“Good grief!” Brian responded with alarm. He sat up straighter, gripping the steering wheel. This was not what he wanted to hear. “How high?”
“Not high,” Camila responded. “Nothing like this morning. It was 100.5.”
“What made you decide to take her temperature?” he asked. He relaxed slightly, settling back into his seat. He wasn’t happy about the fever returning, and it brought back with a rush his frustration that he’d been unable to get the ED doctors to do any kind of testing, even a simple blood count. Although he was the first one to admit he wasn’t a doctor or a psychologist, his daughter’s on-again-off-again symptoms bothered him, and he had a reluctance to ascribe them to being psychosomatic at this point.
“She suddenly had a visible chill,” Camila said. “Both Jeanne and I saw it. When we asked her about it, she said she wasn’t feeling good and wanted to go up to her room. It came as a surprise because she’d eaten well and was clearly having fun playing Dinosaur.”
“What about her headache?” Brian said. The headache seemed to be the one constant symptom.
“Yes, she still says she has a headache,” Camila said, “but that’s it: no other complaints like sore throat or upset stomach. I asked her specifically. As for the headache, I thought it had improved given the way she was interacting with us. She seemed to be her old self.”
In the back of his mind, he wondered what should be done if a high fever returned, vowing that there was no way he’d take her back to MMH Inwood. Briefly he considered taking her to one of the neighborhood urgent-care centers, but he nixed the idea because they wouldn’t be able to do a Covid test and have the results right away. Instead, if need be, he decided he’d drive her down to Columbia-Presbyterian in Washington Heights, thinking that was probably what he should have done originally. “I’ve finished my meeting at the ESU Headquarters,” Brian said after a pause. “I’m on my way to the NYPD shooting range for an hour or so. But I could cancel and come directly back home if you think I should.”
“Not for Juliette’s sake, if that’s your thought. While I was taking her temperature, she got very sleepy. She’s up in her room resting. I’ve just checked on her. I think we should let her sleep.”
“Okay, fair enough.” Preoccupied with this surprise news about Juliette, Brian decided against bringing up the issue of his possible return to the police department. “Call or text if there is a change in her status, and I’ll come back straightaway. What about Jeanne? Is she still there?”
“No, when Juliette went to sleep about a half hour ago, Jeanne left. She did take the papers that your friend Grady Quillen dropped off. I hope that was okay.”
“That’s fine,” he assured her.
After ringing off with Camila, Brian considered contacting Jeanne to get her take on Juliette, but he held off, thinking it might be best to first check on Juliette himself when he got home. He worried he was taking too much advantage of her generosity by contacting her so often; plus, if this was a medical problem and not a psychological issue, he wasn’t sure she could add much.
As he expected, traffic did slow up considerably approaching the Whitestone Bridge to cross the East River, but then it sped up again once he was on the other side. All in all, he turned in to Rodman’s Neck peninsula just about an hour later. For the next quarter of a mile, after passing a broad field containing a baseball diamond and a number of warning signs about unauthorized entry, he drove through virginal forested land that was almost as unexpected within New York City as was the wide-open expanse of Floyd Bennett Field.
Ahead appeared a guard gate similar to those on military installations. He pulled to a stop. Lifting his mask up over his nose and mouth, he rolled down the window and presented his NYPD ID to the friendly uniformed NYPD officer. There was no problem thanks to Helen Gurly’s efforts, and Brian was permitted to drive into the shooting range. Reminiscent of Floyd Bennett Field, it was composed of a motley group of buildings, some in better shape than others and some reflective of their military origins. Like Floyd Bennett Field, Rodman’s Neck had a history that included use by the armed forces, this time both the army and navy, although the facility eventually had been given over to the NYPD. Besides the shooting ranges there were also outdoor TAC facilities and even a biohazard safety level 4 lab, and at the far end of the peninsula there was an isolated pit for detonating bombs and other explosive devices like confiscated fireworks.
As he expected, the expansive parking area was nearly empty this late in the afternoon, allowing him to park directly in front of the admin building. Although he’d been mildly concerned about finding Captain Ted Miller of the Firearms and Tactics Unit, it turned out to be extremely easy, as the man was expecting Brian and was waiting for him just inside the entrance door.
“You just made it under the wire,” Ted said. He was a mildly overweight man with a salt-and-pepper crewcut whom Brian recognized from having dealt with him in the past. “There’s been no one using the rifle range for more than an hour and Mark Bellows, the range master, has been eager to close up shop, so we best head there first and then use the pistol range after. Is that okay with you?”
“Fine with me,” Brian answered, thankful for the man’s assistance.
Once he had been supplied with the required eye and ear protective gear, they used Ted’s vehicle to drive the mile or so out to the rifle range. It was hardly an impressive physical setup and the immediate area looked more like a partially deserted dump thanks to a handful of abandoned vehicles and storage containers sprinkled about. Brian had used the range in the past, so he wasn’t surprised. The row of connected shooting positions was constructed of rough-hewn, unfinished lumber that had grayed over the years and, taken together, looked a little like the starting gate at a horse racetrack. Ahead stretched a grassy field of more than three hundred yards facing a dunelike hill.
Sergeant Mark Bellows was a beefy firearms and tactics officer who looked somewhat long in the tooth and ready for retirement. He was friendly enough but clearly eager to leave for the day. “What distance are you looking to use?” he asked in a tired voice.
“I’d like to use all three,” Brian said. He knew the range was set up for one hundred, two hundred, and three hundred yards, so he wouldn’t have to use a range finder.
“Okay,” Mark said resignedly. “Pick any firing position that suits your fancy and let’s do it. I’ve refreshed all the targets, so you are good to go. Just let me know when you are ready.”
Brian didn’t care which position he used and just picked one at random as Ted and Mark stood back and chatted together. After getting the rifle out of its bag, he unfolded the stock and placed the gun on its bipods, using the rifle bag under the stock for added stability. Once again, he appreciated the mere appearance of the gun as a stunningly formidable weapon, particularly with its perforated handguard and suppressor. The fact that he knew it was reportedly deadly accurate close to a mile added to his sense of awe.
Quickly Brian used the cloudless sky as a backdrop to adjust the ocular so that the crosshairs visible within the scope were clear. Then he adjusted the focus on the side of the scope for the target at one hundred yards, opened a box of ammunition, filled the rifle’s magazine with ten cartridges, and inserted the magazine into the underside of the rifle.