Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 122, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 745 & 746, September/October 2003

One Shot Difference by Brendan DuBois

An EQMM Department of First Stories author, New Hampshire-man Brendan DuBois has become a prolific writer of series mysteries, stand-alone thrillers, and short stories. He has two new books out this year, a collection of stories from Five Star (Tales from the Dark Woods) and a thriller about MIAs in Vietnam. The latter, Betrayed, appeared first in England (Time Warner U.K.; followed in the U.S. by Thomas Dunne Books).

The training session that day took place in an area of the decommissioned Air Force base that had once stored nuclear weapons for the B-52s and FB-111s stationed there. The Air Force bombers were long gone and it was mostly civilian aircraft that were now using the mile-long runway. Other parts of the base had been cut up and subdivided for high-tech firms, a passport-processing office for U.S. customs, and a regional bus system. Since no one had come up with a commercial use for the two dozen concrete bunkers half-buried in the soil, they had been abandoned when the base had closed years earlier. Each bunker was long and curved, covered with soil and grass, with a ventilation shaft poking out from the center. They looked quiet and peaceful, not at all like a place that had once stored weapons capable of incinerating a city and killing millions in a matter of seconds.

Craig Francis leaned against the hood of a Porter police department cruiser, watching the SWAT team members from a half-dozen local towns get suited up and ready for the day’s session. His arms were folded and he was enjoying the early-morning sun. He was also enjoying seeing the cops goof around, eating donuts and drinking coffee and tossing footballs back and forth. Most of them were much younger than he was, quite muscular and strong, and they had the cocky attitude that came with being healthy, young, and on top of their game. He, on the other hand, was on the wrong side of forty years old, had never walked more than a mile at a time in his life, and had long ago ceased being cocky. Except for a young woman who worked as a dispatcher, talking to a couple of the cops, he was the only civilian among the early-morning crowd. His real job was owner and manager of the Francis Farms convenience store in Porter, a popular place for the Porter cops. No cop ever paid for a cup of coffee or snack at his store, and in return, they kept an eye on the place and responded quickly whenever he needed them, for something as small as a teenage shoplifter or somebody who passed a bad check, or something as bad as a holdup.

It was a good arrangement, a comfortable arrangement, and sometimes it came with a few perks, like today. The cops from Porter and other towns that belonged to the regional SWAT response team were conducting a training session, and they needed a couple of volunteers to serve as criminals, to make the training more realistic. Craig had done it a few times before and found it fun; though he usually ended the day with bumps, bruises, and once, a bloody nose, it had always been worth it.

But today... well, today was going to be different. He looked around at the cops as they put on their protective vests, their Kevlar helmets, their kneepads and gloves, and saw one Porter cop tossing a football to another. Even among the other cops, he stood out. Dirk Conrad. Twenty-seven years old, black hair shorn quite short. Even with the protective gear and body armor, it was easy to tell from the swell of his upper arms and chest that he spent a lot of his time working out.

Dirk spotted Craig looking at him, grinned, and gave him a big wave. Craig waved back with a smile. Craig knew a lot about Dirk: where he had grown up, where he had gone to school, and how he was doing with the department. Dirk was a crack shot, tough on the streets, was on a fast track for promotion, and made it clear that he intended to get out of the department one of these days and try for the FBI or CIA. He had big plans to go with those big muscles, and Craig knew that, and more.

He shifted his weight on the cruiser and lifted his head up to the sun. For Craig also knew that young Dirk Conrad was having an affair with Craig’s wife Stacy, and for that, Craig planned on ending Dirk’s life today, in the midst of all his fellow cops.

The thought and the bright sunshine on his face made him smile.

And the hell of it was, he had never intended to run that damn convenience store. It had belonged to his father, and he had worked plenty of afternoons and weekends — giving up school activities like track or band or the school newspaper, and especially dances and proms — to help out the family and make some pocket change. Sacrifices, Dad had said. To get ahead you need to make sacrifices. But once he had gone to college and nailed his Business Administration degree, he was ready to shake off Porter and raise some hell and make some money, and forget about sacrifices for a while.

But Dad had gotten a rare blood disease that seemed to eat him from the inside out, and since he was their only boy — his three older sisters had already found husbands and had children by then — Dad had pleaded with him not to sell the store. Francis Farms had opened in Porter in 1902, with Craig’s great-grandfather, and Dad didn’t want the store and the name to die with him.

