Stephen Hunter - Time to Hunt

“I— I want Mommy,” said Nikki. “Mommy’s hurt.”

“I want Mommy, too,” said Bob. “But sweetie, please trust me on this one. We can’t help Mommy by getting ourselves killed. He may still be there.”

“I’ll stay,” said Nikki.

“You’re such a brave girl. But you can’t stay. We have to get out of here, get the state cops and a medical team here fast. Do you understand, baby girl? That’s what’s best for Mommy, all right?”

His daughter shook her head; she was not convinced and nothing would ever convince her but Bob knew in his Marine heart that he had made the right decision — the tough one, but the right one.

It had to happen sooner or later and he was glad it happened sooner. It had to be gotten out of the way.

“Mr. Swagger,” said Lieutenant Benteen, the chief investigator of the Idaho State Police, “would you mind stepping over here for a second, sir?”

Bob knew what was coming. As he stood on the escarpment, two and a half hours had passed since the shooting. His daughter was with a female state police detective and a nurse back at the house; here, an investigation team and coroner’s team worked the crime site, while below a team of sheriffs deputies struggled through the trees and underbrush for a sign of Julie Swagger. Across the gorge, detectives and deputies looked for evidence of the shooting site, ferried there by a state police helicopter that idled on that side of the gap.

“I figured you would be talking with me,” said Bob. “You go ahead. Let’s get it done with.”

“Yes, sir. You know, when a wife is killed it’s been my experience that ninety-eight percent of the time, the husband is somehow involved, if he didn’t do the thing himself. Seen a lot of that.”

“Sure, it figures.”

“So I have to ask you to account for your whereabouts at the time of the shooting.”

“I was on the other side of the pass, riding up to join my wife and daughter. We usually go out for an early morning ride. Today we had words, and I let the girls go alone. Then I got mad at myself for letting my damn ego seem so important, so I went after them. I heard four shots and rode like hell, to find my baby girl in the shadows of the pass. I looked out and saw poor Dade. I decided the best thing was to get Nikki back to the house, where I called you all and you know the rest.”

“Did it occur to you to look for your wife?”

“It did, but I had no medical supplies and I didn’t know if the shooter was around, so I thought it best to get the girl out of here and call in the sheriff and a medical team.”

“You are, sir, I believe, a marksman of some note.”

“I am a shooter, yes. I was a Marine sniper many years ago. I won the big shoot they hold in the east back in 1970. The Wimbledon Cup, they call it. Not for tennis, for long-range shooting. Also, I have been in some scrapes over the years. But, sir, can I point a thing out?”

“Go ahead, Mr. Swagger.”

“I think you’ll find them shots came from the other side of the gap. That’s what my daughter said, and that’s what the indication of Dade’s body said. Now, there ain’t no way I could have fired those shots from over there and gotten to my daughter over here in a very few seconds. There’s a huge drop-off, then some rough country to negotiate. I was with my daughter within thirty seconds of the last shot. You can also see the tracks of my horse up here from the ranch house, and no tracks that in any way connect me with what went on over there. And finally, you have surely figured out by now that poor Dade is gone because whoever pulled the trigger thought he was hitting me.”

“Duly noted, Mr. Swagger. But I will have to look into this further, to let you know. I will be asking questions. I have no choice.”

“You go ahead. Do I need a lawyer?”

“I will notify you if you are considered a suspect, sir. That’s how we do it out here.”

“Thank you.”

“But you were a shooter who used a rifle with a scope? And if I don’t miss my best guess, this was a pretty piece of shooting with just such a rig.”

“Possibly. I don’t know yet.”

“This couldn’t be some sniper thing? Some other sniper? Maybe someone getting even with you for something in your past?”

“I don’t know, sir. I have no idea at all.”

The lieutenant’s radio crackled and he picked it up.

“Benteen here, over.”

“Lieutenant, I think we found it. Got a couple of shells and some tracks, a coffee thermos and some messed-up ground. You care to come and look?”

“I’ll hop right over, Walt, thanks.” He turned to Bob. “They think they found the shooting position. Care to look at it, Mr. Swagger? Maybe you can tell me a thing or two about this sort of work.”

“I would like to see it, yes, sir. There’s no word on my wife?”

“Not yet. They’ll call as soon as they know.”

“Then let’s go.”

Of course the chopper was a Huey; it was always a Huey and Bob had the briefest of flashbacks as the odor of aviation fuel and grease floated to his nose. The bird rose gracefully, stirring up some dust, and hopped the canyon to the ridgeline on the other side and set its cargo down.

Bob and the lieutenant jumped out and the bird evacuated. A hundred yards away and up, a state policeman signaled and the two men followed a rough track up to the position. There, the younger cop stood over a little patch of bare ground. Something glittered and Bob could see two brass shells in the dust. There were some other marks and scuffs, and a Kmart thermos.

“This appears to be the spot,” said the young officer.

“Maybe we’ll get prints off the thermos,” Benteen said.

Bob bent and looked at the marks in the earth.

“See that,” he said, pointing to two circular indentations in the dust right at the edge of the patch. “Those are marks of a Harris bipod. The rifle rested on a Harris bipod.”

“Yeah,” said the cop.

Bob turned and looked back across the gulf to where Dade’s body still rested under a coroner’s sheet. He gauged the distance to be close to two hundred meters dead on, maybe a little downward elevation but nothing challenging.

“A hard shot, Mr. Swagger?”

“No, I would say not,” he said. “Any half-practiced fool could make that shot prone off the bipod with a zeroed rifle.”

“So you would look at this and not necessarily conclude that it’s a professional sniper’s work.”

“No. In the war we did most of our shooting at four hundred to eight hundred meters, on moving targets. This is much simpler: the distance is close, his angle to the target was dead on, the target was still. Then he misses the other two shots he takes at my wife, or at least he didn’t hit her squarely. Then he comes back and hits the old man in the head as he lays dead in the dirt. No, as I look at this, I can’t say I see anything that speaks of a trained man to me. It could have been some random psycho, someone who had a rifle and the itch to see something die and suddenly he sees this chance and his darker self gets a hold of him.”

“It’s been known to happen.”

“Yes, it has.”

“Still, it would be a mighty big coincidence, wouldn’t it? That such a monster just happens to nail your wife? I mean, given who and what you were?”

“As you say, such things have been known to happen. Let’s take a look at the shell.”

“Can’t pick it up till we photo it,” said the younger man.

“He’s right. That’s procedure.”

“Okay, you mind if I squat down and get a look at the head stamp?”

“Go ahead.”

Bob bent down, brought his eyes close to the shell’s rear end.