Second Shooter

By James Gulisano

One man. Two lifetimes.

Mike Lloyd is a nice guy. But once upon a time, he wasn't so nice. Once upon a time, in another body, in another life, Mike Lloyd was at the heart of the greatest unsolved murder in American history. Now, it's all coming back.

Second Shooter: Discover once and for all who pulled the trigger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 8, 2003
• ISBN: 9781469749167

James Gulisano

James Gulisano is the author of The Course of Human Events and a writer for a Fortune 500 company. He lives in Morristown, New Jersey with his wife and children.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

West Virginia, 1961

The target—a dark paper outline of a man’s head and torso suspended from a wire—swayed gently back and forth in the cold morning air. It was quiet at the Marine firing range as a lone soldier holding a rifle stood waiting at the head of the firing lane, fifty yards away. Once the target stopped moving altogether, the soldier squatted, shouldered his weapon and pulled the trigger. A loud report echoed through the woods surrounding the range, and dozens of startled birds rocketed into flight, exploding out of the trees. A bright strip of sunlight burst through the center of the target’s head at a severe angle, like a tiny flashlight aimed at the ground. The slug continued on and buried itself into one of many piled bails of hay behind the target. The soldier rose, and instead of inspecting his handiwork, cocked his head slightly to the left—listening. He pivoted quickly, holding his rifle at the ready, parallel with the ground at waist height. A uniformed officer stepped out of the woods directly in front of him.

The officer barked out, At ease, Sergeant! There was gravel in his voice. Sergeant Henry Clark lowered his weapon and snapped off a quick salute to the approaching officer—a full colonel. Clark recognized this officer; he’d been around the base for a few days. He did not know his name.

Sorry, Colonel, drawled Clark. I figured I was the only fella up at this time in the morning. Took me by surprise.

I’d hardly say that, young man. I wasn’t even near the edge of the woods when you spotted me. The colonel looked to be in his thirties, but had an air of authority appropriate for a much older man. His face was tanned and leathery, with deep crags weathering his face. He stood about 5’10", and had a large, burly chest. He was heavily decorated. The colonel looked mean—he was.

What are you doing here this early, Sergeant?

Just practicing, sir.

Practicing?

My shooting, sir.

Clearly, I can see that, Sergeant! Why are you practicing your shooting, young man?

I…just want to get better.

I see. Can you make that shot again?

Yes sir.

Do it.

Yes sir. Clark spun around, squatted on one knee, and pulled his rifle up against his shoulder. Instantly, he fired the weapon. The target moved, but no more holes appeared.

It appears you missed, Sergeant.

Sir, I think that bullet went clean through the hole.

Colonel Green marched briskly passed Clark, walking down the path of the firing line. When he reached the target, he grabbed it from the bottom with both hands and inspected it closely. Unconvinced, he pulled a pen from his pocket and made a small mark two inches away from the right side of the target’s head.

You see that mark, Sergeant?

Yes sir.

When I clear this lane…hit that mark!

Yes sir.

Colonel Green no sooner crossed into the adjoining firing lane than the loud crack of the rifle sounded again. Colonel Green spun around in time to see the target dancing on the wire. The tiny mark had been replaced by a fresh bullet hole. Green looked down the alley at Sergeant Henry Clark, who sat expressionless.

I think you and I should have a talk, soldier, said Green.

Yes sir.

The two soldiers walked away from the firing range as the dancing target slowly came to a rest.

CHAPTER 2

New Jersey, 2003—3:30 a.m.

Mike Lloyd awoke from a fitful night’s sleep with a heavy jolt. He lay in bed for a few moments, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dark. Sleeping was becoming more and more of a challenge to the thirty-seven year-old would-be writer/ anti-virus software salesman, and he was getting frustrated.

Eventually, objects in the room slowly came into focus. Satisfied that he would be able to make out the walls before smashing a shoulder or stubbing a toe, Mike boosted his tired body out of bed. Old habits die hard, and Mike found himself trying to be quiet as he made his way out of the bedroom. He felt suddenly foolish when it occurred to him that with Patty gone, there was no longer a need to use stealth. Not that he could remain quiet even if he so desired. As a boy he was like a cat—quiet and graceful. But years of sitting around in offices and on long train commutes had taken their toll, and Mike was growing more awkward with each breaking day.

Mike descended the steps leading to the front entrance of the small poor man’s Victorian he and his wife had purchased five years prior. He loved this house—its history, its musty lived-in feel. Patty hadn’t loved it. She had only consented to purchasing the small home to appease him. She was a modern woman whose sense of style was one degree short of loving all things antiseptic. Yellowish light from a street lamp shown through the window and cast a hazy glow over the living room he crossed to get to the kitchen.

Once in the kitchen, Mike tugged at the refrigerator door and bent to get a better look at the contents. Bad idea. The fart he squeezed out was like a balloon with its air being expelled under tremendous pressure. High and mighty, the damn thing woke Sandy the dog—an aging golden retriever lying asleep in the dining room adjoining the kitchen. Dogs being dogs, the old girl came over for a

sniff.

Great, mumbled Mike. Company.

Indeed, Sandy joined him in the dining room for his late-night peanut butter and jelly snack, but she was surprisingly well behaved. As a matter of fact, Sandy was asleep before Mike took his first bite of the second half of his sandwich. After properly demolishing the sandwich, Mike walked back into the living room and sat on the couch.

In the dim light, Mike reflected on the last few months—the things he’d seen in his mind, the dreams that kept him awake, and the ominous feeling that hung over him constantly. His soul was exhausted.

CHAPTER 3

Shortly after falling back into an unfulfilling sleep, Mike was wrenched awake by the wail of his alarm clock. Not even bothering to hit snooze, he pulled himself from beneath his sheets. Careful not to step on Sandy, who had followed him upstairs after his moonlight snack, he headed for the bathroom. He turned the faucets on the shower and adjusted the tempe rature. He dragged himself under the hot water and considered the previous year as he absently scrubbed himself awake.

It began more than a year earlier. On a sunny afternoon in July, while mowing his backyard, Mike was busy mulling over some story ideas. An aspiring writer, Mike was in the middle of a severe drought in ideas. He had terminal writer’s block. He worked as a software salesman to make ends meet—but his true love was writing. And the ideas were simply not coming.

His wife Patty had been in the house, and he could hear the stereo playing loudly through the window of the dining room, which faced the yard. Strains of Louie Louie fresh from an oldies station filtered into the yard and did battle with the clatter of his old mower. The smell of fresh cut grass mingled with the stink of the landmines he’d failed to pick up after Sandy.

All was seemingly well at the Lloyd residence. The walls between them prohibited Mike and Patty to engage in their usual cold bickering. Theirs was a marriage on its last legs. It seemed that habit was all that kept the two married anymore.

Mike was spinning the lawn mower around to take a final pass, when he felt a shock of pain in his right temple. A blinding light overcame him, and it was all he could do to release the handle on the lawnmower—disengaging the blade and cutting off power to the machine. As the mower ground to a stop, Mike leaned on its handle. A foggy image began to spin in front of him.

He saw the hazy representation of a large man, wearing a sleeveless t-shirt—a wife-beater, as he and his friends called