Fine. A promise to a dying man and he had given it, knowing he had other plans, other ideas, and yet...

The trap had been set.

He had taken over the store and within a week knew that the reverse was true: The store had taken over him. Each day was a rolling morass of problems to be solved, problems to be addressed, problems to be ignored. Employees who didn’t show up or who showed up late. Delivery trucks blocking the parking lot for the customers. Health inspectors. Youngsters with fake IDs trying to buy beer. Liquor inspectors. Employees who stole, customers who stole, people wandering by the front of the store who stole. Water bill, tax bill, oil bill, electricity bill... Mother of God, the amount of money spent each month on electricity (for the freezers and coolers and lights and everything else) was as much as he spent on renting an apartment while going to college! Sweeping up and cleaning up after some three-year-old girl who, racing through, knocked over a display of grape-jelly jars. People coming in looking to put up posters in the window, people looking to sell raffle tickets, people looking for donations to this charity or that charity and don’t you know, it’s the duty of business owners to support the neighborhood?

Trapped. Within a week, it felt as if the chains of responsibility had been gently but firmly clasped around his ankles.

Oh, he could have given up after a month or so, but there was that streak of stubbornness in him, combined with the promise he had made to Dad, dear old Dad, to keep the damn place running.

Sacrifices.

And so he had remained, in a life of work and not enough sleep and never any real days off, until the day Stacy came by next-door, to open a hair salon.

And then it had all changed.

One of the police officers — who had a thick moustache and was wearing a bright orange vest with TRAINING stenciled in black, fore and aft — stepped out into the middle of the crowd and said, “Listen up, people, listen up. It’s time to get started.”

The cop went on about how the SWAT team would split up into different groups and work through different scenarios during the day. Two of the old bunkers would be used during the training session. Some years ago, the cop explained, Navy SEAL members had come to this very place and had constructed in the bunkers rooms made of wooden doors and plywood walls. Craig thought about that, and as the cop went on and on in great detail about the training that was going to take place, he wandered over to the closest bunker. The metal door — rusting at the hinges — had been propped open, and he stepped inside, the interior cool and damp. The floor and the walls and curved ceiling were concrete, and there was faded paint on the concrete, marking some sort of grid. Before him, just a few yards in from the entrance, was a wooden warren of rooms and corridors. He slowly walked through them in the dim light, wondering how it felt to race through here, even in a training session, knowing that something bad was waiting for you.

He paused and touched the walls and a nearby door. He shivered, remembering what the training officer had said. Navy SEALs — elite warriors — had been in this same room, had built these rooms to help themselves train, and now, well, where were they? Afghanistan? Iraq? Yemen? So far from home. He wondered if they ever thought about the training they had done at this old air base in New Hampshire, and he wondered what they would think about what he had planned for the training session today.

He had a feeling most of them would understand.

Craig turned and went back outside.

Stacy Moore had come in one summer day to introduce herself, and Craig couldn’t remember much of what he said to her, for he was struck by how beautiful she was. She had on tight jeans, a white knit sleeveless shirt that was unbuttoned far enough to show a fair amount of cleavage, and her blond hair was tied back in a simple ponytail. She said she had taken over the lease next-door, was opening up a hair salon — “Stacy’s Hair Design” — and could he do her a favor?

Absolutely, had been his reply. She had needed power — “Damn Public Service is late in coming by” — and would he mind if she ran a power cord from his store to her place?

Thinking about that request had taken about a second or two.

Not a problem, he had said. He had even helped her bring in some supplies, admiring the way she filled out her clothes, admiring her laugh, and when he was through moving things and hooking up things, she had blushed slightly and said, Well, I wish I could pay you back for your help.

He had laughed. My pleasure, he had said. Really.

She had folded her arms, exposing even more of her cleavage, and said, Well, how about a free haircut?

And in a matter of moments he had been seated in one of the chairs, warm water cascading over his head, her strong fingers working at his scalp, working in the shampoo, and he looked up at her figure and her smile, and he knew without a doubt that he was falling in love.

Outside, he joined the dozen or so cops, nodding at all the Porter cops he knew, and even Dirk managed another smile in his direction. The training officer lined everyone up — except, of course, for Craig and the young woman dispatcher named Sarah — and started referring to a clipboard held in his hand.

