Dead and Gone - Andrew Vachss [92]
“Are we—?” Gem started to ask. I made a hand gesture for her to be quiet. It was the Indian’s call; no point pretending otherwise.
He climbed out, walked around the front of the Land Rover as he had before, and released his dog. At his signal, we got out, too.
“It’s about three klicks,” he said to me, the vaguest trace of a question in his voice.
“Let’s go, then,” I said, shouldering my duffel and picking up Gem’s little suitcase in my right hand.
The Indian went back to the Land Rover and took out a scoped rifle from somewhere. He slipped the sling on and started off without another word.
The walk felt like a fucking treadmill—a greasy one. All slippery low grass and dirt. Gem kept up with me easily, but gave up trying to take her bag from me after a few attempts.
We finally came to a Y-shaped intersection, and the Indian called a halt. I flopped down gratefully, ignoring a look from Gem.
The Indian took a strip of what looked like beef jerky out of his coat and made a soft whistling sound. The dog trotted over to him and sat expectantly. The Indian tossed the strip and the beast caught it easily, then walked off a short distance, tail wagging. He found a spot that suited him, lay down, held the strip between his paws, and went to work on it.
The Indian pulled a single cigarette out of his breast pocket and lit it. It was unfiltered, with a dark-yellow wrapper; leaf or paper, I wasn’t close enough to tell.
A hawk soared overhead.
The Indian finished his smoke, carefully pinched off the glowing tip, then shredded the tiny bit that remained between the fingernails of one hand, dropping the result into the palm of the other. He held that hand high, opening it as a bolt of breeze came through, scattering the traces.
I rested my head on Gem’s thighs. It was out of my hands.
The Indian sat on the ground cross-legged. He unslung his rifle and laid it across his knees. It had a heavy, fluted barrel, and the stock was obviously fiberglass, colored in broad bands of black and gray. Not a camo-pattern, almost a geometric design. I tried to figure out what kind of rifle it could be, but my eyes kept losing its outline. That’s when I figured out the black-and-gray banding was no accident.
“That’s an unusual-looking piece,” I told him, trying for engagement again.
“It wasn’t built for looks,” he said.
“Remington 700?” I guessed, thinking of Wesley.
“It’s a .308 Bedeaux.”
“I never heard of—”
“It’s custom,” he said. “The man whose name’s on the barrel, he tunes them. And he’s the best in the world at it.”
“Minute-of-angle?” I asked him.
The Indian wasn’t impressed with my knowledge. Or my standards. “Less,” he said. “This one’ll ten-inch group at thirteen hundred meters.” He raised his eyebrows slightly. “You believe that?”
I wondered if he was testing again. Decided it didn’t matter. “I wouldn’t know,” I told him, truthfully. “I never really handled a rifle for serious.”
“I thought you worked jungle, once.”
I wondered if there was anything Lune hadn’t told this guy.
“Sure. Jungle, not plains, or mountains. And I was never a sniper, anyway.”
“What’d you carry?”
“Over there?”
“Yeah.”
“Whatever I could pick up. There was no resupply chain. Time I got on the ground, whatever anyone carried over there, it was like a fucking Bic lighter, understand? Runs out of fuel, you throw it away, look for another.”
“You work close-up, anyway, don’t you?” he said. It wasn’t a question. And I guess there wasn’t anything Lune hadn’t told him.
I just nodded.
“I apologize for my lack of politeness,” Gem said, suddenly. “You already know my husband’s name. I am Gem.”
“I am Levi,” the Indian replied, nodding his head just short of a bow, as Gem had done. Then, to me: “I didn’t know you were married.”
“Lune and I haven’t been in touch for a while,” I said.
A trace of a smile played across the Indian’s face. “Lune is