“Jack, for Godsake, the man put a bullet through a power line. In the dark. This is a super marksman. With a night-vision scope. Hiding in the woods. How the hell are you going to get him? For Godsake, Jack, make sense!”
“Fuck him! He’s not that fucking super—took him two shots to hit the line. I’ll put my Glock up his super ass.”
“Maybe it didn’t take him two shots,” said Gurney.
“The hell are you talking about? Lights went out on the second shot, not the first.”
“Check your landline.”
“What?”
“It sounded to me like the impacts were at different places on the upstairs wall. Do your power and phone lines come in together or separately?”
Hardwick didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
Gurney heard him crawling from the table into the kitchen … then the sound of a handset being picked up, and after a moment being replaced … then crawling back to the table.
“It’s dead. He hit the fucking phone line.”
“I don’t get it,” said Esti. “What’s the point of cutting a landline when everybody’s got cell phones? He must know who Jack is, probably knows who we all are, has to assume we all have phones. You ever see a cop without a cell phone? Why cut the landline?”
“Maybe he likes to show off,” said Hardwick. “Well, this fucker is fucking with the wrong guy.”
“You’re not the only one here, Jack. Maybe he’s fucking with Dave. Maybe he’s fucking with all of us.”
“I don’t give a fuck who he thinks he’s fucking with. But it’s my fucking house that he’s shooting fucking bullets into.”
“This is crazy. I say we get a SWAT team here, like now.”
“We’re not in fucking Albany. It’s not like they’re parked down in Dillweed, waiting for the call. Be an hour before they get here.”
“Dave?” Her expression was begging for support.
Gurney couldn’t provide it. “It might be better to handle this ourselves.”
“Better? How the hell is it better?”
“You make this official, it’s a big can of worms.”
“Can of … what are you talking about?”
“Your career.”
“Career?”
“You’re a BCI investigator, and Jack’s in the process of launching an all-out attack on BCI. How are they going to interpret your being here? You think they’re not going to figure out in about two seconds how he’s getting his inside information? Information he can use to ruin their lives? You think you’re going to survive that—legally or otherwise? I think I’d rather deal with a sniper in the woods than be considered a traitor by people I have to work with.”
Esti’s voice was a bit shaky. “I don’t see what they can prove. There’s no reason—” She stopped abruptly. “What was that?”
“What was what?” asked Gurney.
“Out that window … on the hill facing the house … in the woods … a flash of light …”
Hardwick scrambled around the back of the table toward the window.
Peering into the darkness, Esti whispered, “I’m positive I saw some—” Again she stopped midsentence.
This time Gurney and Hardwick both saw it. “There!” cried Gurney.
“It’s one of my trail cams,” said Hardwick. “Motion-activated. I’ve got half a dozen in the woods—mainly for hunting season.” Another flash occurred, seemingly higher on the hill. “Fucker’s moving up the main trail. Getting away. Fuck that!”
Gurney heard Hardwick scrambling to his feet, hurrying out of the room into the kitchen, then returning with two lit flashlights in one hand, Glock in the other. He stood one flashlight in the middle of the table, beam pointing at the ceiling. “I got an idea where the son of a bitch is heading. After I leave, get in your cars, get out of here, forget you were here.”
Esti’s voice rose in alarm. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to where that trail goes—to Scutt Hollow on the other side of the mountain. If I can get there before he does …”
“We’ll come with you!”
“Bullshit! You both need to get out of here—in the opposite direction—now! You get caught up in this, get questioned by the local cops—worse, by BCI—it’ll be an endless mess. Take care. Got to go!”
“Jack!”
Hardwick ran out the front door. A few seconds later they heard the roar of the big GTO V8, wheels spinning, bits of gravel sprayed against the side of the house. Gurney grabbed the remaining flashlight from the table, hurried out onto the porch, saw the car’s taillights speeding away around a curve in the narrow dirt road that wound down the long wooded hillside to Route 10.
“He shouldn’t go alone.” Esti’s voice next to him was strained and ragged. “We should follow him, call it in.”
She was right. But so was Hardwick.
“Jack’s no fool. I’ve seen him in tougher situations than this. He’ll be all right.” Gurney’s assurance sounded hollow.
“He shouldn’t be chasing that maniac by himself!”
“He can make the backup call. It’s up to him. As long as we’re not there, he can shape the story any way he wants. If we’re there, it’s out of his hands. And your career is over.”
“Jesus. Jesus! I hate this!” She walked in a tight, frustrated circle. “So now what? We just leave? Just drive away? Go home?”
“Yes. You first. Right now.”
She stared at Gurney in the flashlight’s shifting illumination. “Okay. Okay. But this is fucked up. Completely fucked up.”
“I agree. But we need to preserve Jack’s options. Is there anything of yours in the house?”
She blinked several times, seemingly trying to focus on the question. “My tote bag, my shoulder bag … I think that’s it.”
“Okay. Whatever you have in there—get it, and get out of here.”
He handed her the flashlight and waited outside while she went into the house.
Two minutes later she was depositing her bags in the passenger seat of the Mini Cooper.
“Where do you live?” he asked.
“Oneonta.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Be careful.”
“Sure. You too.” She got in her car, backed out, turned down the dirt road, and was gone.
He switched off the flashlight and stood in the darkness, listening. He could detect no sound, no breeze, no hint of movement anywhere. He stood there for a long minute, waiting to hear something, waiting to see something. Everything seemed unnaturally still.
Flashlight in one hand and SIG in the other, safety off, he made a 360-degree sweep of the land around him. He saw nothing alarming, nothing out of place. He pointed the beam up at the side of the house, swept it back and forth until he found a severed wire emerging from an electrical fitting by a second-floor window and, about ten feet away, a second wire emerging from a different kind of fitting by another window. He swept the light away from the house toward the road until he located the utility pole and the two loose wires he’d expected to find there, dangling down onto the ground.
He walked closer to the house, below the two severed wire ends. On the clapboards behind each, he could see a small dark hole a few inches from each fitting. He couldn’t judge the diameters with any accuracy from where he stood, but he was fairly sure they couldn’t have been made with a bullet any smaller than a .30 caliber or larger than a .35 caliber.
If it was the same shooter who hit Carl at Willow Rest, it would appear that he was flexible in his choice of weapons—a man who chose the tool most appropriate to the circumstances. A practical man. Or woman.
Esti’s question came back to him. What’s the point of cutting a landline when everybody’s got a cell phone? From a practical perspective, cutting power and communication lines would be the preamble to an attack. But no attack had occurred. So what was the point?