“All right, let’s get a move on, we’ve only got a few hours to work with,” he said. “You know the drill, you know the scenarios. Now it’s time for a safety check. Everybody check your weapons, check your belongings. No live rounds. No edged weapons. This is just training. Leave the real stuff behind.”

Before the line of cops were two long folding tables, and on the tables were plastic ammo boxes, opened up, showing round after round of simulated ammunition. Craig wandered over and examined one of the bullets, recalling when he had first seen these little bundles of power. They had the same brass jacket as any other semiautomatic 9mm. round, but the amount of powder inside the cartridge was smaller than for a regular bullet, and the slug at the top was a type of paintball. It stung and left a brief red splotch of paint, and that was that. Every cop here today would load their weapons with these fake rounds, and while they stung some, it sure beat the hell out of the real thing. And it helped with the training, especially with two “bad guys” — him and Sarah — deep within the rooms, waiting in ambush for the squads of SWAT members to come barreling through.

He put the fake round down and then, almost absent-mindedly, he put his hand in his pants pocket where he felt something small and hard and metallic.

Another 9mm. round, just like the ones on the tables.

Except this one was the real thing.

He smiled, went back, and joined the cops.

Craig had been thrilled and thankful when Stacy had agreed to go out with him, and soon they were a couple. It had been so easy at first, with her working right next-door to him, and he had made a habit of popping in and out during the day, bringing over drinks and sandwiches at lunch, and sometimes they had managed to have lunch out on the sidewalk, watching the people of Porter go by. He would check with her as she closed up, making sure she could get to the bank all right with her deposits — the block they were on could be rough at certain times of the night during certain times of the year — and he would juggle the schedules of his workers so he could have at least one night a week with her.

She was from Dover, the next city over, and was a high-school grad who just wanted to have her own business using the only skills she really had, as a hairdresser. After a while, when she had learned about his business-school experience, she had shyly asked him to examine her books. He had made a dreadful joke about having already examined other personal parts of her, and her books would be relatively easy, but he stopped laughing when he looked at her piles of receipts and bills.

Stacy’s Hair Design was in debt, was sinking faster than the Titanic, and unless something drastic happened, and soon, she would be facing personal and business bankruptcy.

After telling her this, and after seeing the tears erupt, he had offered something drastic: marriage.

And happiest of days, she had said yes.

With the briefing over, the training officer came over and handed him a revolver. “Still know how to use this, Craig?”

“Without a doubt,” he said.

“Sorry we only have one spare,” he said. “Looks like you and Sarah will have to share.”

“Not a problem.”

Before going into the bunker, he put on his own protective gear: gloves, old fatigue jacket, a thin vest that covered his back and front, and a foam-lined plastic helmet with a clear plastic front. It was hard to talk with the helmet on, and when he and Sarah got into the bunker, he lifted up the helmet and said, “You want to have the gun first?”

Sarah was small and thin, with brown hair and big brown eyes. Earlier he had learned she had been a dispatcher with the department for only six months. She lifted her own helmet and grinned. “Really?”

“Sure,” he said. “I’ve done this before. You go ahead and have fun.”

She took the large revolver in her small hands and said, “Oh, you know it. Lots of these guys love to give me crap on the job. It’s gonna be fun to get some payback.”

He smiled back. “I know the feeling.”

So a month after their marriage, she had come to him and said that as much as she hated to do it, it was time to close the hair shop. And he had said, Not a problem, you can work at the store. As assistant manager. Not a problem. Which was true. Stacy’s Hair Design had gone out of business, his new wife had moved six feet over to her new job, and then, well, it began to crumble.

Simple things at first. Working with the spouse, the whole day long, just a few feet away from each other, meant no quiet time, no alone time. Little quirks of hers that earlier had been fun and amusing started to grate on him. Her humming. The way she picked at her fingernails. And the way she always seemed to dress with her cleavage exposed. And there was more to follow. She didn’t like the way he arranged the shelves, he didn’t like the way she’d chat away with a customer while a line formed. She thought he was too bossy, he thought she took too much time on breaks.

Their life revolved around the store, the store, all glory to the store, and lots of times, at the end of the day, they would both fall into bed, speak only a few words to each other, and then fall asleep. The only difference in the days of the week was that on Sunday, the newspapers for sale in the store were fatter.

That’s when he started to become frightened that everything was beginning to fall away with his life and marriage. Sacrifices, he thought, when do the damn sacrifices stop?

