“What’s it say on the label?”
Radford holds his arm in pain. “Don’t lie to me!”
Dr. Trong shrugs. “Morphine… A little oil.” He grins amiably. “Hurts like a son of a bitch, don’t it.”
“You bastard.” Radford’s just about mad enough to shoot him; he’s doubled over — his arm is in agonizing pain.
The headline on the paper at the corner newsstand is a bold banner: “Assassin Escapes — A Loner? Or Part of Intricate Plot?”
Wojack, the shooter, buys a copy and while the news agent fishes for change Wojack remarks in a supercilious Yale drawclass="underline" “Every time some politician gets assassinated, people just can’t settle for the simple obvious facts — not good enough to have some homicidal maniac out there — always got to be some far-fetched theory about a sinister conspiracy.”
The news agent nods agreement. Wojack walks to the corner — just as Conrad’s van pulls up. Wojack gets in, and the van pulls away, hardly having stopped at all.
At the wheel Conrad lights a cigarillo. Wojack fastens his shoulder harness. He hands the newspaper to Gootch, who sits in the plush custom room behind the seats.
Gootch glances at the headline and folds the paper; he’s got more urgent things on his mind. He says to Wojack, “Timetable’s moved up. It’s today.”
Wojack considers that, then nods with satisfaction. “While Radford’s still on the loose. That’s very bright of someone.”
Gootch agrees. “He’ll get blamed for this one too.”
Conrad puffs smoke. “Doesn’t matter. These things have to be done — if somebody doesn’t exterminate these vermin, this world won’t be fit to live in. I’d be proud to take the blame if I didn’t have orders to stay covert.”
Wojack says, “Your orders don’t amuse me very much, old sport. Your money does. I want the next installment tonight.”
“It’s waiting. What else you need?”
“High-speed ammunition and a twelve-ex scope.”
“You got it,” Conrad says, and the van turns a corner, running for a green light.
Radford leans against a wall in Trong’s dispensary as the painkilling narcotic takes effect. His arm still hurts. He holds the revolver and watches the doctor suspiciously.
Dr. Trong is saying, “—saved all this trouble if you hadn’t been too stubborn to die way back then.”
Radford says gloomily, “I should’ve died.”
“Oh for God’s sake quit being so absurdly macho. Learn a little humility, C.W. Get rid of that thousand-yard stare… All right, you felt like the worst fink in history — you thought you were the only man who’d ever been tortured to the point where he broke the code of conduct… You know, we’ve found out a lot of them broke. You’re not so special after all… Hey. Hear what I’m saying. The only thing you did wrong was you were there illegally in the first place and they had no right to send you in there. You didn’t do anything.”
Radford broods at him, absorbing it.
Dr. Trong sees he’s got an opening. He leans forward. “Wars are fought by old men using young men’s bodies. Now somebody’s doing the same thing to you all over again. Somebody’s used you.”
“Shut up.”
“Come on, then. Get mad. It’s all right. Getting mad — it’s the first step in getting even.”
In the kind of shop where you can buy any weapon that’s legal and — if you know the secret word, some that aren’t — three men enter from the parked van out front: Wojack, Gootch and Conrad. A clean-shaven man unlocks the side door to let them in to the shop. The main thing that makes him recognizable is his bad tooth when he smiles: Harry Sinclair. Otherwise he’s changed his appearance again — a regular Lon Chaney.
The gun shop is a motley cluttered arsenal. Harry locks the door. Gootch takes an immediate childlike interest in a tripod-mounted machine gun and plays with it — a kid with a toy. Conrad unlocks a steel drawer, takes out an envelope and hands it to Wojack, who leafs through the money inside it, rapidly counting. He says to Harry, “Let me have forty 308s with one-ten-grain soft-points.”
Conrad asks, “Forty cartridges?”
It makes Gootch look up. “You fixin’ to start a war or something?”
Wojack says, mock-gentle, “I’d like to burn up a few sighting it in — if you don’t mind.”
Harry digs out two boxes of rifle shells and hands them to Wojack. Conrad turns on a TV set, but gets only snow.
Harry says, “These’ll give you a minus nine-point-three trajectory at three hundred yards. Or I can give you a boat-tail soft-point that’ll give you eight-point-four…”
“These’ll do.” Wojack yawns. “They’ll kill the man — dead enough.”
Radford holds the revolver. He looks up through the smashed window at the dawn sky. Dr. Trong watches, unafraid. Radford rubs his arm, trying to think.
The doctor says, “Call the police. You haven’t got a chance on your own.”
“They’d put me in a hole. I can’t take that any more.” Radford examines the revolver.
Dr. Trong says mildly, “I don’t think killing yourself is a sensible alternative.”
“Not right away anyhow. It’s not me I want to blow away.”
“I see. But you do want to go after someone? That’s progress, for you.”
“Now you think it’s progress to want to kill people?”
“It’s progress for you to want something.” Then Dr. Trong picks up a phone. Radford moves, as if to stop him — then stops, and after a long beat decides to trust him; he nods permission. Dr. Trong reacts — a profound moment — and then dials.
The doctor says into the phone, “Hi. Me… Any danger of us getting a bite of breakfast?”
On an outdoor shooting range at dawn, with a scrubby hillside for a backstop. Wojack sits at a bench-rest table and sights in his rifle on a long-range target. Conrad smokes. He and Gootch watch from nearby while Wojack fiddles with the weapon — the same kind of .308 rifle as before, with a ’scope mounted on it. He fires a shot and then studies the target through the ’scope. Through its lenses he can see one hole a bit wide of center. He adjusts a set-screw and aims again. When he squeezes it off he can see the image jerk a bit with recoil; it settles down — and the second bullet hole is dead-center in the bull’s eye.
On the indoor shooting range — the target range where Radford first met Harry. Several men and women are shooting at targets. An elderly supervisor looks up as Clay and Dickinson enter. They show him their IDs. And ask him a question or two.
He’s puzzled. “Sunday? Wasn’t anybody here Sunday. I’ve been closed Sundays for eighteen years.”
Dickinson asks, “How many people have keys?”
“Well gosh, I don’t know for sure. Too many, I guess, after all these years. I keep meaning to change the locks, you know, but—” He gives them an apologetic look.
Dr. Trong and Radford sit at the dinette table, having toast and coffee. In the middle of the table is that same morphine vial, and a packet of disposable syringes. Mrs. Trong, in houserobe and slippers, absently kisses her husband’s cheek and turns to go. Her husband touches her sleeve. “See if I’ve got any clothes big enough for C.W.”
She flaps a hand in acknowledgement and exits.
Dr. Trong says, “She’s used to my patients dropping in at weird hours… That injection still hurt your arm?”
“Stings like holy hell.”
“Good.” He indicates the vial and syringes. “Take ’em. I don’t want you busting into any pharmacies. Your burglary technique, you’d getting caught for breaking-and-entering.”
“Right. You got a cellular phone I can borrow?”