Стивен Хантер - G-Man

“I got an idea they’d prefer him dead to singing. Those detectives don’t want nobody messing with their business. They may see this as a way to erase someone who knows a little too much about them. One squirt of the Thompson and a whole lot of trouble goes away.”

“That’s the issue you’ll have to deal with, Charles. You know what our goal is: Homer in custody, a long, long talk with him until he sees his best interests are served — maybe avoiding the fryer for that cop he killed at South Bend — if he gives us Baby Face or Pretty Boy.”

“Well, gents, let’s get this done and go have a drink,” said Chief Cullen, who was with Brown in the front seat. That Cullen was the chief and Brown the ex-chief showed how much juice the arrest warranted. They weren’t leaving this one to the rookies.

“You sure you need that subgun, Brown?” asked Charles, all amiable-like. The bone of contention was the Thompson gun with full-up fifty-round drum Brown carried. Charles had argued against it, since the arrest would be on public boulevards amid civilians and a wrong-way burst with a Thompson could have disastrous repercussions. But then, as now, the St. Paul officers weren’t to be denied.

“Mr. Justice Department, Homer’s fast to pistol and fast to fire. We need all the help we can get,” said Chief Cullen, as he drew a Winchester ’94 from between the seats, ran the lever to check and make sure a .30–30 was set to chamber, then slammed the lever home. At the same time, Brown hoisted his twelve-pound weapon from the floor, slid back and notched the bolt atop the gun, keeping his finger far from trigger, as a touch could let fly a maelstrom, and secured it tight to body for movement. Meanwhile, the fourth detective threw the pump on his Winchester riot gun.

The four emerged just as Homer made it across, moving away from them, and though bent low to support their guns and hold them close to the shoulder, they increased their pace to overtake him. It was like running to ground a fox who didn’t know he was being hunted. They closed swiftly as Homer lollygagged along, enjoying the relatively cool air, the sense of freedom, whatever a normal man enjoys not knowing that his executioners approach.

As for Charles, it was clear he was hopeless to prevent what the St. Paul boys were determined to make happen, and he felt a twinge for having been a part of the setup, which was looking more and more like a Capone-style rubout than an arrest. He separated ever so slightly from the three and moved his hand closer to the .45 under his left arm, though with so much firepower on scene, he knew it was doubtful he’d need to shoot.

When the range had closed to within twenty-five feet, it was Chief Cullen who, lifting rifle to shoulder, shouted, “HOMER!” Homer turned, and Charles saw the flash of panic overtake his face, but just as fast the recognition of the guns bearing down on him. He went the hard way, thrusting his hand inside the jacket he wore for his own iron and, instantly, scuttling sideways for cover in an alley.

The Thompson settled the issue. Brown had time enough to come to shoulder, put weight against the gun to fight recoil, aim cleverly, and unleash. The hammer of the burst shattered the benign Midwestern air, and banished all other noise, as the fire stream roared into Homer and ripped him up bad. Brown was a good gunner, with lots of work on the Thompson, so it wasn’t a broad sweep of bullets, kicking up a commotion over a large area, with Homer in the middle; the bullets instead went to and stayed on him, all the way through the fall, only a few puffing the dust. He went down, his jacket smoking and torn from the fusillade that had ruptured him. Maybe the chief fired too, and maybe the detective with the riot gun, for shots of another declension sounded, but the noise was lost as Sergeant Brown fired multiple coups de grâce into the fallen man, causing his body to twitch and shudder. Then, silence.

The usual: the cops approached stealthily, as if a man could survive such a blast, while the chief raised his arm and began to shout, “Police action! Stand clear, folks, stand clear. Police action!” but the citizens became a circus around the torn figure at the center of it all.

Brown and the shotgunner knelt by the body, and Charles approached to note that among the wounds inflicted on the man, a string of slugs had evidently struck his right hand, which was so mutilated, it hardly seemed human anymore, the thumb removed as if by surgery, the fingers twisted in ways they were not meant to twist, the whole glistening with fresh blood.

“That’s the way we handle it in St. Paul, G-Man,” said Brown, evidently proud of his role in the drama. “He ain’t going nowhere, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah,” said Charles, holstering his automatic, “but you’ll be up all night reloading that drum.”

Homer did go somewhere, eventually — that is, to the morgue, after the morgue truck arrived, following on several patrol cars, whose inhabitants set up a perimeter that kept the public from scuffing up the crime scene. It was the usual police theater: photos, reporters with notebooks, from somewhere a city attorney, a few other sub-chiefs, white-coated morgue guys with the gurney — familiar in form, if not content, from the Dillinger business, though not quite as electrically charged as that, for Homer hadn’t been as electrically charged as Johnny.

McLEAN, VIRGINIA

The present

Not much for today. Just go over it, go over it, go over it. Maybe something would happen. Or maybe a break: one of the emails or interviews he’d sent out would bear surprising fruit. It hadn’t happened yet, but maybe today would be the day.

Swagger had finished his shower and was dressed. The next step was coffee and a muffin in the hotel coffee shop while he diddled with his iPhone to check emails, and then someone knocked at his door. Too early for housekeeping; they knew he usually didn’t leave for his coffee until 8:30.

It was Nick. Surprising, because Nick always called or emailed when he had something and their meets took place in Nick’s big workroom.

“What’s up?” Swagger asked.

“Something came to me. It was shortest here, no need to go all the way back.”

“Okay.”

Nick went to the desk in the suite, which was clear, and set down a sack from CVS pharmacy. He removed a freshly packed small file, a couple of No. 2 Eagle pencils, an unopened bag of plastic gloves, a ream of 8½ × 11 paper, and a $5.95 magnifying glass.

“Is that a junior-detective kit?” asked Bob.

“Nope, you have to be at least a GS-22 to get one of these.”

“I love to watch a professional at work,” said Swagger.

Nick picked up his briefcase.

“I was returning the handgun policy memo downtown,” Nick said. “But something about it was turning in my mind. Don’t know why, something seemed provocative about it.”

“Maybe that it’s an original, not a photocopy,” said Bob.

“No, some feature beyond that. Some feature that takes off from that.”

Bob tried to list features.

“It’s thin, it’s dry, it’s fragile, it’s old, Donovan was such a powerful typist that her periods blew clean through and opened little holes — is that what you mean?”

“Okay,” said Nick, “let’s see if I’m as brilliant as I think I am. Or even more brilliant.”

He put on his reading glasses, snatched up the hotel-issue coffee mug and turned it over, setting it on its rim, presenting its clean, slightly concave bottom to the world. He took up one of the pencils, opened his pocketknife, and whittled a point of exposed lead into the flat end. He opened up the file package… Oof, why did they pack these things in superstrength, human-finger-indestructible Kevlar?