But then hope came, from a most unlikely source: the federal government.

SCENARIO ONE:

The SWAT team was breaking into a house with two known drug dealers, one of whom was believed to be armed. Craig’s role was to be the first drug dealer spotted, and he was sitting in a plastic chair, hands in his lap. The training officer said he was to cooperate and not put up any fuss, which was fine. There would be plenty of time for fuss later. Young and eager Sarah was somewhere deeper into the rooms, and he had wished her good luck and good aim.

Sounds. Booted feet tromping on the floor, low whispers, and then, like some nightmare vision from an Orwell book, the armed and well-equipped police came through the door. Even though he was expecting it and had done this several times before, his heart raced at the sight of these bulky armed men coming right at him. They had on goggles and helmets and protective vests and black fatigues and gloves and military boots, and some were holding out 9mm. pistols while others were carrying 9mm. submachine guns, and the moment Craig was spotted the screaming started, words tumbling over one another, echoing in the confines of the bunker.

“Police!”

“Search warrant!”

“Down on the ground!”

“Down on the ground, now!”

“Show us your hands!”

“Now!”

“Now!”

“Now!”

Craig’s heart was really thumping and he held out his hands and dropped to his knees on the concrete floor, and then stretched out. Hands expertly searched him, looking for any weapons — and a horrid thought suddenly came to him: Suppose the real round of 9mm. ammunition was found? — and when somebody yelled, “Hands to your back!” he moved his hands to his back and crossed his wrists. There was a squeeze at the wrists and another voice said, “Secure!” and he turned his head, seeing the booted feet fly by. Another part of the training. No handcuffs, no plastic restraints. He was now a prisoner, and he played along and waited.

Some other noises, of voices, as the police moved into the other rooms.

“Clear!”

“Okay.”

“Checking...”

“Hold on...”

“Gun!”

“Gun!”

And the gunfire erupted into the short and ferocious pop-pop-pop of practice rounds being expended, and more yells, more shouts, and then a whistle was blown by the training officer. Scenario completed.

Craig rolled over and sat up, removed his helmet. The SWAT members came back in as he stood up, some laughing, a couple of them looking embarrassed, with splotches of red paint smeared across their black fatigues. One guy said, “Hah, look at that, you got nailed by a girl,” and the other cop responded, with some bravado, “Man, the number of times I’ve nailed girls, I just decided it was time to let one of ’em have some payback.”

Then Sarah came in, smiling, her helmet off and her hair matted down. Her protective vest was smeared with a half-dozen paintball rounds, and she was shaking one of her hands, as if she had just burnt it on a stovetop. The other hand held the large revolver. “Man, that stung! Man, did that hurt! But I got some of you back, I surely did.” And she laughed.

“All right,” the training officer said. “Time for a debriefing. Sarah and Craig, if you can excuse us, please.”

“Sure,” he said, walking out of the bunker and blinking in the sunshine, helmet under his arm. Sarah was with him, still smiling. “That was some fun, but you know what?” she said.

“What?”

“I knew they were coming, I knew what they were going to do, but I was still scared. I was breathing hard and when they came into the room, I almost peed myself. Funny, huh?”

“No, same thing happens to me, all the time,” he said.

She wiped at her face. “How come they did that?”

“Did what?”

“Asked us to leave.”

Craig said, “So they can have a debriefing without a couple of civilians hanging around, that’s why. In some ways, we’re just guests here. That’s all. Nothing to get offended about.”

“Oh, I’m not offended,” she said. “Just curious.”

“Good.”

She then smoothed her hair and said, “I fired off all six rounds. Time to load up.”

“Go right ahead,” he said. “It’ll be awhile.”

So he sat on the grass while she went over to the table with the simulated ammunition. She undid the cylinder of the revolver, emptied out the spent brass cartridges, and then reloaded with the paintball rounds. Young Sarah worked quickly, efficiently, and Craig smiled at her hurry, since the cops were all still in the bunker taking part in the debriefing session.

He turned his head up to the sun and waited.

The news had come first from a story in the Porter Herald. In some mysterious way, grants from the Department of Housing and Urban Development were trickling into the city of Porter. Some of that money was going to be used in the neighborhood where the store was located, as part of “Renovation” and “Revitalization” and “Revamping” and other words that began with the letter R.

