But still, it was entertaining, and then a special news bulletin flashed on the screen and Clark Avery was sitting at the anchor desk saying an unidentified gunman had shot and killed Sheriff's Captain Benjamin Bryant. They cut to some aerial footage of Vista Canyon and Bryant's house. Then Avery started using the word sniper and throwing around terms like may not be isolated, city in danger and under attack and threat could come from anywhere. Then he cut to a satellite hookup interview with a former marine sniper. Nathaniel DePoe. Avery introduced him by his unofficial t.i.tle, "The Deadliest Sniper Alive." Oswald knew the guy. Deadliest Jacka.s.s Alive, maybe. DePoe had served five deployments to Iraq, and totaled 170 certified kills in the course of his career. Wrote a book about it. Oh, and look, he's got a second book coming out. Wasn't that a lucky break, to be on TV right when he's got a new book coming out? The guy was a complete jagoff. A phony. He'd been featured on the covers of several magazines. Oswald was getting mad. He helped himself to another shot of Old Crow and chased it with a sip from a can of flat Dr. Pepper. This was p.i.s.sing him off. This guy was their expert? f.u.c.k him.

Oswald listened to DePoe spout off arcane terms like Black Ops, STTU, false flag operations-none of which had even the most remote relevance to what had happened in Vista Canyon; he was just reciting his resume-and wrap it all up by saying there were perhaps half a dozen men alive who were capable of that kind of shooting, one of them being DePoe himself, and the other five were not in-country.

Really? Half a dozen? Really? Oswald was fuming. There were many problems with guys like DePoe; the first of those problems was that they couldn't see past the military world. Secret Service, FBI, Special Forces, Black Ops guys. But that was it. They completely overlooked the Law Enforcement Sharpshooter. During his career, Oswald's t.i.tle was Deputy Staley. That was it. Deputy Lee Staley. Other than his closest peers, n.o.body ever knew he was a sniper (or more accurately, a counter-sniper). He was anonymous. All of the law enforcement sharpshooters were unknown, and they protected their ident.i.ties for the sake of their families and careers.

The regular world never knew that the nice sergeant that lived down the street, the deputy who went to their church, or the patrol officer right next door could be a sniper. Most news reports simply said, "The suspect was shot by a SWAT Sharpshooter." They always protected his ident.i.ty. Some of that anonymity was naturally controlled by the perimeter that officers established initially, and then SWAT tweaked when they arrived, making it bigger or smaller. And many times, n.o.body even saw the sniper team come and go-which was the ideal objective. They appeared out of nowhere, handled their business, and faded into the shadows. And they b.l.o.o.d.y well liked it that way. The rest of the SWAT team understood and respected it and would step in front of a camera to protect a sniper's ident.i.ty.

What guys like DePoe never understood was that they were actually the minority. Snipers were among us every day, everywhere, and no one knew it. They just weren't angling for photo ops and cover shoots and remote interviews and publishing deals. They were serving in silence.

Secondly, here you've got a guy who's called The Deadliest Sniper Alive (probably came up with that t.i.tle himself), which basically meant he'd killed a lot of people. Now you go back to the Vietnam era and the legendary Carlos Hathc.o.c.k, and he was out there alone, hanging by his a.s.s, swamp-crawling in and out, and Hathc.o.c.k, arguably the greatest sniper who ever lived, only got credit for a kill if someone else saw it. You had to have independent eyes on to get credit for a kill. Someone else had to see the body. Much of Carlos's career was in enemy territory when he was alone. And then, he still had to crawl the h.e.l.l out of Dodge. The man had once shot-at five hundred yards, the length of five football fields-an NVA enemy sniper, with the round going through the enemy sniper's rifle scope and into his eye. Hathc.o.c.k ended his amazing career with 93 confirmed kills-far shy of DePoe's supposed 170.

Plus, today's snipers have advanced technology. Determining distance and depth is one of the hardest skills to master. Eye-witnesses are notoriously incorrect when they tell the story from their vantage point. Simply because it's hard to gauge distance, especially at night.

