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

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.