Interesting enough, he had thought, leafing through the newspaper as he waited for a young boy to count out seventy-five pennies so he could buy a candy bar, but the news got even more interesting when a couple of real-estate developers wandered by. And that had been the deal: They were going to grab a chunk of that development money, and if Craig and his suffering wife were interested — were they ever! — then the store and the building would be purchased at a very reasonable price, and would then be turned into low-price apartments for welfare recipients or higher-priced apartments for senior citizens, depending on which interest group was making the most noise that year.

And his eyes had watered with tears, real tears of sheer joy, at seeing the proposals the real-estate agents had provided, for it meant a lot of money, enough for some time off and a fresh start for him and the woman he had married.

Maybe the time for sacrifice was over. And for the first time in months, things had been looking up.

At least for a while.

SCENARIO TWO:

A raid on another drug den. The cops coming in weren’t told how many people were in there or how they were armed. Sarah seemed eager to be the shooter again, and Craig said that was fine. His role was to be half-hidden in the corner of one of the rooms, and the training officer had told him to freelance, to do whatever he wanted.

Such an invitation.

So this time, Craig stood flat against a wall with his hand down at his side. It was a bit of a gamble, but he had taken one of his black gloves off and had rolled it up to make a cylinder. That was at his side, and he waited, breathing hard, the plastic on his helmet fogging up. Somewhere in there, Sarah was waiting with eager anticipation, and in a way, so was he.

Voices again, the sounds of the boots on the concrete.

He waited, heart now thumping merrily along.

They were closer now, in the other room. Voices, low and indistinct.

He could see the play of flashlight beams on the far wall.

Very close.

A cop came into the room, holding a 9mm. pistol in front of him, two other cops behind him, and Craig stepped out, quickly raising his arm, holding out the rolled-up glove and —

“Gun!”

Damn, he could actually see the muzzle flashes erupt from the barrel as the cop coming into the room fired at him, and the paintball rounds struck his chest with a soft thud. He dropped and rolled onto the floor, letting the glove fall out of his hand, and he heard the cop who had just shot him mutter, “Oh hell, did I screw up,” when he realized Craig wasn’t armed.

On the cold concrete floor, Craig smiled.

More movement, more voices, and then another shout, deeper inside the bunker, of “Gun!” and more gunfire. Craig kept on smiling as the whistle blew and he sat up. The cop who had shot him had lifted up his helmet, and the smile faded as Craig realized who it was: Dirk Conrad.

Dirk shook his head. “Man, you got me, you really did.”

“It happens,” he said, feeling good at seeing the shocked expression on that usually confident face. Dirk had on the usual SWAT gear, but he noticed something else, as well: a yellow smiley-face button, right in the center of the vest. Like some sort of mocking talisman or good-luck charm.

The training officer came over, his face set. “Time for a debrief. Excuse us, will you?”

“Sure,” Craig said, and he was outside again, joined shortly by the police dispatcher. Sarah frowned and said, “They were better this time. I don’t think I got anybody but they really nailed me good. What about you?”

“Held up a glove and got shot.”

She laughed. “That’s something.”

Craig found a spot and sat down on the cracked asphalt, leaned back against the concrete wall of the bunker. Sarah joined him and he caught a whiff of her perfume. Something young, something sporty. He suddenly found that he was envious of her youth, her wide-open future.

“Sure, that’s something,” he said. “But it can also mean a lot of trouble for Dirk and for the department, down the road.”

“How’s that?”

He rubbed his chest where it still stung from the shot by the paintball, even under the protective pad. This time tomorrow he’d have a nice purple and green bruise there to remind him of this day, as if he would need any additional reminding.

“Thing is, let’s say in a year or two Dirk’s involved in a shooting of a suspect. Could be clear, could be a righteous shooting. Still, the guy’s defense attorney might want to find out the background of the nice cop who shot his client. So he’d subpoena the department’s training records for Dirk, to see if he found anything questionable. Bingo, there’s a record that during this particular training session, he fired at a person holding nothing more threatening than a glove. See the trouble?”

“God, I guess so,” she said, the revolver large and still in her lap. “Tell me, how do you know so much about cops?”

“Experience,” he said. “Simply experience.”