So now you've got someone like Oswald himself who'd pulled the trigger for thirty years in various capacities and organizations, semper fi, and you've got this famous sniper, this Edgar Allen f.u.c.king DePoe or whatever his name was, who did it thirty months. Did that make him a better or truer sniper than Hathc.o.c.k? Or even someone like Oswald? Because his kill count was so high? Or could those kills be attributed to the fact that DePoe was working in a target-rich environment where he was taking out any and all bad guys as opposed to a single leader? And after he shoots, they just helicopter on over and count the bodies and he gets credit for all of the deaths. Well wasn't that special?

Today's snipers have the technology that gauges distance for them. A rangefinder sends out a beam that says 1250 METERS, the sniper dials his scope in and basically pushes a b.u.t.ton. Today's guys had no clue what it meant to be a true sniper in its purest form. It was a dying art.

Many current snipers didn't even carry a dope book on them. That book contained the sniper's hard-won information gleaned from years of training and doc.u.menting what his gun would do under any and all conditions. Distance, weather, wind, population, material, all of that was sweated out from hours and hours inside the reticle. Down the rabbit hole. It was the only way. You recorded every result of how your weapon fired under every condition (not to mention your own condition-tired, sick, hungover, hungry, dehydrated, whatever). You would know your rifle and your physical response to it.

Few took the time or had the energy to do the work. Oswald was an old-school sniper, and sadly, they were falling by the wayside. So guys like DePoe tended to p.i.s.s him off.

Oswald had just clicked off the TV, thinking to himself, f.u.c.k Bryant and f.u.c.k DePoe. His rifle was on the coffee table in front of him. It was an imposing instrument. Model 70 Winchester .308. Checkered wood stock-Oswald didn't go in for that fibergla.s.s s.h.i.t-and worn leather sling. The Redfield scope was 3 x 9, fixed, with a police special heavy barrel. Imposing. Old school.

He'd done some shooting early this morning. Fired off more than a few rounds. Hungover and on an empty stomach. You had to know how your body would perform under different conditions the same way you had to know how your rifle would perform under strenuous circ.u.mstances. Sometimes you had to go to extremes. It was called hormesis. The booze hadn't affected his marksmanship. Not yet, anyway. He stayed on top of it. Practiced regularly. Still kept up his dope book. Notated his targets and filed them away. You had to be prepared.

He grabbed the cleaning kit from an end table. He needed something to calm his nerves. He leaned forward and opened the rifle's bolt. Then he opened a bottle of Hoppe's bore cleaner. He picked up a patch, wet it with the Hoppe's and began cleaning the bolt.

The loud knock at the door startled him. He stared at the door, willing himself to move, but just couldn't. Then the knock repeated. And, really, when cops knocked on a door, it somehow carried their authority. This was a cop knock. No doubt about it.

Oswald glanced at the coffee table and the kitchen counter. He should have started cleaning up the second he saw the news story. He should have known he'd be getting a visit. Stupid. He'd neglected to clean up his mementos and trinkets and doodads from his last little trip down memory lane. Those misty watercolored memories could get you in trouble.

He yelled, "Just a second" at the door, then took the rifle, cleaning kit, and everything else to the bathroom, where he threw it all in the tub and pulled the vinyl curtain.

When he opened the front door, he found two detectives and one uniformed deputy on the other side. He knew one of the detectives from the old days. Cortez. Alejandro Cortez. Those watercolored memories just kept popping up.

"Oh! Hey, guys. What's up? Do you want to come in?"

He couldn't believe how idiotic he sounded. Oh! Hey, guys? What the f.u.c.k was that?

"Sorry, Oz. It's a business call. We need you to come downtown with us. Answer a few questions."

"Yeah, just saw it on the news. I thought you might look me up. Give me a second."

He left the door open and disappeared into a bedroom. Palucci, the uniformed deputy, followed him into the room, and Oswald held up his hand.

"Whoa, hold on there, Romeo. You haven't even kissed me yet."

Cortez said, "Palucci, just wait with us."

