Assassins Have Starry Eyes Read Free

under the circumstances, after some discussion with Washington, the local authorities have agreed to drop the matter. So you can quit holding your breath now.”
    I whispered, “I don’t like that. It smells like a cover-up. If there’s supposed to be a hearing, I want a hearing.”
    He grinned. “What you want, Dr. Gregory,” he said gently, “is one of the lesser problems confronting the administration in Washington. They, for obvious reasons, want no unnecessary publicity. The case is therefore closed. Now tell me: was he shooting at a deer or a man?”
    I glanced at him. He was lighting the pipe now. “I assumed a deer,” I said.
    “Why?”
    “No reason to think otherwise.”
    “None except the striking coincidence of a key research man getting shot shortly after completing his report on the initial phase of a very hush program from which great things are expected.”
    I said, “If I’d been shot before completing the report, it would have been even more striking.”
    “You were wearing a red cap and a red plaid shirt, and sitting on a stump in the middle of an open clearing. How in God’s name could anybody have mistaken you for a deer? Enough to fire five shots at you?”
    I said, “It may sound screwy, but it happens every year. It was the morning of the first day of the season. The guy was keyed up; he snapped a shot at something he just saw out of the corner of his eye. The target flopped and started crashing around in the brush. As far as he was concerned, the biggest damn buck in the world was down over there, and was he going to let it get away? Not on your life.”
    He said, “If you’re so sure of that, why did you shoot to kill?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “If you’d shot for the body, he might have stood a chance.”
    I whispered, “He was standing in brush up to his neck. A .270 won’t shoot through brush, not with the 130-grain load I was using. The bullet’s too light, traveling too fast. Any little twig will deflect it or even make it fly apart. I should tell you about bullets? I shot at the only target I stood a reasonable chance of hitting, Van. Don’t build any fancy theories on that. At the time, I never thought that it was anything but a trigger-happy hunter.”
    “And now?”
    “I still think so. If somebody wanted me dead, they’d have sent a better shot. Or a guy who could at least keep his head when he missed the first one. There I was, anchored to the spot, yelling at him to stop shooting, obviously suspecting not a thing. All he had to do, if murder was his business, was to come running up with an expression of shock and concern on his face, ask me how badly I was hurt, fuss around trying to make me comfortable, set my gun out of reach—and slit my throat from ear to ear. Instead of which he stood blazing away, just hoping if he fired enough shots in my general direction one would connect. Is that the behavior of a steel-nerved professional killer, or of an excited deer hunter?”
    Van Horn grinned. “You make it sound very plausible. I can see you’ve given it some thought, which is kind of significant in itself. Well, we’re checking. I might add that we’re getting not a damn thing. So far. But there’s the interesting coincidence of the young fellow and his hunting companion picking the same camp ground you had chosen; and I don’t like coincidences—”
    “Wait a minute!” I whispered. “Two kids in a jeep… One of those?”
    “Didn’t you know? His name was Hagen, Paul Hagen. His partner’s name was Antonio Rasmussen—there’s a nice New Mexico combination of names for you. We’re checking on him too. They were both students at the University, which may or may not mean something.” He glanced at his watch. “Well, I’d better get out before the nurse kicks me out. I’ve stuck a couple of men next door, just in case somebody might try again. Three rings on the buzzer will get them. Take it easy.”
    I watched him leave. The door closed. I