Sure, things had been looking up for him and Stacy and the store, until something happened. That was the way of the world now. You made plans and thought things through and thought everything would work out, and then Something Happened. This time, the something was a bit of Congressional backstabbing and backslapping that meant funds allocated for Porter went to Portland, Maine, or Portland, Oregon, or some other place. Which meant the eager real-estate agents who had been sniffing around the store went away and never came back. Which meant that a week after he had turned down an offer for the store from one of the agents — confident that a counteroffer would come back later that was larger and better — Stacy just looked over at him from behind the store counter, lining up lottery tickets, and said with quiet bitterness, “Some life, huh? Some life.”

And what could he have said? That there would always be sacrifices?

So he had gone along, done the best he could to run the store and work and live with Stacy, and then, well, something clicked. It had just seemed to him that the only times she was happy, smiling, and engaged were when there were cops around the store. Pretty funny, eh? Cops who were supposed to serve and protect were now making his wife happy. And one night... well, he had gone back to the store by accident. Or had it been accidentally-on-purpose? He still wasn’t sure. All he remembered was that he had left some receipts at the store and when he got back there, had gone through the door, the little bell jangling, there had been Stacy, and there had been Officer Dirk Conrad. Stacy had been leaning over the counter, buttons on her tight black sweater undone just so, and Dirk had been grinning the grin of somebody who had seen this sight before and had enjoyed it very much.

And the look from the both of them, as he unexpectedly came up the main aisle, told him everything he needed to know.

The third scenario was delayed until after lunch. For a while the SWAT team members trained by themselves in the two bunkers, learning how to better enter and sweep the rooms. Craig and Sarah were left alone for a while, and while Sarah got on her cell phone and talked for long and dreary moments to her boyfriend Toby, Craig went over to a sunny side of the bunker and stretched out his legs. Before him was grassland and then a tall chain-link fence topped off by razor wire, and on the other side of the fence, the ground was cleared out for about fifty feet to the treeline. Up on the slight rise leading to the access road was a locked gate, so that the cops wouldn’t be disturbed. All of this land where once nuclear weapons had been stored, and where armed Air Force security police were authorized to use deadly force, was now a nature preserve. The officers out here at night, armed and ready, had probably thought this place would last forever.

But things change, he thought. Boy, do they ever change.

Late one afternoon a couple of weeks ago, he had been in their living room in their apartment, waiting, a black videocassette cartridge in his hand. It seemed heavy enough to be made of lead. A few weeks earlier, he had gone into the back office of the store and rewired and reconnected an old security-camera system that kept watch on the store and the back office. He supposed he should have told Stacy. Right. He guessed he should have, but he hadn’t, so there you go.

So what now?

A voice whispered inside of him to toss it aside, get rid of it, never to view what might be stored forever on the magnetic impulses on the thin tape. Little impulses of energy that had the power to destroy his marriage. All right there.

He juggled the tape with some difficulty, cursed under his breath, and then went over and slid it into the VCR on top of the television set. On top of the VCR was a framed photo of him and Stacy on their wedding day, and blinking hard, he turned the photo around and picked up the remote.

Grainy images inside the store, not much going on. He used the fast-forward button, toggled it hard, until...

Until there he was. Dirk Conrad. Alone in the store with Stacy. There was no sound, so he couldn’t tell what was being said between them, but what the hell. He knew they weren’t discussing the latest zoning-board proposal. The screen was split in two. The left-hand side showed the countertop where Dirk and Stacy were conversing. The right-hand side was his office, and it was blank, since the lights weren’t on.

And then it happened. Stacy and Dirk slid out of view on the left-hand side, and then the right-hand side of the tape lit up, and there was the interior of his office. Dirk brought Stacy around to his desk — his own damn desk! — holding her hand, and that little betrayal right there — holding another man’s hand, even though Craig knew what was going to happen next — bore right through him like a drill bit from an oil rig, churning its way into his chest.

Stacy started unbuttoning her blouse. Craig got up and switched everything off, and then went into the bathroom to vomit.

Lunchtime. The overhead sun was high up and it was hot, and as in the other training sessions, sandwiches and drinks and snacks were produced from little portable coolers. The cops stripped off their helmets and gloves and vests and weapons, and dumped them on one of the long tables where the ammunition was stored. Young Sarah brought her revolver over and did the same thing, and he waited, waited long minutes, like the time waiting for a retiree to find a dollar bill in his wallet for a lottery ticket, and when he thought the time was right, he went over to the table. Some cops were now in the tall grass, dozing, while others tossed a football back and forth. Craig got up and stretched and reached into his pants pocket for the real 9mm. round. He went to the table and did his work quickly and efficiently, and then went back to the bunker and waited.