Once Oswald was in his bedroom, Sayeed Hasan, the second detective, whispered, "I smell Hoppe's. He's been cleaning a gun."

Cortez said, "Bulls.h.i.t. How do you know it's Hoppe's?"

"My d.i.c.k's getting hard."

"You're a funny guy," Cortez said, then called out toward the bedroom, "Yo, Oz, I gotta hit the head."

Ever since he had turned forty, Cortez was pretty much married to the bathroom. Enlarged prostate. Without waiting for permission, he crossed the living room and pulled the bathroom door shut behind him.

Hasan, a short man with dark, Indian features, picked up an open poetry book from the coffee table and thumbed through it. It was called There Are Men Too Gentle to Live Among Wolves, by James Kavanaugh.

Oswald reappeared carrying a light nylon jacket which he shrugged into.

"So, you're a poetry fan?" Hasan asked.

"I guess."

"'Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me.' You know that one?"

"Emily d.i.c.kinson."

"Sure. You'd do good on Jeopardy!"

"Sure I would. I can just imagine it: 'Today on Jeopardy! We welcome Lee 'Harvey Oswald' Staley, a retired police sniper from Hangtown, California, currently sought for questioning in the shooting death of his ex-supervisor.'"

They heard the m.u.f.fled chug of the toilet flushing. Cortez stepped out and said, "So, Oswald, you're taking baths with your rifle now? Kinky."

Oz shrugged.

"Hey, Cortez, look. Poetry," Hasan said, holding up the book.

"Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned. A poet?" Cortez said, dropping his voice into the mocking lilt of a British schoolmaster. "The laddie reckons himself a poet?"

"That's from Pink Floyd's The Wall, right?" Oz said, playing along.

"You've totally got Jeopardy! written all over you," Hasan said.

"Let's go," Cortez said. "We gotta lot to talk about."

They all stepped out into the hallway, which smelled vaguely of p.i.s.s and collard greens. Oswald locked his door, then put his hands behind his back and angled himself toward Deputy Palucci.

Cortez intervened and said, "Jesus, Oz. We're not going to cuff you."

"Two detectives and one deputy to escort little old me? You were clearly expecting trouble."

"We just want to interview you."

"You mean like for a job? I need a job."

"No, we're talent scouts for Alex Trebek."

"Funny."

CHAPTER 10.

Jill had been dreading having coffee with Susan. It felt more like a ch.o.r.e than a treat. But why? This morning she'd had an insight. She now realized where those misgivings about the girl came from. It wasn't that Susan was clingy, it wasn't that she was buying Jill's friendship, and it wasn't that she looked like a possum.

It was, simply put, that Susan was a better writer than Jill. And that stung. That stung like a b.i.t.c.h. The terrible truth was that this ma.n.u.script about the little girl Rose with the criminal father was far more complex and far more evocative than anything Jill had ever written. It would be published. Make no mistake, it would be snapped up, published, and maybe even be a bestseller. h.e.l.l, it deserved to be a bestseller. It was that good. Literary and compelling, and heartbreaking.

She would pull off what Jill had tried to do and failed.

But, still, Jill had to be honest. It was her nature.

Without preamble, she said, "I love it. I absolutely love it."

Susan smiled as big as a jack-o-lantern. "I've been so worried what you would think. You know I love your books. Your opinion means everything to me."

"Well, it's good. Brilliant, even. If I'm being totally honest, it's probably better than my stuff. I can see this being a crossover hit. I mean, the violence is so over the top, but the way you pull it off, it feels more like poetry. It feels like something out of Cormac McCarthy or James d.i.c.key. The literary community will love your use of language, the art you employ to get across the desolation of Rose's girlhood, the love she and her father share. Never cloying, never sentimental. In fact, their love and need for one another comes through in the things you don't say."

"I loved my own father like that. So it was easy. Not much art involved in it."

"You underestimate yourself. And I can tell you this much, he would be proud."

Susan smiled into her coffee, but didn't say anything else. It was too personal. All the really good writing is, Jill thought.

Keeping with her policy of complete honesty, Jill had to share her one lingering criticism of Susan's novel.

