Seventh Enemy (13 page)

“A little slow. I’ve sold maybe three or four this spring.”

“If a man wanted to get himself, say, an Uzi…”

He shrugged. “No problem. I haven’t got one in stock, but I could order it for you. I get ’em on trade-in now and then, too.”

“As easy as that?”

He smiled. “So far, that’s all there is to it. You want to buy a gun, if I’ve got what you’re after here, you give me money, show me your FID card, and I give you the gun.”

“That’s it?”

“Yup. That’s it.”

“Any gun?”

“Any gun you want. If I ain’t got it in stock, I can order it for you. Whatever you want.”

“Even a military weapon?”

“You bet. Except for full automatic, of course.”

“There’s no waiting period or anything?”

“Thank God, not yet. Matter of time, I suppose, the way things are going.” He cocked his head at me. “You lookin’ for an Uzi?”

“Nope. Not today. This knife will do me for today.”

He dropped the knife into a bag, and I took it, thanked him, and headed for the door. A table just inside the entrance held a coffee machine and a stack of papers. I picked one up. The SAFE logo was blazoned across the top—a flintlock musket poking through the A in SAFE, and under it the slogan: “The right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.”

“Can I take one of these?” I said to the guy behind the counter.

“Help yourself. They’re free. Just got ’em in Wednesday.”

I waved and went out to my car.

When I slid behind the wheel I looked at the four-page newsletter. The front page was taken up by a two-column article with the title, “Another Attack on Gun Owners.”

It was written by Gene McNiff, SAFE executive director. I skimmed it. It gave an acutely biased summary of each witness’s testimony on the assault-weapon bill, and concluded with a dire warning about the impact the legislation would have, if passed, on the liberties of the American people.

Walt Kinnick’s statement before the subcommittee was characterized as a “cynical betrayal.”

The second page, and the first column on page three, contained a series of short pieces reporting events at New England rod-and-gun clubs.

The right-hand column on the third page was called “Know Your Enemy.”

It was a list, and the words “Brady Coyne” jumped from the middle of it and smacked me in the face.

“The following people,” read the lead-in to the list, “want to take your guns away from you. Let them hear from you. Let them know how you feel. Let them know that all of us decent law-abiding gun owners are not going to lay back while they rip up our Constitution.”

There were ten of us, complete with our mailing addresses and phone numbers. Walt Kinnick was number one. Second was Marlon Swift (R-Marshfield), the state senator who had chaired the subcommittee before which Wally had testified. Then came the governor of Connecticut, followed by both United States senators from Massachusetts and the congressman from Rhode Island’s Second District.

Then, in seventh place, Brady Coyne. Me. Enemy number seven.

Seeing my name there in print made me shiver. I was an actual enemy. I was on a list. Name, phone number, address.

Wally was at the top of the list, and he had nearly been assassinated. Somebody had let Wally know how he felt. The list, giving his phone number, came out on Wednesday, just two days after the hearing. That’s when he began getting phone calls.

SAFE obviously didn’t take their enemies lightly.

They shot them.

One week earlier I had never even heard of the Second Amendment For Ever organization. Now my friend had been shot in the stomach, and I was their seventh-ranked enemy.

I wasn’t sure I had the courage to be a worthy enemy.

Then I thought, Hell, if they wanted an enemy that badly, they could have me. Like Boston Blackie from the early television days, I was willing to be an enemy of those who made me an enemy.

Blackie had been a friend to those who had no friends, and that suited me, too. Walt Kinnick seemed to be losing a lot of friends.

I glanced at the rest of the names that filled out the list of ten. Eighth was a United States senator from Vermont, Number nine was a congresswoman from Maine. Gun-control advocates, I assumed.

Number ten was Wilson Bailey, the poor guy whose wife and child had been mowed down in a small-town library near Worcester by an angry man with an assault gun. Wilson Bailey had struck me as an eminently worthy enemy, a man with plenty of courage and conviction. Wilson Bailey might need a friend, too. As I started up the car and pulled out of the parking area, I thought of the guy behind the counter of the gun shop. Either he hadn’t read my name off my credit card, or he hadn’t committed the SAFE list to memory. I doubted he’d have been so friendly if he’d realized I was such an important threat to his livelihood, even if I did buy a nice Buck knife from him.

