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Sniper

Bob Strother

    Benny had watched the old woman for weeks. She was one of a number of elderly widows living in Chicago’s Albany Park, a crumbling neighborhood made up primarily of Swedish and Russian immigrants. Her house, wedged narrowly between boxwood hedges, was a two-story yellow frame with peeling paint. Time and sun had faded the trim over the years, bathing the entire structure in the washed-out tones of an old photograph. The place’s most remarkable feature lay behind the picket fence separating the property from the sidewalk: colorful flowers, every hue of the rainbow, and lush green foliage blanketing the small, but well-cared-for yard. The colors reminded Benny of the pages in his collection of Avengers comic books.
    Benny sat with his back resting against the sagging side of a dilapidated, alley-side garage a half block down the street, baseball cap pulled low on his forehead, shading his pimply face. His yellowed T-shirt had soaked through with sweat, becoming transparent against his skin. Beneath his dirty jeans, socks that had not felt the tug of elasticity in years disappeared into new, black high-top Converse sneakers. “Felony shoes” the cops called them, ‘cause they were made for running.
    He’d figured out the old woman’s routine. It was similar to several others Benny had taken advantage of. On or about the last day of the month, her social security check arrived in the mail. And, like clockwork, the old bat would put on her Sunday dress—a garish, filmy print featuring large blue flowers on a white background—and walk first to the bank and then to the grocery store. Benny had followed her and noted the sizeable wad of bills she’d pulled from her purse to pay the grocer.
    This morning had been no different. He’d stayed well back of her, but her routine was the same. Now all he had to do was to wait for her to go to bed. Benny had been creeping houses since he was fifteen. At first, he’d made sure no one was home, using a pry bar on the door, and scavenging for items he could fence. Then, in one house, he’d happened on an envelope from the Social Security Administration stuffed with tens and twenties. The idea occurred to him that if he played it right, he could forgo the middleman and go directly for the cash. The elderly, he concluded, liked to keep their cash close at hand. And that was fine. Close to them was close to him.
    In the two years since his revelation, he’d brought in the amounts he needed to keep himself in high-dollar sneakers and to score enough marijuana to keep his mind off the parade of men his mother dragged home with her every night. On the positive side of that situation, she was always too preoccupied to notice when he sneaked out of the house.
    His successes had made him bolder. He’d graduated from empty houses during the day to occupied ones, but after the household was asleep. Only then could he be sure the money was in the house. Over the nearly two dozen places he’d broken into, he’d had only one close call—an old lady who’d awakened while he was still in her bedroom, and screamed bloody murder. Benny was fleet of foot, though—something he prided himself on—and he’d been three blocks away before he’d heard sirens in the distance.
    The sun had already dropped below the old house’s gables. Soon the lights would come on in the kitchen, then upstairs, and then the windows would go dark. In a few hours, he’d be ready. Benny rose from the ground and stretched. He would have plenty of time for a sandwich before going out again. Maybe he’d cage an Old Milwaukee from the stash in the fridge. His mom never remembered how much she had, anyway. He smiled as he ambled down the alley toward 3rd Street, thinking about how he might spend his money.

.....

