the drive. The sniper embraced his weapon. The driver parked at the rear of the house in such a way that his car could not be seen from the road. Perfect for the sniper, who followed it closely through the scope. Romeo got out—thirty-five years old, plenty of thick blond hair, thin, dressed in jeans. He strode across the patio like a lucky man, stopped at the door for a truly needless but nonetheless nervous glance around, then went inside.

4:41. How long would they last? Under normal circumstances there would be no hurry, but this was a fling and they couldn’t tarry. A proper warm-up, the deed, some pillow talk, perhaps a postcoital cigarette. He’d take the under at forty minutes.

He lost. At 5:28, forty-seven minutes after entering the house, Romeo emerged, closed the door behind himself—no sign of her—and sauntered, perhaps a step slower, to his car. When he touched the door latch, the sniper pulled the trigger. At about the same split second, a six-millimeter bullet from the .243 caliber rifle entered the target’s head just above his left ear and exited through a gaping hole on the right side, taking most of his brain with it. Blood and brain matter splashed against the windows and doors of the car as the target fell hard to the ground.

The sniper extracted the bullet casing from the chamber, reloaded the semiautomatic, and trained his sights on the patio door. With the distance and density of the woods, he had no idea if Mrs. Higginbotham heard the shot, but he suspected she did. He saw a silhouette race through the den. Moments passed, then the patio door opened ever so slightly as she looked at the shocking scene near the Porsche.

Decisions, decisions. What does one do in these situations? To call for help would be to initiate a scandal that would dramatically alter her world, and certainly not for the better. The police would bombard her with questions, but she would have no answers. Her husband would probably beat her and then hire every lawyer in town to make sure she was left in the streets, penniless.

What was a girl to do? She had no idea and she wasn’t thinking clearly.

Her lover was obviously dead. Or was he breathing? She made the fateful decision to sprint out, take a look at him, and then try to think of the next move. But there would not be one. She opened the door, took one step, and the sniper fired. A millisecond later the bullet hit her in the teeth and rocked her head back so violently that she fell into the brick wall beside the door. She was wearing a short white bathrobe, black string panties, nothing else, and as the sniper scanned her with his scope he thought, Such a waste. She was tanned and toned without an ounce of extra body fat. Her fatal flaw had been a penchant for illicit sex, though she never dreamed she would die for it.

The sniper quickly unsnapped the scope, unscrewed the barrel, and with a few precision moves had the rifle back in its case. He strapped it to his back and began his descent from the white oak. There was no hurry. It would be hours before the bodies were discovered. He and his partner had big plans for a steak dinner in a few hours at Harvey’s Rib Shack in downtown Dayton. Over champagne and fine wines they would replay the perfect kills and drink to a two-million-dollar fee. They would check the newspapers in the morning for the shocking story, perhaps see a quote or two from poor Higgs out in Vegas as he reacted with shock to such cold-blooded killings, then they would separate for a few months until their next job.

But a rotted limb changed everything. For an ex–Special Ops known for his sure-footedness, back in the day anyway, such a mistake was unbelievable, though he would not remember it and never have time to analyze it. Head down, he fell fast and hard with nothing to grab onto and no time to brace for an ugly landing. He hit the hard ground with his forehead, and his neck snapped with such force that he knew he was dead. He blacked out and had no idea what time it was when he opened his eyes again. It was dark. He wanted to check his wristwatch but he couldn’t lift his hands. Nothing was moving. The pain in his neck was so excruciating that he wanted to scream. Instead, he stifled a groan, then another. He was on his back and twisted at the waist in an awkward shape that he wanted to adjust, but nothing, not a damned thing was moving. Except for his lungs, and they were labored. He couldn’t see the case with his rifle. His cell phone was in a rear pocket but nothing was within reach.