“All right, people,” the training officer said, “time for the third scenario.”

And when Sarah came back, holding the revolver in her hand, Craig held out his hand.

“Do you mind?” he asked. “I’d like to have a chance at shooting someone.”

She smiled and handed the revolver over. “Sure, why not. I’ve already done it twice. Why should I have all the fun?”

He smiled in return. “Exactly.”

Ever since he’d viewed the tape, it had been odd, but Stacy had been kinder and gentler to him, as if she was feeling sorry for him or something. A hell of a feeling. The tape had remained hidden and unviewed, and he was still trying to decide what in hell to do when one day, Dirk Conrad had shown up at his store.

Talk about your challenges. Underneath the counter of his store he had a sawed-off baseball bat, and wouldn’t Dirk have been surprised if that had been swung at his noggin when he came over to chat after getting another in a long series of free cups of coffee. Instead he gritted his teeth and held his ground, and made small talk with Dirk as he got his free newspaper and free cup of coffee, and he imagined in some way that Dirk probably thought the free wife from the store owner went with everything else.

So. All those thoughts were tumbling through him and again he was wondering what to do when Dirk said, “Hey, next week we’re going up to the base again, doing another SWAT training session. You interested?”

Hell no, was his thought, but he decided to be polite. “I guess so.”

Dirk nodded, put the folded-up newspaper under his arm. “That’d be great. We could have some real fun.”

“Sure,” Craig said, and damn it, that could have been the end of it, except for one thing.

As Dirk left the store, he looked back and winked.

Pretty simple.

A wink, as if he knew he was pulling something over on Craig, knew it and enjoyed it, and Craig was surprised at how the anger just roared through him, making his ears echo with the noise, and by the time the door closed behind Dirk, Craig knew that he would go to that SWAT training session and end Dirk’s life.

SCENARIO THREE:

An armed gunman was hidden in a house with an accomplice who was unarmed. They had earlier robbed a bank, and the armed gunman was threatening to kill anybody who came in.

Sarah gave him a pat on the shoulder and said, “Good luck,” and Craig said, “Thanks,” as he took a long series of deep breaths, the revolver fat and heavy in his hands. Sarah was deeper in the rooms, waiting, and he wondered what she would think about this particular scenario, which came up in his mind like so:

Real scenario three: Porter resident and store owner takes revenge against cop having an affair with his wife.

He was in the second room, hidden behind a table and chair. His breathing sounded harsh in his protective helmet. He waited.

And wondered briefly what Stacy would think when this day was over. She had covered the day shift for him so he could do this training session, and amazingly so, she had kissed him on the cheek when he had left and had murmured, “Have fun.”

Have fun. Did she really mean it? Was she now regretting what had gone on between her and Dirk? Could it be over? Seeing her standing behind the counter, just as he was leaving, he had been stunned by his feelings of warmth and love and affection for her, even though she had betrayed him.

But who had betrayed whom first, with all the long hours, the sacrifices, the demands placed upon her?

Voices, outside. He raised the revolver, found his hand was shaking so hard he had to hold the gun with both hands.

He could not afford to miss. Could not afford to shake.

The approaching voices grew louder.

Two days earlier, he had sat in the apartment looking again at the black videocassette tape. He hadn’t viewed it since that first day, and had hidden it in a rear closet behind some shoes. He knew what he was planning, and when it was all said and done, when things were wrapped up, he wasn’t going to have this tape in his home. So among the other plans, he made plans to get rid of it, and soon.

Quick, quick, quick, he thought, Jesus, it’s going to be quick. No more time to think, no more time to reconsider, it was way too late for that.

“Police!”

“Search warrant!”

“Hands up!”

The forms came into view and he raised his gun and waited, waited until he saw the SWAT team member with the little yellow button on his chest, and he pulled the trigger and pulled the trigger and the shots started ringing out and the fire continued and BAM! something struck his chest with the force of a telephone pole being swung by a giant.

Cold. Wet. He opened his eyes, could hear voices in the distance, yelling and screaming. Hands were working over him, tugging at his clothes, getting them off. His chest ached and ached and he couldn’t catch his breath. It was as if he had run the race of his life and everything was now still. He opened his eyes and saw the glare of flashlights being trained down upon him.

