Стивен Хантер - G-Man

“He sounds nuts to me,” said Charles.

“He is, in a way. That doesn’t make him innocent, it just makes sense out of him.”

“So you’re saying this subconscious thing can help us catch him.”

“Well, yes, but there is more to it than that… Here, let’s have another beer.”

Charles didn’t want another beer. He wanted to get out of there. This whole line of talk was giving him the heebie-jeebies. It was so far above his head.

“Betty, another couple Schlitzes, please,” Sam called, and in seconds she was there with two bottles.

“You two are so serious,” she said. “Now, no more. I’m going to put the steaks on. Charles, how do you like yours?”

Normalcy! How do you like your meat? Another beer? Gravy for the potatoes or not? This was stuff he understood. But then she turned away and he was again alone on the patio, with the humming of insects and the squawking of birds. And Sam.

“See, he may have a death wish in there too,” said Sam. “He hates himself for being so helpless where his mother was concerned. So he thinks he should be punished. So he takes insane risks. A part of him secretly wants the punishment of the bullet, has sought out a dangerous occupation and for that reason is unafraid in battle, because he welcomes the finishing shot. From the outside, it makes no sense. But it could from the inside.”

“Well, when you put it like that, I suppose it could make some sense.”

“I’m going this way not because I’m interested in them but because I’m interested in, and care for, you,” Sam continued. “I want to see you get back to Arkansas, get your youngest boy some high-quality help, make peace with the older boy so that he can understand what a brave and honorable man his father is. He deserves that. You deserve that.”

“I hope it works out like that, sure.”

“But do you really hope it does, Charles? Does your subconscious hope it does? You see, when I look at your heroism, I see something in there too. A crazy recklessness, a willingness to die for the cause, for any cause, for no cause, just to die. That’s why you put yourself way out front at both these shooting events you’ve been through, and I bet that happened in all your other gunfights, going back to raids in the war. It wasn’t just heroism; it was also a subconscious need for death. It was pure death wish.”

“Sam, I don’t feel nothing like that.”

“You can’t feel it. I mention it to get it out in the open, to get you thinking about it. If you get killed, I want it to be because it was Duty, not because you took wild, crazy-heroic, reckless, completely unnecessary chance number two hundred forty-five and you finally cashed out.”

“See,” said Charles, “in a fight you have to be aggressive and reckless. That’s how you win. Get close, shoot straight, keep moving. It’s common sense, not something underneath.”

It was such an odd conversation to have on the patio of a suburban mansion, amid the beauty and serenity of the well-achieved life, surrounded by comfort, ease, the succor of mild weather, the glow of a setting sun. Who could believe such a conversation would take place in such a place?

“Just hear me out,” said Sam. “I think it’s working like this. Somewhere in you is a secret. You’ve buried it way down deep, so deep you’ve trained yourself never to think about it. It’s something you know is wrong, whatever it is, something you did, something you are, that I don’t know, that I can’t imagine. I know you hate it. It shames you. It tarnishes your ideal of yourself, it makes the man you want to be unattainable. You would do anything to make it go away, but you have no tools. It’s an enemy that can’t be shot or arrested; it never goes away and comes out at the worst times. At some level, you believe you should be punished for holding it.”

“Wish my damned life were that interesting. I’m a country boy with a knack for the pistol, that’s all there is.”

“You’re too brave and honorable to ever commit suicide, so the pain just lingers. So you are attracted to behaviors where you could easily get killed. You want God to kill you. You want him to punish you, so you give him chance after chance after chance, starting with the war. Put me out of my misery, you’re saying to him. All those bullets that missed, you just want one of them to hit and end the whole thing.”

“Never heard such stuff,” said Charles. “Honest to god, Mr. Cowley, I don’t have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Nor would you. That’s the point, Charles. This stuff is far below the surface.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll keep my eye on it, then,” Charles said.

“I see other things too, Charles. Your style is solitude. Most of the other men marry and live with their families, or, if they’re bachelors, they share apartments to save on expenses. They’re always around other folks, they’re part of a community. Charles lives alone in a small apartment. He doesn’t hang out with any pals, he doesn’t have any close office friends, he never goes drinking with the boys or bowling or to ball games. He’s pure loner. He’s separated himself from society. Maybe to keep himself pure, maybe because he’s never relaxed around other people, maybe because he’s afraid his secret will come out. It’s not natural.”

“Sir, I’m just trying to do the job y’all gave me best I can. All this other stuff, I don’t know enough to even answer.”

“Charles, you know I was a missionary, and for two years I lived in Hawaii. Those people are different. They have no repressions, they hold nothing back, they just are what they are. Sometimes I think that must be the better way. We hold, hide, bury, smother, pound, deny our feelings, and the result is, we make them worse, not better. The Hawaiians, who act on every impulse and hold nothing back, are far healthier and happier. The only thing our civilization is doing is teaching them to be unhappy like us.”

“Yes sir.”

“So all I am saying, Charles, is this. You can talk to me anytime, and you need have no fear of holding anything back. Nothing can shock me, not after two years in the tropics. And if you uncover a secret, you will find that sharing it with someone who cares is the best medicine in the world. It’s penicillin for the mind.”

“Yes sir.”

“I will be so disappointed, Charles, if you die racing into fire not because you have to but because your subconscious wants you to. What a waste that would be of the many gifts you bring to us. What a loss to your boys, the community, the Division. Charles, together we can work this thing out, I swear.”

“Boys, it’s dinnertime!” yelled Betty.

SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS

August 1934

Lebman emerged with his trophy in both hands, shoulders bent to demonstrate the weight they carried.

“That’s what we came fifteen hundred miles for,” Les muttered to John Paul.

“Almost impossible to find,” said Mr. Lebman, “as Colt only made one hundred and twenty-five, and most were sold to police departments, the Justice Department, and industry security squads. But now and then one comes on the market, and I was in the right place at the right time.”

Les looked at it. The Monitor was John M. Browning’s famous Browning Automatic Rifle for infantry warfare, principally trench sweeping, as reimagined by Colt for law enforcement use. It had a whole list of modifications for lawmen to make it handier, lighter, easier to control, easier to conceal, more portable, and probably more fun. The Colt engineers had shortened both the barrel and the stock, they’d added a stubby pistol grip to accommodate upright shooting (the military BAR being shot primarily prone), the bipod had been jettisoned and a newly designed, expanded compensator had been added, to harness the hot gases of a burst of .30 caliber fire. Colt had not been mindful of what it was truly building, but it was the ideal bank robber’s gun, in that it was powerful enough to penetrate both the bulletproof vests and the car doors and hoods of the typical police department vehicle. It also outgunned most police departments, who couldn’t afford such a high-end product. But with all that power, it was handy to handle in the confines of a car, where, unlike its longer parent rifle, it was unlikely to snag or catch on or get caught in the upholstery. That was its chief value to Les, who saw that cars figured in all future plans.