I
GOT ALL MY
gear put away and took a short glass of ice cubes and bourbon out onto my balcony to think about it all. A moon sliver hung like a thin slice of honeydew melon over the horizon. I lit a cigarette and sipped from my glass. It was very clear to me that some fanatical member of SAFE had tried to kill Wally. The newsletter had given Wally’s phone number and post office box number in Fenwick. The SAFE vigilante had called the number and left his message. A few inquiries of the local shopkeepers and gas station attendants would have directed him to “the Palmer place,” Walt’s cabin.

Probably it was seeing my own name on that list that led me to my next conclusion. Or maybe it was irrational. But it seemed eminently likely to me that the same crazy man who shot Wally might have gotten it into his skewed brain to work his way clown the list, picking off enemies one by one, to the greater glory of God, Country, and the Second Amendment For Ever.

I’d he number seven, if he got that far.

State Senator Marlon Swift was number two. If my logic was sound, he would be next.

There had been two messages on my machine when I got back from my adventures in the Berkshires. The first was from Doc Adams, Sunday afternoon, advising me that Wally was safely ensconced in a private room at Mass General Hospital. Doc had dropped in on Wally and found him sleeping.

Charlie McDevitt had called, asking for a report on the trout fishing.

There were no anonymous death threats.

Not yet, I thought. It wasn’t my turn.

I watched the moon rise for the length of time it took me to finish my drink. Then I went inside. I found the SAFE newsletter, sat at the kitchen table, and punched out the phone number for Senator Marlon Swift’s home in Marshfield.

A woman answered. I asked for the senator.

“Who’s calling, please?” she said. Her voice was pleasant, neutral, efficient, as if she was used to having strangers call on Sunday evenings and knew how to handle them.

“My name is Brady Coyne,” I said. “I’m Walt Kinnick’s attorney.”

“Who?”

“Walt Kinnick,” I said. “He testified before Senator Swift’s subcommittee on Monday. If it’s not convenient…”

“I’ll see if he can come to the phone,” she said.

A minute later a cautious voice said, “Yes?”

“Senator Swift,” I said, “it’s Brady Coyne. I’m Walt Kinnick’s lawyer.”

“Sure,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Have you seen the latest SAFE newsletter?”

He chuckled. “Yes. Walt Kinnick has supplanted me as their number-one enemy. Damned disappointing. My constituents want me to be at the top of that list. Gun control is a big issue in my district.”

“Did you know that Wally was shot?”

There was a long pause. Then he said, “What did you say?”

“Walt Kinnick was shot. It happened Friday up at his cabin in Fenwick. He’s—”

“Is he all right?”

“Yes, I guess he’s going to be okay. They transferred him to Mass General this afternoon.”

“What do you mean, shot?”

“He was in the woods. They got him in the stomach.”

“And you think…”

“Senator, Wally was number one on that list. You’re number two.”

He laughed quickly. “And you, if I recall, Mr. Coyne, are also on the list.”

“Yes. I’m seven.”

“So you’re calling—”

“To warn you, I guess.”

“You think there’s some nut working his way down the list, is that it? First Kinnick, second me?”

“I don’t know. Yes. That occurred to me.”

“Mr. Coyne,” said Swift, “you’d probably be surprised to know that Gene McNiff and I are good friends.”

“As a matter of fact, yes, that surprises me.”

“We’ve worked together on several pieces of legislation. As the chairman of the Subcommittee on Public Safety, I need the support and advice of men like McNiff.”

“But—”

“We disagree on gun control. But we agree on many things.”

“I see.”

“You’re not into politics much, huh?”

“I’ve read my Machiavelli.”

“Well, if you’ve read old Niccolò carefully, you would understand that Gene McNiff and I are both politicians. He understands my position. I understand his. We respect each other. He’s damn good at what he does.” Swift hesitated. “So am I. That’s why I keep getting reelected.”

“If I remember correctly,” I said, “Machiavelli said that it’s better to be feared than loved. Maybe SAFE has taken that piece of wisdom to heart.”

“Machiavelli also said that politicians should know how to play both the lion and the fox. Gene McNiff’s very foxy. No fox would send an assassin after his enemies.”

