I was lying on the roof of the parking garage now. Between me and Cody Karlstad was a busy street and a lot of parking lot. Altogether the distance was almost exactly four hundred yards, but through the telescopic sight it looked a lot less than that. With the silencer and the roar of traffic below me no one was going to hear the crack if I squeezed the trigger.WhenI squeezed the trigger. When!
So I had seven seconds.
Seven seconds before the engine turned over, the headlamps lit up and the interior light automatically went out. But for the seven seconds before Cody Karlstad was wrapped in darkness the lighting would be perfect. On the windshield, positioned above the light, was that white three-by-three square I covered with the crosshairs as I slowly pulled back the trigger. Owing tothe angle all I could see were the hands fastening the seat belt, not his face. Perhaps that’s why I didn’t feel nervous. But I wanted him to fasten his seat belt first, I didn’t want him slumping forward and leaving his upper body pressing the horn, which would immediately have drawn attention to the scene. Three seconds. Two. He’d fastened the seat belt.
The rifle butt imparted its slight kick to my shoulder.
I saw a black mark in the white square.
A perfect shot.
I lowered the sight.
In the interior, which was still illuminated, I could see Karlstad’s body shaking.
It shouldn’t have been shaking. I’d done all the calculations; the distance, the angle, the thickness of the glass, the height of the seat, the length of Cody Karlstad’s body from the hips upward. Cody ought to have been sitting motionless with a hole in his forehead. But there he was, shaking like he was strapped to an electric chair.
I loaded the rifle. Took aim again. Calmly. Pulled the trigger. The kick against my shoulder was almost pleasurable. Once again, the shot hit the taped square, an inch higher this time.
And Cody Karlstad stopped shaking.
25
Night Vision, October 2016
Olav Hanson took another cast with the rod. Saw nothing, could just hear from the reel that the line had run out. He was no fisherman, never would be. But he could cast a long way, and that was something. Pity he was alone here with no one else to see—or more accurately, hear—the line as it sizzled toward the far bank of the river. The line was still traveling when he felt his phone vibrating. It made him jump. The same way he’d been jumping every time the phone rang following his conversation with Die Man yesterday. But right now he was fishing, so to hell with Die Man, every man had a right to one place where he’s his own boss. He let the phone ring three more times before he took it out. He read the name on the display: Joe Kjos.
“Yeah?”
“Hi, Olav, where are you?”
“Never mind. What is it?”
“You asked me to tell you if anything new came up about Tomás Gomez.”
“So?”
“Why, can I ask?”
“None of your business. What’ve you got?”
“Something came in just now, a man shot in the parking lot at the Southdale Mall. There’s a couple of patrol cars there and from what I’m hearing Kay Myers thinks it could be Tomás Gomez. Rifle shot from a distance.”
Olav Hanson began reeling in as fast as he could. “Any detectives on the scene yet?”
“No. Myers is on the phone right now, but she’s going up there right after.”
Southdale wasn’t too far away, about midway between where he was and city hall. He might make it.
“See if you can delay her a little, Joe.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“But…why you want me to do that?”
“I want this case.”
