'This couldn't be some sniper thing? Some other sniper? Maybe someone getting even with you for something in your past?'
'I don't know, sir. I have no idea at all.'
The lieutenant's radio crackled and he picked it up.
'Benteen here, over.'
'Lieutenant, I think we found it. Got a couple of shells and some tracks, a coffee thermos and some messed-up ground. You care to come and look?'
'I'll hop right over, Walt, thanks.' He turned to Bob.
'They think they found the shooting position. Care to look at it, Mr. Swagger? Maybe you can tell me a thing or two about this sort of work.'
'I would like to see it, yes, sir. There's no word on my wife?'
'Not yet. They'll call as soon as they know.'
'Then let's go.'
Of course the chopper was a Huey, it was always a Huey and Bob had the briefest of flashbacks as the odor of aviation fuel and grease floated to his nose. The bird rose gracefully, stirring up some dust, and hopped the canyon to the ridgeline on the other side and set its cargo down.
Bob and the lieutenant jumped out and the bird evacuated.
A hundred yards away and up, a state policeman signaled and the two men followed a rough track up to the position. There, the younger cop stood over a little patch of bare ground. Something glittered and Bob could see two brass shells in the dust. There were some other marks and scuffs, and a Kmart thermos.
'This appears to be the spot,' said the young officer.
'Maybe we'll get prints off the thermos,' Benteen said.
Bob bent and looked at the marks in the earth.
'See that,' he said, pointing to two circular indentations in the dust right at the edge of the patch.
'Those are marks of a Harris bipod. The rifle rested on a Harris bipod.'
'Yeah,' said the cop.
Bob turned and looked back across the gulf to where Dade's body still rested under a coroner's sheet. He gauged the distance to be close to two hundred meters dead on, maybe a little downward elevation but nothing challenging.
'A hard shot, Mr. Swagger?'
'No, I would say not,' he said.
'Any half-practiced fool could make that shot prone off the bipod with a zeroed rifle.'
'So you would look at this and not necessarily conclude that it's a professional sniper's work.'
'No. In the war we did most of our shooting at four hundred to eight hundred meters, on moving targets. This is much simpler: the distance is close, his angle to the target was dead on, the target was still. Then he misses the other two shots he takes at my wife, or at least he didn't hit her squarely. Then he comes back and hits the old man in the head as he lays dead in the dirt. No, as I look at this, I can't say I see anything that speaks of a trained man to me. It could have been some random psycho, someone who had a rifle and the itch to see something die and suddenly he sees this chance and his darker self gets a hold of him.'
'It's been known to happen.'
'Yes, it has.'
'Still, it would be a mighty big coincidence, wouldn't it? That such a monster just happens to nail your wife? I mean, given who and what you were?'
'As you say, such things have been known to happen.
Let's take a look at the shell.'
'Can't pick it up till we photo it,' said the younger man.
'He's right. That's procedure.'
'Okay, you mind if I squat down and get a look at the head stamp?'
'Go ahead.'
Bob bent down, brought his eyes close to the shell's rear end.
'What is it?' asked Benteen.
'Seven-millimeter Remington Mag.'
'Is that a good bullet?'
'Yes, sir, it is. Very flat shooting, very powerful. They use them mainly in hunting over long distances. Rams, 'lopes, elk, the like. Lot of 'em in these parts.'
'A hunter's round, then. Not a professional sniper's round.'
'It is a hunter's round: I've heard the Secret Service snipers use it, but nobody else.'
