Moving this slowly, it was nearly midnight before I crossed the fence line and started down toward the dish. When I was directly above it, I scanned it with the glasses for ten minutes, then moved down. I could hear the electric hum; and waited again, but only a minute or two this time, before taping up the package and extending the little antennas. Then I taped up the plastic bands, so I'd be able to measure the azimuth. That done, I moved ten yards off, into the pasture, laid down, and alternately listened and scanned the fields.
An hour passed, and then another. Halfway into the third hour, the electric hum changed pitch. At first I thought I might be hallucinating the change, because I'd been waiting so long. I scrambled over, listened again: no doubt about it.
I put my hand on the dish and at the first vibration, flipped the switch on our package. The dish was moving, and I began taking measurements; a half-hour later, I was crossing the fence with the package in my pack.
What Bobby could do with it, I wasn't sure. Bobby would take care of that. I'd put it in the mail as soon as I got back to Dallasthere must be an all-night post office out by DFW, I thought-and then I'd make my own run.
The killing of Lane Ward had put the idea in my mind: the anger and frustration growing as these people hit at us, for reasons we didn't know about, andaside from Jack's deathbarely cared about. The cynicism of the people who were supposed to helpthe FBI and other agencieswas nearly as bad.
That night, on the way back to Dallas, I saw a Wal-Mart, and stopped to buy a box. I finally found one large enough: it contained the side boards and shelves for a do-it-yourself book case. I bought it, and threw it in the car.
At the same time, I called and got directions to the all-night post office, and mailed the package to John in Memphis. That done, I cruised the North Dallas house belonging to William Hart. There was the faintest glow of light behind a window, as though he had a night light, but never a sign of life. It was not a street where you could loiter. I made a few passes, checking out the neighborhood, and called it a night.
But I was back the next morning, at six-thirty, eyes grainy after only four hours of sleep. There were only a couple of logical, quick routes from Hart's house to the downtown offices. I couldn't hang out on his street, but I could sit in a McDonald's parking lot, eat an egg-and-sausage McMuffin and watch the street he'd probably come out of. I sat for a little more than an hour, and saw the Buick turn out of his street.
I fell in, but kept six or seven cars between us. He headed for an Interstate ramp, and I followed him up and toward town. Halfway down, he got off the highway, and began threading through local streets. I stayed with him, pulled off once, then got in behind before he disappeared. He stopped in front of an apartment house, waited. A moment later, a man hobbled out. Short hair, six feet, barrel-chested. Benson, I thought. The one we'd ID'd in San Jose. He got in the car, carefully. I waited until they were gone, and started scouting the neighborhood.
This neighborhood was different than Hart's. Lots of apartments, lots of older houses, commercial lots elbowing in on the residences: corner stores and hair-dressing salons, video-rental places, like that. After half an hour of careful scouting, I found a spot. There were drawbacks. Too many windows looking down on it, but I'd have to risk it, if it turned out to be the best I could do. After scouting it, I headed down to the historic district, hoping to find a better setup.
AmMath was a block from the end of the historic district. The district ended with a parking lot, and beyond that a jumble of freeway ramps. I intended to cruise the district for a while, hoping to spot their car. I cruised for about two minutes, and spotted it in a slot on the side of the building: if the guy with the limp was hurt badly, they'd probably kept looking for a space until they got one close to the building entrance.
All right: I had the car. When I rolled past it, I could see, straight ahead, a truck in the parking lot. The cars were actually parked in diagonals, from the perspective of the AmMath building anyway. I drove down to the parking lot, got a ticket, and went to the end of the parking area, next to the truck. From there, I could see the Buick's passenger side, and most of the driver's side, and some of the sidewalk beyond it.
I settled down to wait.
In the movies, when the detective settles down to wait, the bad guys show in a reasonable time. These bad guys didn't do that. I waited for two hours, couldn't stand it any longer, and got out and walked around. Got a sandwich at a bar that gave me a view of the front of the AmMath building; plenty of people came and went, but not Hart.
I was back in the car, the rifle just behind the seat, at eleven-forty. They'd be going out for lunch, I thought. Lunchtime came and went, with no sign of them. I got out and walked around some more, always where I could see either the car or the building door. Got out the sketchpad and drew for a while: but I wasn't in the mood, and I don't like to draw concrete.
Several times during the day, I decided I'd had enough: but I never quite left. I was sure that if I left, they'd head for the car one minute later. So I stuck around: watched Texans come and go, big hair on the women, cowboy boots on the men; not universally so, but enough that you noticed.
At five o'clock, I knew the wait had to be short. At five-thirty, it was nearly over, I figured, and wondered if I should move the gun to the front seat. Didn't do it. And at five-forty-five, Hart walked out to the car, got in, and drove away. The wrong guy.
I went after him, and got close just in time to see Benson limp around the back end of the car and get in.
I followed them out to the Interstate, and up the ramp. They were headed for Benson's apartment, I thought. All I had to do was get him out of the car for a minute. I passed them on the highway, drove way too fast through Benson's neighborhood, and left the car in the parking lot of a dry cleaners that was closed for the night.
The rifle was in the bookcase box, the box I'd acquired at Wal-Mart the night before. I'd wanted a big box, one that would carry the rifle but not shout "possible gun." Something that looked awkward; the bookcase box did it. The bookcase itself was in a dumpster behind my hotel.
I got the box out of the back, and walked around the corner of the dry cleaners and set up between a garage and a hedge of a house down the street from Benson's apartment. I could see the door, the parking lot, and just the edge of the street, some two hundred yards away. I waited in the growing darkness, hoping I could see well enough under the streetlights to get a good look at him.
They arrived five or six minutes after I had. As the car pulled up, I slipped the rifle out of the box, braced myself against a corner of the garage, and looked at the car through the scope. Still enough light. Benson got out of the car, wobbled on his bad leg, then leaned back into the car to say something. For a moment, he was unmoving.
I took the moment, and shot him.
LuEllen always claims that you can get away with one or two loud noises: one or two shots, one large mechanical clunk, whatever. The first loud noise will cause people to wonder what it is; if it's not repeated, they'll stop wondering. That's the theory.
I didn't look down toward Benson after I fired. I simply eased back down, slipped the gun in the bookcase box, and backed away from the shooting scene, keeping the garage between myself and whatever was happening in front of Benson's apartment.
At the dry cleaner's, I put the box in the trunk, backed out of the parking lot, and drove away. As I passed the end of Benson's street, I looked down toward his house and saw two people on his lawn, looking down at what was apparently Benson's body, and a third person, a woman, running across the street with a big yellow dog in front of her, on a leash, I thought.
I kept going. Out to the Interstate, back to the motel. I carried the box inside, got the gun out, wiped it down, put it back in the box, carried it back out to the car. As long as I had the gun, I could be in trouble. I drove slowly, carefully, out of Dallas, north, until I was well into the countryside, stopping only once, to buy a cheap shovel. A half-hour north of the city, I turned off on a country road, drove until I found a nice patch of trees, got out of the car, and buried the AK a couple of feet down, kicking some dead leaves over the raw soil. Back on the highway, two or three miles from the gun's grave, I wiped the shovel and tossed it out the window into the roadside ditch.