Harry, the blacked-out sniper. Well, John would be happy now that Harry was on board, as it were.
He buzzed himself through the security door with his ID card. Then he buzzed into Investigations and looked around for Mouse.
“He had to go to court,” Lymon Greene said. “What do you need?”
“A car. I had some trouble with my truck,” Broker said.
“Sure, let’s go down to the motor pool,” Lymon said. On the way out the door he stopped and took a set of keys from a cabinet and tossed them to Broker.
They walked down several staircases and some corridors and came out in an underground garage. Lymon led him to a tan unmarked Crown Victoria and said, deadpan, “Harry’s car.”
“Great,” Broker said. He immediately opened the trunk, saw the first-aid kit, some equipment related to processing traffic accidents, a Kevlar vest, and what he was looking for: the .12-gauge Ithaca pump shotgun and two boxes of .00 buckshot.
“So how’d it go with Harry?” Lymon asked.
“Harry’s just fine. Look. You got the church keys?” Lymon nodded that he did. “Okay, I want to see the church and then talk to this witness. So call him and tell him I’m coming,” Broker said.
“Sure. I was just curious. What did John mean, we don’t want to play guns with Harry . . . ?”
Broker stepped closer and placed his hand on Lymon’s shoulder. “Lymon, pal, let’s take a little history test. Who was Carlos Hathcock?”
“Don’t play games, I asked you a straight question.”
“All right. I’ll tell you. Hathcock, like Harry, was a marine sniper. Ninety-two confirmed kills in Vietnam.”
“I don’t really get around to the History Channel that much. Too many Geritol commercials.”
“Harry had forty-five kills. But then Harry was only there half as long as Hathcock,” Broker said.
The jaw muscles maneuvered around under Lymon’s smooth skin, but he decided not to say anything.
Broker said, “Okay, look—you gotta help me here. I’m real limited when it comes to small talk, paperwork, and offices. You follow me?”
A complex coolness descended on Lymon’s handsome face; part inexperience, part age, some implicit racial baggage. Broker, smarting from his encounter with Harry, didn’t give a shit.
“Okay, I get it; I’m in a movie with Tommy Lee Jones and Clint Eastwood. I’ve heard about you, you know,” Lymon said.
Broker studied the younger man. “Yeah?”
“Sure. You know how, after nine-eleven, there was all that talk on TV about the CIA not having unsavory types on their payroll who could penetrate terrorist networks. That’s kind of like you, isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
“Yeah.” Lymon carefully twisted his lips along a fine line of irony. “You’re what they call Human Intelligence.”
Broker tapped Lymon on the chest. “Meet me at the church.”
He drove through town in Harry’s car, catching traces of Harry’s aftershave wafting off the fabric upholstery. His head throbbed, and the air-conditioning, cranked on full, hadn’t taken hold yet. The heat squatted on the day, pressing down. And pushing up. You could almost feel the humidity summoning the crabgrass and burdock up into gaps and voids. The toughest weeds had green muscle enough to crack the heavy slabs of city sidewalk.
Like murder maybe. Just waiting for the right climate to rear up and bust through. Broker pictured this big nasty weed bursting right out of Harry’s chest.
He was losing his distance. He was personalizing it. Damn, it was hot.
After a wrong turn, Broker found the church. There was no good place to die violently, but St. Martin’s, abandoned and overgrown, would be way down on anybody’s list. The cops had kept the scene quiet. There was no stark yellow crime scene bunting to advertise what had happened here.
Just Lymon Greene, who waited at the entrance looking like a deacon in his gray suit, shined shoes, white shirt, and quiet maroon tie. He stood next to a scrawled, six-pointed pentacle
He buzzed himself through the security door with his ID card. Then he buzzed into Investigations and looked around for Mouse.
“He had to go to court,” Lymon Greene said. “What do you need?”
“A car. I had some trouble with my truck,” Broker said.
“Sure, let’s go down to the motor pool,” Lymon said. On the way out the door he stopped and took a set of keys from a cabinet and tossed them to Broker.
They walked down several staircases and some corridors and came out in an underground garage. Lymon led him to a tan unmarked Crown Victoria and said, deadpan, “Harry’s car.”
“Great,” Broker said. He immediately opened the trunk, saw the first-aid kit, some equipment related to processing traffic accidents, a Kevlar vest, and what he was looking for: the .12-gauge Ithaca pump shotgun and two boxes of .00 buckshot.
“So how’d it go with Harry?” Lymon asked.
“Harry’s just fine. Look. You got the church keys?” Lymon nodded that he did. “Okay, I want to see the church and then talk to this witness. So call him and tell him I’m coming,” Broker said.
“Sure. I was just curious. What did John mean, we don’t want to play guns with Harry . . . ?”
Broker stepped closer and placed his hand on Lymon’s shoulder. “Lymon, pal, let’s take a little history test. Who was Carlos Hathcock?”
“Don’t play games, I asked you a straight question.”
“All right. I’ll tell you. Hathcock, like Harry, was a marine sniper. Ninety-two confirmed kills in Vietnam.”
“I don’t really get around to the History Channel that much. Too many Geritol commercials.”
“Harry had forty-five kills. But then Harry was only there half as long as Hathcock,” Broker said.
The jaw muscles maneuvered around under Lymon’s smooth skin, but he decided not to say anything.
Broker said, “Okay, look—you gotta help me here. I’m real limited when it comes to small talk, paperwork, and offices. You follow me?”
A complex coolness descended on Lymon’s handsome face; part inexperience, part age, some implicit racial baggage. Broker, smarting from his encounter with Harry, didn’t give a shit.
“Okay, I get it; I’m in a movie with Tommy Lee Jones and Clint Eastwood. I’ve heard about you, you know,” Lymon said.
Broker studied the younger man. “Yeah?”
“Sure. You know how, after nine-eleven, there was all that talk on TV about the CIA not having unsavory types on their payroll who could penetrate terrorist networks. That’s kind of like you, isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
“Yeah.” Lymon carefully twisted his lips along a fine line of irony. “You’re what they call Human Intelligence.”
Broker tapped Lymon on the chest. “Meet me at the church.”
He drove through town in Harry’s car, catching traces of Harry’s aftershave wafting off the fabric upholstery. His head throbbed, and the air-conditioning, cranked on full, hadn’t taken hold yet. The heat squatted on the day, pressing down. And pushing up. You could almost feel the humidity summoning the crabgrass and burdock up into gaps and voids. The toughest weeds had green muscle enough to crack the heavy slabs of city sidewalk.
Like murder maybe. Just waiting for the right climate to rear up and bust through. Broker pictured this big nasty weed bursting right out of Harry’s chest.
He was losing his distance. He was personalizing it. Damn, it was hot.
After a wrong turn, Broker found the church. There was no good place to die violently, but St. Martin’s, abandoned and overgrown, would be way down on anybody’s list. The cops had kept the scene quiet. There was no stark yellow crime scene bunting to advertise what had happened here.
Just Lymon Greene, who waited at the entrance looking like a deacon in his gray suit, shined shoes, white shirt, and quiet maroon tie. He stood next to a scrawled, six-pointed pentacle
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