Free The Sniper's Wife by Archer Mayor

hopelessness.
    The Re-Coop, in other words, was truly a product of its environment.
    Willy crossed the street and walked through the door under the brightly painted sign—the only thing distinguishing this entrance from any of its equally dark and brooding neighbors.
    That, thankfully, was where all comparisons stopped, however. Once inside, Willy was pleasantly surprised at the light and cheerful atmosphere that greeted him. The walls were colorfully painted and decorated, plants and flowers plentiful, and toys and children’s books piled in the corners. It reminded him of an upbeat day-care center in some well-heeled suburb.
    “How can I help?” a young woman asked from behind a reception counter. The only doors in the room, other than the one he’d just used, were located behind her on either side, and the front windows, so blank from the street, he saw now had been painted in, further ensuring privacy.
    “Yeah. I’d like to talk to someone about Mary Kunkle.” He did the routine with the quick flip of the badge.
    “What was that supposed to be?” she asked, just as quickly.
    He went to Plan B without a pause, pulling the badge back out of his pocket with a feigned sigh of exasperation and laying it on the counter before her. “It’s a badge— Vermont Bureau of Investigation. No one’s ever heard of us. I usually don’t even bother showing it, but I thought you’d like to know who I was.”
    She peered at it carefully, patently unimpressed. “I bet. Looks real flashy. Why don’t you wait over there?” She pointed to a chair near the front door. “I’ll get somebody to talk with you.”
    She slid off her chair and disappeared through one of the back doors. Willy sat down and studied the room carefully, eventually finding the small surveillance camera he’d been expecting. Drug rehab centers came in all shapes and sizes, from the dreary dumps that made shooting up seem like a friendly alternative, to the cold, clinical, hospital look-alikes that reduced everyone in them to the status of a lab rat.
    This place was the happy medium, had obviously been set up with serious cash, and would logically have a security system to protect itself. Willy waved at the camera.
    Five minutes later, a black woman in her fifties with her hair pulled back in a bun appeared behind the counter. She was solidly built, dressed in no-nonsense, practical clothes, and didn’t look as though she appreciated having her time wasted. Willy recognized her as one of the smiling people in the photograph—the one standing in the group’s center.
    “You were asking about Mary Kunkle?” she asked.
    He stood up. “Yes. I used to be her husband.”
    She studied him silently for a few moments. Suddenly the front door opened and a pale, scrawny young man stepped in, stopped nervously in his tracks, and looked at them both. The older woman’s face broke into a wide smile. “Hey, Tommy, good you could make it. Let me tell Dave you’re here.”
    She then gave Willy a hard look, although she kept her voice artificially bright. “Why don’t you come with me?”
    Willy followed her through to a back hallway lined with closed doors and muted lighting. She stopped at one of the doors, stuck her head in, and said, “Tommy’s here,” before leading Willy to what was apparently her own office halfway down the corridor. Again, the environment was soothing, upbeat, pleasant, and well paid for.
    “You guys must be pretty good fund-raisers,” Willy commented.
    The woman pointed at a comfortable armchair facing her desk. “Sit.”
    She circled the desk, settled behind it, and steepled her fingers just below her chin, so that she was looking at Willy as if he’d been pinned under glass.
    “One call to the police department about that little trick with the badge and I could have you arrested.”
    “It’s real,” he said without emotion.
    “It’s also irrelevant, and it was used to intimidate. I don’t like that.”
    “Okay.”
    “What