“Well,” I said, “I just thought I’d let you know. Wally had a couple of threatening phone calls before they shot him.”

“Phone calls, huh?”

“Yes. I heard one of them. The caller said Wally was an enemy of SAFE and deserved to die.”

“And you think one of these callers shot him, is that it?”

“It seems pretty obvious. I mean, the sheriff out there thinks it was a hunting accident, but—”

“If you intended to shoot somebody, would you call them first?”

“I don’t know what I’d do if I was that crazy. Sure. Maybe I would.”

“I’ve been on the SAFE list for years,” said Swift. “No one has taken a shot at me yet.”

“You’re not concerned, then?”

“Nope. Damned sorry about Walt. But I suspect that sheriff’s probably right.”

“Well, I’m sorry to bother you, then,” I said. “Just figured you might want to know.”

“Look, Mr. Coyne. I appreciate the call, and I’m glad it’s not a death threat.” He chuckled softly. “But listen. Number seven’s pretty far down the list, so I don’t think you need to be too concerned. They’ll catch up with him before he gets that far.”

I hung up, feeling vaguely foolish.

Maybe it
was
a hunting accident.

Nah. No way.

I poured one more finger of Jack Daniel’s over the half-melted ice cubes in my glass, then pecked out the Wellesley number.

“Hello?” Gloria’s voice sounded sleepy.

“Wake you up?”

“Oh, Brady. No. I was reading.”

“Just to let you know that I’m back.”

“You didn’t have to.” She yawned, “I wasn’t worried about you. I mean, you didn’t fall in, did you?”

“No.”

“Catch lots of fish?”

“A few.”

“Well,” she said, “that’s nice.”

“The boys okay?”

“I guess.”

“You?”

“I’m fine, Brady. Thank you. Shit.”

“What?”

I heard her sigh. “I guess I don’t know why you called.”

“I just wanted to hear a friendly voice.”

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you.” She hesitated. “I
am
sorry. I would just think, after ten—what is it, almost twelve?—after twelve years…”

“We can still be friends,” I said.

“We
are
friends. I’m glad you’re back safe and sound. Welcome home. I’m sorry I’m grouchy.”

“It’s fine. Your grouchiness. It’s comforting.”

She laughed. “Good night, Brady.”

“Good night, Gloria.”

I hung up and went to bed.

J
ULIE, AS EXPECTED, HAD
a big backlog of phone calls for me to return, conferences to schedule, and papers to go over. I did all the phone business and look a halfhearted swipe at the papers, and it wasn’t until mid-afternoon when I finally got the chance to call state police headquarters at 1010 Commonwealth Avenue.

I asked for Lieutenant Horowitz, expecting I’d have to leave a message for him. But he picked up the phone and growled, “Yeah. Horowitz.”

“Coyne,” I said.

“I’m busy. We’re even. No favors.”

“You already know that Walt Kinnick was shot over the weekend, then.”

“What?”

“Walt Kinnick was—”

“I heard you. Kinnick’s the television guy, right? His name’s been in the papers. What happened?”

“You haven’t heard.”

“For Christ sake, Coyne. If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking, would I?”

“I suppose not.”

“So tell me.”

I told him.

Horowitz was quiet for a moment after I finished. Then he mumbled, “It’s not our jurisdiction. Local cops. Unless they invite us in.” Another pause, then, “Lemme see what I can find out.”

“Sheriff Mason was the one I talked to,” I said.

“Mason, huh?”

“From Fenwick, I assume. That’s where the cabin is.”

“I can figure it out, Coyne.”

“I found three spent rifle cartridges in the woods.”

“At the scene of the crime, huh?”

“Yes.”

“And you gave them to the sheriff, right?”

“No.”

“Why the hell not? You trying to obstruct justice, Coyne?”

“Mason thinks it was a hunting accident.”

“And you don’t, of course.”

“No. That’s why I’m calling you.”

“Thanks a shitload. What the hell do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know. Do you want these cartridges or not?”

“It’s not my jurisdiction, I told you.”

“I know. They’re .223 Remington. Varmint load.”

He chuckled. “Varmint, eh?”

“Yes. I talked with a guy at a gun shop.”

“You at your office now?”

“Yes.”

“Got those cartridges with you?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll have somebody pick them up.”