The new system added 3D laser radar to the mix – actually picked up the flight of the bullet, traced it back to the point of origin. With these puppies, as soon as Fisher took his shot, Weaver’s boys could put enough firepower on target to puree the son of a bitch. Scoop up Fisher, drop the black guy’s corpse in his place. The only problem was the units were new, prototypes on their way to Afghanistan for field-testing. He only had two to play with, so he had to make sure he had them in the right locations.
That solved one problem. The other problem was this. They were out of time. This thing had to go down tomorrow. Suppose this Manning chick’s been behaving herself, doesn’t feel the need to go to confession? Wouldn’t matter to Fisher. Fisher would wait. Weaver couldn’t. As of thirty minutes ago, though, Weaver was pretty sure he had that problem licked, too.
He flipped open the dossier from Langley, one of their few female paramilitary types, some hard-ass named Pat Brown. Manning was thirty-two, Brown was thirty-three. Manning was five-six, one hundred and twenty-two pounds. Brown was the same height, six pounds heavier, but it was all muscle, so she actually looked a shade smaller. Manning was kind of a dirty blonde, Brown’s hair was almost black, but they could fix that. But the face was the real home run. Not identical twin material, but close, and the bone structure was perfect. Give the hair-and-makeup guys an hour, no way you’d be able to tell them apart, not through a 12x scope, not at seven hundred meters.
So he’d have a team grab Manning tonight. This Manning, though, she was one of the lectors at the parish. Good chance Fisher’s done his recon, knew her voice. So they’d get Manning to record a confession. Snyder’d done background, had all the lingo for that down. Take the priest down in the morning, swap one of their guys in, have him do confessions. Have to get him a script. Have Brown lip-synch her way through whatever they get out of Manning for Fisher’s camera. Plus, a fake priest would give Weaver a back-up gun in the church, just in case.
Everything was falling into place. Even God was on his side. Weather was turning. Temperatures in the low forties tomorrow, pretty good wind coming in off the lake. So he could stuff Brown in one of Manning’s coats, put a hat on her, scarf, pretty much eliminate the possibility of anything that would tip off Fisher, queer the ID. With the coat on, Brown could even wear a vest. Not that a vest was likely to stop a rifle round, but the story Weaver had fed Brown was that they had Fisher’s hide scoped. Just need her to show herself so he’d step up to the window and they could take their shot. Who knows? Might work out that way. She might come out of this alive.
If it didn’t? Well, it’s not like Brown would be coming back at him over it.
CHAPTER 58 – CHICAGO
Lynch left the house to pick up some pizza, flicked on the radio to WBBM to get the news just as a reporter started recapping a church sniper taskforce news conference.
“A taskforce spokesperson revealed today that an arrest is imminent in the Confessional Killings. Members of the taskforce have developed evidence linking the shootings of Helen Marslovak and Thomas Riordan to the police shootings of four black activists in 1971. The activists were part of a group called the AMN Commando, an offshoot of the Chicago Black Panthers that was formed after Black Panther leader Fred Hampton was killed in a police raid. Marslovak and Riordan are both related to persons tied to that raid. The taskforce believes that the current shootings are in revenge for the raid and is close to naming a suspect.”
They were teeing someone up to take the fall, which must mean they were ready to make their move. It was all going down tomorrow.
Lynch’s cell phone rang. Caller ID said Starshak.
“Hey, Captain.”
“Lynch, you heard from Cunningham at all?”
“Not since the wake.”
“Something stinks. Couple of feebs from the taskforce were just in my office, had some OPS puke with them. They tell me they need to talk to him. They tell me he’s gone missing. And when I start asking questions, they pretty much tell me to go fuck myself. Then I hear this news conference crap. I think they’re looking to pin the church shootings on him.”
“You call his place?”
“Yeah. Answering machine.”
“Check with his CO?”
“He didn’t show today. OPS has been over there too, talking to everybody.”
“He got any family?”
“Ex-wife. Called her. She’s freaked. Feds have been to her place with a warrant, tossed it pretty good.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Hearing some other shit too, Lynch. Shit about Johnson and questions she shouldn’t know enough to be asking. You keeping your nose out of this? It’s getting ugly.”
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want an answer to, Captain.” Lynch paused a moment. He’d been pulling at this thing ever since he teamed up with Ferguson, looking for a way to end it that didn’t wind up with another batch of body bags. Whatever that was going to be, he was going to need help he could trust.
“But Cap, keep your phone on, OK?”
Back at his mother’s house, Lynch updated Ferguson and Chen on the call from Starshak.
“Admirable,” said Chen.
“I was thinking evil,” Lynch said.
“I do not concern myself with ethical distinctions. I was commenting on the plan. Clearly, they also have identified Manning as the next target. They have kidnapped Cunningham and are holding him until Fisher takes the shot. They will take Fisher out, kill Cunningham, plant his body, and in doing so, given your association with him in recent weeks, discredit what you have given to the press.”
“So Cunningham’s dead?”
“Not yet,” said Ferguson. “Too hard to disguise a time of death these days, and they’ll want all the forensics to match up. Short-acting sedatives, stuff that passes out of the bloodstream quick. They’ll take Cunningham off his meds in the morning, keep him in soft restraints, walk him right into the scene, and kill him there. Probably already be a fair amount of Fisher’s blood splattered around, so Fisher will go down as one of their boys, probably Cunningham’s last victim. That’ll tie everything in nice and tight.”
“But what about the press? They’re already on this,” said Lynch.
“Contradictory evidence is already being planted, I assure you,” said Chen. “I assume you are being painted as a patsy. The story will be that Cunningham used his connection to you to plant this fairytale about your father and the Hurley murder, and that you, in your grief, failed to analyze the data objectively. Instead, you inadvertently provided Cunningham with information that helped him in his quest. They will recognize your previous heroism, talk of you in sad, glowing terms, order a psych evaluation, and then retire you due to mental health issues. Just another crackpot with a conspiracy theory. Your suicide will follow in short order. Whether and how long Ms Johnson lives will depend on which story she chooses to pursue.”
“And you know all this how?”
“It’s what I would do.”
Lynch looked at Chen. No expression.
“You saying we’re screwed?” Lynch asked.
“Not if we screw them first,” Ferguson said.
CHAPTER 59 – CHICAGO
Weaver stood at the end of the table, leaning on his hands, staring down at the big aerial photo of St Mary’s and environs. Damn, he missed Fergie. Weaver’d never been a long-gun guy, didn’t know the sniper mindset. Fergie would look at this mess and see something. Also he wished he knew where the bastard was. Fergie and Chen on the loose, maybe on the other team, that was not a problem he needed. No time for that now, though. Things worked out tomorrow, then he’d run their asses down.
“You got anything, Uri?”
“When I take a long shot, it’s usually across a lot of sand. Give me a target in a city, and I’ll take an alley and a knife every time. But a few things. He likes to stretch it out, right? Every time so far, he’s been a lot farther from the target than he had to be. And every time, he’s hit them as soon as they are out of the building?”