"There's one thing that bothered me, though. And I'm probably the only person in the world who is gonna feel this way, but I have to say it."

"I want you to say it. This is valuable to me."

But Jill wondered if that was true.

"It's the end. The climax. The bank heist at the end. To me, that made the father the bad guy. I didn't care what life circ.u.mstances brought him to that point. I was fine with the robberies to feed his family. I was fine believing that he had gotten so off track that he was willing to do that to get a better life for his family. It was wrong, but understandable. He was in a cycle he couldn't break. But when he took the hostages in the bank. And an innocent person lost their life. At that point, I wasn't rooting for him anymore. I wanted the police to take him. He deserved it. And I don't think that's what you were going for."

The disappointment in Susan's face was unmistakable.

"I'm just being honest. And like I say, I'm absolutely certain that I'm in the minority. Very few people would feel the way I do. We live in a culture where Hannibal Lecter has evolved into a hero of sorts."

"Well, he makes those choices because he's forced to. I hardly think Rose's father is on par with Hannibal the Cannibal."

"No, of course not. You're right. It's an amazing novel. It really is. h.e.l.l, I'm jealous of what you've accomplished here. And I'm telling you that from the heart. But I'm the wrong audience for this book. You've got to remember who I'm married to. My husband is the guy they call in to eliminate people like the father. For me, Jacob is always going to be the hero. He doesn't get a chance to ask these people if life has been hard on them. If they were abused as children. If their Pop-Tart was stale that morning. He just saves lives."

Susan's phone beeped at her, she glanced at it and started stuffing her things into her marsupial handbag.

"I've gotta go. Sorry."

Every other time they had been together, Susan ignored her phone the few times it rang. Jill understood the woman was hurt. She understood, as a writer, that authors fell in love with their characters. It was part of the process. The hallmark of the really good ones.

Susan flopped two limp twenties on the table and scurried away with a mumbled "bye."

The tab would be less than half that. Jill wondered if the extra twenty was for the waitress or for her. It felt a little demeaning.

And then she wondered if in actuality she was the one who had demeaned Susan. Just how jealous was she of what Susan had accomplished with her fiction? She wondered how much it bothered her that the student had bested the teacher. Did it bother her enough that maybe she took some small degree of pleasure in delivering that last bit of criticism? And could it be that Susan picked up on that pleasure? Had Susan picked up on that schadenfreude? Had she felt demeaned? Was Jill just being a jealous b.i.t.c.h?

No.

No, Jill had just been honest. Maybe she could have been more tactful. But tact didn't make people better writers, did it? And if she had hurt the woman's feelings, well that was just too f.u.c.king bad, wasn't it? People like Jacob were the heroes, not the bad guys.

She stared at the two twenties for a long time, then she opened her purse and added another twenty.

At least it would be a good day for the waitress.

CHAPTER 11.

But she couldn't let it go. Not like this. It felt wrong. In several different ways, it felt wrong.

After she added her twenty to the pile, Jill gathered her stuff and hurried out the door of the Morgan City Cafe. She saw Susan on the sidewalk up ahead. She called after her, but Susan turned into the shadows of the parking deck. Jill ran. She wouldn't be able to sleep tonight if she didn't at least make her part in this right.

She saw Susan making her way down a curving concrete ramp, and that image of a burrowing rodent returned to her. And that wasn't fair either. Why did she insist on thinking of the girl in those terms? Demeaning. It was demeaning. She would do better.

Susan heard her name called, turned and waited.

"I'm sorry," Jill said. "I was too rough."

"Did you ever stop and think that you're actually married to a professional killer? Kinda makes the father in my book seem pretty harmless when you think about it."

So she'd been right. Susan was hurt and angry. Jill decided she wouldn't return those emotions. Besides, she'd heard this line of reasoning before. From her mother. Sister. Concerned friends. And other idiots.

"Maybe," Jill said. It was all she could think to say. But she refused to spit the venom back. There had to be a way to resolve this.

"How can you live with someone like that?"

"Like what?"