I do.
“A little more.”
I comply.
“Excellent. Slide the can toward the street two inches.”
“Right.”
“Hold the string.”
Ceepak tugs. The kite string goes taut. We have a straight line.
“Now, step aside. Good.” Ceepak pulls out some kind of chubby ballpoint pen. He lies down on the sand. “Look toward the street, Danny.” I turn. “See it?”
There's a small red dot on the back of the bench, right near the edge of the top board. Ceepak's using a laser pointer to recreate the bullet's trajectory. It shoots up from the sand, through the two holes in the trashcan, hits the back of the bench. I'll bet he learned how to do this on one of his TV shows. Anyway, we just more or less confirmed where the sniper was Wednesday night.
“Of course, we can't be certain as to the exact location,” Ceepak says. “A lot depends on where the trash can was previously positioned.”
“That's pretty close to where it was Wednesday,” I say.
“Danny?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Pretty close is never very precise.”
“Yeah.”
“However, we can confirm the approximate positioning of our shooter.”
We have also confirmed that a bullet was fired here Wednesday night. A seven-six-two millimeter special ball cartridge. The same pointy little number I heard whiz past my ear tonight.
“Pop, snap, pop,” I mumble.
“Come again?”
“Wednesday night. There were all these pops and then a different sound. More like a snap.”
“Was there a long pause between the pops and the snap?”
I feel like a Rice Krispies commercial.
“Maybe. Yeah.” I say it mainly because I think that's the answer Ceepak wants to hear. “Yeah, a pause. A slight one. And then the pops started up again.”
Ceepak nods.
“The pops and the pause present a new puzzle. Are we dealing with two shooters or a single sniper switching weapon systems?”
“Is that possible? To change rifles that fast?”
“If you're set up to do so. If you're good.”
“You could do it? Couldn't you?”
He nods.
I look at the tiny hole the bullet ripped through the trash can, see how it splayed jagged sheet metal edges inward. It's no wonder we didn't see it before. You could fit six on top of a quarter. I can only imagine what would have happened if that same small hole was in my chest. My ribs would probably hurt even worse, but I wouldn't need Extra Strength Advil because I'd also be dead.
“Now what?”
“Tomorrow, we'll have Dr. McDaniels work her magic, confirm the two bullets were fired from the same weapon. I need to call some old friends. Request all potentially useful information regarding sniper training- including known sharpshooters discharged in this area, with a special focus on those who washed out.”
That's pretty heavy-duty, I think, but I don't say anything.
“We also need to talk to young T. J. See if he'll confess to the incident at The Pig.”
“You don't think he did this?”
“No. I think the paintballing of Grace Porter's sign was a random act of juvenile vandalism.”
I just listen. He's not done yet.
“Here and at the restaurant we see a pattern.” Ceepak starts enumerating: “Night attacks. Glow-in-the-dark paint balls, the sniper bullets.”
“Yeah.” I scrape up a chuckle. It's one of those nervous little ones you only produce when you're starting to get totally freaked out with fear. Why do I have a hunch I know where Ceepak's going? I'm not in any hurry to go there with him.
“I believe our shooter fired the glow balls to light up his targets. Make them easier to spot. Then he switched weapons or his accomplice opened fire.”
“Yeah.”
Ceepak looks at me. His lips are a straight line, his eyes narrow. I'm pretty sure I know what he's going to say next.
“There's one more thing,” he says.
“Yeah?” I try to sound like I'm surprised even though I'm not. “Another link? Besides the trading cards?”
“Yes, Danny.” He pauses again.
Oh, let's get it over with.
“The target in both episodes,” he says. “That's what we're talking about.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”
Me and my friends.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Remember how I said the Mad Mouse roller coaster on the boardwalk is so much fun because it makes you feel like you're gonna die every time the little car zips around one of those tight curves?
I take that back.
Thinking you're going to die, thinking it could happen any second, having your life become an out-of-control Mad Mouse isn't that much fun, especially when some of your best friends are crammed into the roller-coaster car with you and you don't know who's manning the controls.
The shooter wants me. Or my friends. Or both.
Why?
You tell me.
“We need to discern motive,” Ceepak says as we trudge through the sand and make our way back to Tangerine Street.
“We sure as hell do,” I say, not sounding nearly as professional as maybe I should.
“You know, Danny …” Ceepak stops walking and looks at me with sincere concern. “I'd understand if you asked to be relieved of this duty. To be temporarily reassigned. Even if you went out on disability with PTSD. Posttraumatic stress disorder.”
“You mean it?”
“Certainly.”
“You wouldn't think I was a coward if I went home and hid under my bed?”
“Of course not.”
“Would
He doesn't need to answer. I know he wouldn't run away from danger because he didn't, especially not when his buddies needed him most.
I've heard stories about some of the stuff Ceepak did over in Iraq. How he risked his own life to run up an alley under heavy fire and drag a guy to safety-some artillery gunner he didn't even know. That was back in Sadr City, the slummy section of Baghdad where they still liked Saddam. Ceepak saved that soldier's life because to him his duty is about doing more than his duty, if you catch my drift. The army gave Ceepak one of its biggest medals for that one. The Bronze Star, awarded for “heroic service” in combat.