He thought he was still in the bunker.

Cold. Wet. And now the wetness was warm.

And he thought he could hear sirens, off in the distance, and hoped somebody would remember to open up the gate in time.

And he closed his eyes.

It took some waiting, but eventually they did arrive in his hospital room, a couple of days before he was due to be discharged. The bullet wound in his chest was healing nicely and the pain was now just a manageable ache. Two solid-looking men in business suits, looking both professional and slightly embarrassed, came in and sat down. They mentioned their names and he forgot both names instantly, but in his mind he called one of them Lawyer and the other Cop. Both had thin black briefcases, which they balanced on their knees.

The cop started it off. “Mr. Francis, once again, I want to offer my personal apologies, as a member of the Porter Police Department, for what happened to you last week.”

He nodded. The lawyer jumped in as well. “And for the city of Porter, too, Mr. Francis — you also have our apologies.”

“Thank you,” he said, keeping his voice low and hoarse, though truth be told, he was doing better than he had expected when he had planned the whole thing out, when the utter insanity of what he came up with struck him and he thought about all the sacrifices he had made for that damn store, and now, he had made his final sacrifice. A big one, but one that would count. He knew Dirk was a crack shot, knew he would aim for the center of his body, and chances were, his heart or any other vital organ wouldn’t be struck. A chance, a crazy chance, but what the hell. The other options seemed worse. He did not want to lose Stacy... Stacy, who had come in blubbering and teary the day he had been admitted, and had Confessed All.

The cop said, “Before we go on, Mr. Francis, I need to talk a bit about the status of Officer Conrad.”

He said nothing. The cop looked embarrassed and said, “A day after the shooting, a videotape arrived at our Internal Affairs office, mailed anonymously. Um, I’m afraid the tape was from a surveillance system at your store. You do have such a system, do you not?”

“I do,” he said, keeping still.

The cop said, “Well. It seems that, um, the tape showed... well, it showed a woman I believe to be your wife and Officer Conrad in a rather intimate encounter. In your store. Mr. Francis, we believe somebody at the store, perhaps a disgruntled employee or somebody like that, mailed the tape to the department.”

He tried to put a bit of shock into his voice. “Why are you telling me this?”

The lawyer stepped in. “We believe that when Officer Conrad’s future is determined, the local news media might find out about this tape. We’re sorry, but we felt you should know about this beforehand. I mean, well, were you aware that Officer Conrad and your wife were... involved?”

He turned his head on the pillow and said, “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

Stacy, in this room, begging forgiveness, begging understanding, willing and able to do anything he wanted to make it right.

The cop came back. “We understand completely. And Mr. Francis, you should know that by the end of this week — even though his union might make a fuss — Officer Conrad will be off the force. His shooting of you, combined with the relationship he had with your wife... it makes his continued future with our department and in any law-enforcement department in this country impossible. He may even face criminal charges when all is said and done.”

He knew they couldn’t see his face, so he allowed himself just a brief smile. “I see.”

It was the lawyer’s turn. “Mr. Francis, if I could have your attention for just a moment. As counsel for the city, we have an interest in reaching an equitable settlement so that this doesn’t have to go to court, waste your time and the city’s time, cost you attorney’s fees and so forth. I’m prepared today to make such a settlement offer to you.”

The lawyer opened his briefcase and passed over a sheaf of papers, and clipped to the top of the papers was a cashier’s check. Craig kept his emotions in check as he looked at the numbers. He looked at the lawyer and the cop.

“I sign this and drop any claims against the city, and this check is mine?” he asked.

“That’s correct.”

He handed the papers and the check back to the lawyer. “Change the five on the check to a seven and you got yourself a deal.”

The cop looked at the lawyer, the lawyer looked at the cop, and there was the briefest of nods back and forth. The lawyer put the papers back in his briefcase and stood up. “Then we have a deal, Mr. Francis. We’ll be back within the hour.”

He smiled at both men as they left his hospital room, and checked the time. Stacy would be coming by shortly, and then, well, he’d pass the news along. The store would go up for sale, and combined with the city settlement, there was plenty there to start new, start fresh, and get out of Porter. He had taken a bullet for his life and his marriage, and that was the fact. And with the size of that check... he was in a forgiving mood towards Stacy.

The time for sacrifices was over, and it just took one shot.

Not a bad deal.