When the tiny world settled again, and the time in flight had expired, he made out a wisp of dust and the man, having turned at the sharp disturbance in the soil, trying to imagine what had caused such an occurrence.

His phone rang.

“A miss. I would say by a good twenty-five yards. The line to him seemed right.”

“Yes,” said Juba.

He was annoyed. This was the first test at distance, and why had the device not worked as it was supposed to?

He broke his position on the rifle, put his fingers to the elevation knob, calculated quickly that he was at least a full arcminute off, and therefore clicked in the appropriate improvement. One arcminute: two clicks.

He worked the bolt, gently ejecting the spent cartridge case, shoved the bolt forward and locked it down, thereby reloading and cocking. He assumed the same careful position, and when it was time, and he had settled into stilled perfection, his finger rewarded him with a shot.

The same ceremony of recoil and recovery through time in flight. He waited for everything to settle and the phone to ring. He saw dust at the target, roiling and buzzing, eventually clearing to reveal the man, untouched.

“Just a nick off. Hit near his feet. Maybe a whisper to the left.”

“Yes, yes,” said Juba, confident that he had it now.

He made adjustments: one click of elevation up, one click of windage to the left.

Into position, rifle steady, on scope.

And there he was, tiny, human, frail, doomed and knowing it, pulling hard against the stake, his face raised to God for mercy or maybe forgiveness. For this man, the time was now, the place was here, and the next world, whichever it may be, beckoned.

The rifle fired, rose and fell.

Time in flight: 5.1 seconds.

Juba was back on by then and saw the point of impact. Somewhere in the lower chest, the body’s midline, right at the boundary between chest and entrails. The bullet emptied its total remaining power into him, a thousand pounds’ worth, and the shock drove him backwards into the post, hair flying, body in spasm, a trace of dust vibrating off his clothes from the hit. He was dead before he went limp against his chains.

“Thank you, brother,” said Juba. “You have helped me. May God be merciful on your soul.”

It was the only prayer the fellow got.

35

No Tell Motel, Route 26, Grapevine, Texas

His name was Lawrence M. Wakowski. His nickname, in certain sectors of his life, was Whack Job. In other sectors of his life, it was Mr. Wakowski. To the FBI, the nomenclature was determined by who held the leverage. Sometimes they called him Whack Job and enjoyed making him squirm and whine, other times it was Mr. Wakowski and he was treated with deference, respect, and other trappings of fealty.

“Thanks for coming, Mr. Wakowski,” said Jeff Neill.