Brimstone

{ 37 }

Vasquez eased away from the window, snugged the piece of wood back in place, turned on the hooded lantern, then stood and stretched. It was just past midnight. He rotated his head on his shoulders first one way, then another, working out the kinks. Then he took a long drink of water, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Despite a few surprises, the operation was going well. The target kept exceedingly irregular hours, coming and going at unpredictable times-except that every night, at one o'clock in the morning, he exited the house, crossed Riverside Drive at 137th Street, and took a stroll through Riverside Park. He always returned within twenty minutes. It seemed to be an evening constitutional; a turn around the block, so to speak, before going to bed.

Over the past forty-eight hours, Vasquez had come to realize he was dealing with a man of intelligence and ability, and yet a man who was also ineffably strange. As usual, Vasquez wasn't sure quite how he arrived at his conclusions, but he was rarely wrong about people and trusted his instincts. This man was something else. Even on the surface he was odd, with his black suit, marble like complexion, and his quick, noiseless walk more like that of a cat than a man. Something about the way he moved spoke to Vasquez of utter self-confidence. Further, anyone who would go strolling in Riverside Park in the middle of the night had to be either crazy or packing heat, and he had no doubt the man possessed an excellent weapon and knew how to use it. Twice he had seen gang members who'd staked out the block quietly disappear when the target emerged. They knew a bad deal when they saw it.

Vasquez wrenched off a piece of teriyaki beef jerky and chewed it slowly, reviewing his notes. There seemed to be four inhabitants in the house: Pendergast, a butler, an elderly housekeeper he'd viewed only once, and a young woman who wore long, old-fashioned dresses. She wasn't his daughter or his squeeze-they were too formal with each other. Perhaps she was an assistant of some kind. The house had only one regular visitor: a balding, slightly overweight policeman with a Southampton P.D. patch on his arm. Using his computer and wireless modem, Vasquez had easily discovered the man was one Sergeant Vincent D'Agosta. He looked like a straight-ahead, no-bullshit type, solid and dependable, offering few surprises.

Then there had been a very strange old man with a wild head of white hair who had come by only once, late at night, scurrying along almost like a crab, clutching a book. Probably some kind of functionary, an Igor, a man of no importance.

The one o'clock walk was, of course, the time to do it. Hit him as he emerged from the semicircular drive. Vasquez had gone over it again and again, figuring out the geometry of death. If the first round entered the man's head obliquely, the round would be deflected slightly by the inside curve of the skull and exit at an angle. The torque generated by the off-center hit would spin the target. As a result, the angle and pattern of the exit spray would suggest a shooter from a window somewhere down the street. The second round would strike him on the way down, spinning him further. The position of the body would help throw off the initial response, deflecting it down the block. In any case, he himself would be out the back and onto 136th Street practically before the body hit the ground, five minutes to the Broadway IRT train and gone. Nobody would notice him-a seedily dressed Puerto Rican runner heading home after a day of dubious employment.

Vasquez bit off another hunk of the dry meat. He wasn't sure just what it was that brought on a feeling of readiness, but he always knew when the time had come for the kill. It was now forty minutes to one, and it felt to him like that time had come. For two nights running, Pendergast had emerged at exactly 1A.M. Vasquez felt certain he would do it again. This would be the night.

He took off his clothes and put on his getaway costume-warm-up suit open at the chest, heavy gold, puffy sneakers, thin mustache, cell phone-turning himself into just another cheap hustler from Spanish Harlem.

Vasquez extinguished the light, removed the small piece of wood from the corner of the boarded-up window, and got into position. Snugging his cheek against the composite stock-a stock that would never warp or swell in adverse weather-he carefully aligned the match grade barrel to the spot where the target's head would appear, right beyond the marble and brick wall that supported the porte-cochère. There the target always paused to speak to the butler, waiting to make sure the man shut and locked the door. It was a ten- or twenty-second pause: an eternity of opportunity for a shooter like Vasquez.

As he readied his equipment, Vasquez felt a faint twinge of uneasiness. Not for the first time, he wondered if the whole setup was just a little too easy. The one o'clock stroll, the little pause-everything seemed a little too perfect. Was he being set up? Did the target know he was there? Vasquez shook his head, smiling ruefully. He always had an attack of paranoia just before the kill. There was no way the subject could have detected his presence. What's more, the target had already exposed himself on a number of occasions. If he had known a shooter was tracking him, those deliberate exposures would take a level of sangfroid few human beings possessed. Vasquez had already had half a dozen chances to kill him cleanly. It was just that he'd never felt ready.

Now he did.

Slowly and carefully, he fitted his eye to the scope. The scope had a built-in compensator for bullet drop and had already been properly zeroed for windage. Everything was ready. He sighted through the crosshair grid. The central crosshairs were positioned just where the target would pause. It would be quick and clean, as always. The butler would witness it and call the police, but by then Vasquez would be gone. They would find his kill nest, of course, but it would do them no good. They already had his DNA, for all the good it did them. Vasquez would be back home by then, sipping lemonade on the beach.

He waited, gazing at the doorway through the scope. The minutes ticked off. Five minutes to one. Three to one. One o'clock.

The door opened and the target emerged, right on schedule. He took a few steps, turned, began speaking with the butler.

The rifle was already sighted in. Gently and evenly, Vasquez's finger began to apply increasing pressure to the trigger.

There was a sudden faint pop and flash of light from down the block, followed by a tinkle of glass. Vasquez hesitated, taking his eye from the sight; but it was just a streetlight failing as they always did in that neighborhood-or perhaps some young hoodlum-in-training with a BB gun.

But the moment had passed, and the man was now walking across the street, toward the park.

Vasquez leaned back from the rifle, feeling the tension drain away. He had missed his opportunity.

Should he catch him coming back? No, the man walked so swiftly back into the porte-cochère that he could not be sure of that perfect, off-center shot. No matter: it just wasn't in the cards. So much for his paranoia, for everything seeming a little too easy.

So he would be in his little nest for another twenty-four hours. But he wasn't complaining: two million dollars was just as acceptable for three days' work as it was for two.