    The moon was bright when Benny returned to his spot by the alley and surveyed the street. That was good because it meant he’d have some light to see by, and he could minimize the use of the small Maglight he’d stuffed into the back pocket of his jeans. The post-midnight neighborhood was quiet as a cemetery, nothing moving, no porch lights glowing, no traffic. He moved out of the shadows, crossed the street, and opened the picket fence gate. His rubber-soled shoes made no sound as he tiptoed up the steps and listened at the front door. Benny felt the adrenalin pumping through his veins as he slipped the pry bar between the door and the doorframe and applied slow, steady pressure.
    The door gave way with a soft thunk and the air around him filled with the faint aroma of cooked cabbage and onions. As he moved quietly into the front hallway, an older, musty smell pervaded his nostrils, like old books left mildewing in a closet. He took a deep breath, surveyed his surroundings in the wan glow of the moonlight, and waited for his heart rate to slow. To his left lay an open living area—a couple of chairs, a desk, and a sofa. To his right, sliding double doors closed off what might be a parlor or a room used for storage. Directly in front of him, a long hallway and stairs led up to the second floor. He was disappointed at seeing no hall table, a favored location for placing house keys and purses.
    He moved cautiously into the room to his left, slipped the Maglight out, and flipped it on. The small circle of light revealed nothing of interest until he shined it on the desk. There, lying among an array of framed photographs, was the old woman’s purse. His heart rate jumped again as he reached inside and spied the fat roll of bills secured with a rubber band. Jackpot.
    He was just stuffing the roll into his jeans’ pocket when he heard a soft click and the room was bathed in bright light. Benny turned in surprise, dropping the Maglight. The old woman stood in front of the double doors, now slightly open. She held an old-looking rifle in her arms, the muzzle pointed directly at him. Benny swallowed hard.
    “Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked, pronouncing “what” with a “v” like vhat.
    Benny said nothing. He judged the distance between himself and the door, wondering at his chances if he ran. Then his eyes trailed back to the rifle, a bolt-action relic that looked much too heavy for the woman holding it. Still, the muzzle remained steady on his chest.
    She gestured with the barrel toward a spot in front of the sofa. “Sit.”
    Benny didn’t want to sit. If he sat, his movement would be hindered, his chance for escape diminished. But the look in her eye compelled him to move. He sat down on the floor, his back to the sofa, the wad of bills creating a small lump in his pocket. The old woman took a chair next to the desk some ten feet away, resting the rifle across her knees, her finger still on the trigger.
    “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said. Though she wore a housecoat and slippers, her eyes showed no signs of sleep. “I’ve seen you following me, saw you today at the grocery and up by the alley, later.”
    Benny wanted to say something—anything—but the words buzzed around in his head like flies trapped in a jar. Finally, he managed, “I’m sorry.”
    “Sorry,” she repeated, her features emotionless, looking at him as though he were a roach on her kitchen floor.
    Benny’s eyes darted around the room, settled on the desk and the photographs. He nodded in that direction. “Your family?” he asked in a hoarse voice.
    The woman turned her head slightly and her eyes softened just a bit. She slipped her finger from the trigger guard and pointed at a photo showing a thin young man and woman in brown uniforms. The man had a rifle strapped to his back; the woman had her arm through his. “That was my husband,” she said. “We fought in the Russian Army during The Great Patriotic War.”
    It was working, Benny thought. If he could just get her distracted enough, he might have a chance at the door.
    She gestured to another photo in which another smiling young man, also in uniform, stood on the platform of a railway station. “And that was my son, Arkady. He was killed in Afghanistan.”
    Benny pointed to the framed certificate centered between the two previous photographs. It featured a brass-colored circular medal suspended from a brown, red, and gold ribbon. The writing on it was foreign—he could tell that much. It looked like no alphabet he’d ever seen. “What’s that?”
    “A medal of valor,” she said. She touched the certificate with one gnarled finger. “Our snipers received such a medal when they killed fifty or more Germans.”
    So, the old man had been a sniper. That explained where the rifle had come from—probably brought it with him when he and the old lady came to America. He pulled his legs up in front of him, thinking of making a break for the door. But at his movement, the woman snapped back to attention, her eyes narrowing.
    “Tell me,” she said, “how many people you have robbed.”
    “None,” Benny said. “I never robbed no one, never been arrested or nothing.”
    “You were robbing me tonight, and I think you have robbed many people in my neighborhood, old women like me, yes, because you think we are helpless?”
    “Like I said, I—”
    “Did you know Missus Pavlichenko, who lived just down the block? Someone broke into her house four months ago. She awakened while the robber was still in her bedroom and called nine-one-one.”
    Benny shook his head. “I never—”
    “She was dead of a heart attack when the police arrived. Did you know that? I think that was you who killed my friend.”
    Oh, Jeez. The old bat was crazy. She was gonna pop him while he sat there on his ass. Beads of sweat formed on Benny’s forehead and upper lip. “Look, you can’t just shoot me ‘cause some old lady died of a heart attack. The cops—that’s murder—they’ll put you in jail.”
    A thin smile pulled at the corners of the old woman’s mouth. “I don’t think so, an elderly widow like me, and even if they do, my husband and son are gone. Except for a few friends, I don’t have so very much to live for.” She shifted the rifle, pointing it at Benny again. “And you with no arrests? What will they do if I call the police? Give you a slap on the hand? That is what I think will happen, and then, before long, you will be back robbing my friends and neighbors again, maybe kill someone else, maybe even me.”
    Benny watched as her finger tightened on the trigger. Oh, Jeez! Oh, Jeez! She’s gonna do it! He bolted up from the floor, smacked the barrel of the rifle as he swept by the old woman, and yanked open the door. In seconds, he was down the steps and out into the yard. He cleared the fence with inches to spare and ran for all he was worth down the darkened street. A half-block away, he paused for a moment and chanced a glance over his shoulder.
    The old lady had come out onto the porch, light from the open doorway casting her body in silhouette, the rifle she still carried bisecting her thin frame like the cross portion of a crucifix. While Benny watched, she descended the steps and threaded her way slowly through the rows of flowers, stopping at the fence line.
    A strangled yelp of triumph escaped Benny’s throat. He’d made it! He turned and loped off again, the steady fwap, fwap, fwap of his sneakers sounding to him like the beating wings of freedom.
    He’d almost made the corner, was bathed in the glow of a streetlamp, when the front of his chest exploded and the rifle’s report echoed in the still night air. His feet left the ground—no wings of freedom here, though—and a split-second later, he crashed face-first onto the street. He tried to move but nothing worked. He shifted his gaze, saw the blood pooling around his body, thought of his mom. Wished he were home in his bed. In the few remaining seconds of his life, Benny had time for one last thought: It wasn’t the old woman’s husband who was the sniper...

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