His opportunity could come in several ways. If the wind picked up from the north behind him, it would be difficult for Marc to use his rifle sight in the blowing snow. There was also the possibility of diversion from another animal. All he had to do was be patient, and waiting was the most difficult task of all.
The Caretaker checked his ammunition and smiled. He’d brought enough to take care of everyone and then some. Although it seemed impossible, Betty was still alive. The nurse must have sabotaged that injection somehow. He should have thought to check it. Another mistake that he shouldn’t have made.
He figured Walker was the one who had run for cover. The rest of them would still be huddled in Betty’s room, trying to decide what to do. They might have hooked up with Paul and Jayne by now, but that wouldn’t help them much. Not a man of action, it took Paul days to make a decision, and he’d never dash across the snow in a foolish attempt to outrun a man with a rifle. It had to be Walker. Of course the shot had given away his position. It was a bad break for him, but nothing he couldn’t handle. Walker still had a clear patch of snow to cross, and that would be suicide, especially since the absence of return fire meant that he was unarmed. Either Walker was stupid or he had real balls; it didn’t really matter which.
They’d plugged the air-conditioner vent with wet towels and were gathered at the windows. The open panel provided adequate ventilation. Grace peered out the window and frowned. “Marc’s got Walker pinned down in the grove. Think he’s hit?”
“Marc’s shot went wild.” Ellen let out her breath in a shuddering sigh. She’d seen the snow kick up at least ten feet in back of Walker.
“But now Marc knows that Walker’s out there.” Grace’s voice was shaking. “We’ve got to help. If we had a gun, we could draw Marc’s fire.”
Betty spoke up. “Race gun! Ready, set, go?”
Moira stared down at Betty in shock. “The starter pistol. Je . . . Jeepers, Betty! Alzheimer’s or not, you’re smarter than all of us put together.”
Paul’s knuckles were white by the time they passed the outskirts of town. He didn’t like planes, and helicopters were even worse. He stared down at the darkness below and hoped that the pilot had plenty of experience.
“Ten floors and there’s only one entrance to the building, is that right?” An officer wearing camouflage fatigues and carrying a clipboard sat down next to him.
“Unless you count the balconies, nine on the south side of the building. Someone could reach the first-floor balcony, but the sliding glass door to the unit will be locked from the inside with a metal post which slides into a hole on the frame. It is the type of burglar-proof lock the police recommend.”
“No problem.” The officer made a note. “And there’s no way for us to land on the roof?”
“No, the roof is a dome made of Plexiglas. However, there is a field one hundred and eighteen yards from the building on the east side. That is where the other helicopter made its landing.”
“Garage?”
“It covers three-quarters of the ground floor. The main entrance is there, served by an elevator which is not functioning. My wife and I used the stairs. The remainder of the space is subdivided into a one-bedroom apartment and security office.”
“And how many civilians are inside?”
It took Paul a moment to realize that anyone who wasn’t a police officer must be a civilian. “Four, perhaps five. I do not know if Marc Davies is still alive.”
“Four confirmed with a possible five,” the officer noted, handing Paul the clipboard.
“Make a rough layout of the building, including the elevator shaft and the stairwells. Use red marks to indicate where you last saw the civilians. Our ETA is ten minutes.”
Paul bent over the clipboard and began to sketch. The bright splashes of color against the white paper, one each for Moira, Grace, Betty, and Ellen, with a question mark on the seventh floor for Marc, made him shiver. Perhaps it was because red was the color of blood.
“This is a real treat.” The doctor closed his bag and smiled at her. “No bullets, no knife wounds, not even a broken bone. You ought to see the ones they usually call me in for.”
Jayne laughed. He was a wonderful doctor, old enough to be trusted and young enough to be up-to-date.
“Are you currently taking any medication, Mrs. Lindstrom?”
“No. Oh, I almost forgot!” Jayne reached into her pocket and took out the vial of Betty’s medication that Paul had grabbed from the nurse’s bag. “My neighbor has to have a shot of this every six hours. We were afraid they’d forget to bring it along when they rescued her, especially now that her nurse is . . . is dead.” Jayne’s voice broke and she began to sob. She wasn’t sure why, since she hadn’t cared for Margaret Woodard much when she’d been alive, but her death put a different perspective on things.
“That’s all right, Mrs. Lindstrom. You’ve been through a real strain.” The doctor patted her shoulder as he reached out to take the vial. Puzzled, he read the label. “What’s wrong with your neighbor?”
“She has Alzheimer’s.”
“Does she have a history of violent behavior?”
Her tears were gone now, as quickly as they’d come, and Jayne wondered if she was turning into a basket case. “I don’t think so. At least Dr. Glaser never mentioned it. He drives up to examine her every month and he brings a supply of her drugs for the . . . the nurse.”
“Dr. Glaser?”
“Dr. Harvey Glaser. I ran into him in the elevator a couple of months ago, and I’d rather take my chances with a ten-foot rattler than let him . . .” Jayne stopped and winced, realizing that she was bad-mouthing the doctor in front of a colleague. “Well, let’s just say I didn’t much care for his manner. But I’m sure he’s very competent.”
“He was, before his death four years ago.”
“But I don’t understand! He told me he was Dr. Harvey Glaser.”
“He lied. Do you know what this is, Mrs. Lindstrom?” The doctor pointed to the vial and Jayne shook her head. “It’s Melahydroflorizine, a sledgehammer of a drug used to calm violent psychotics. The side effects are short-term memory loss, slurred speech, and the inability to form sentences. If I wanted to give someone the symptoms of Alzheimer’s, I’d use this drug on a regular basis.”
Jayne’s mind was spinning. It was beginning to add up. “Then Betty doesn’t have Alzheimer’s?”
“I’d be willing to bet she doesn’t. But someone sure as hell wanted you to think she did!”
Ellen stepped onto the scaffolding and held the rope with both hands. She’d found a utility belt in the office and cinched it around her waist. The starting pistol was in a pouch on the right, along with a coil of rope. She’d slipped her tennis racket into a loop on the left, not much of a weapon, but at least she knew how to swing it. On the ground, she’d take up a position on the south side of the building where the juniper was thick, then fire the pistol. And while she was drawing Marc’s fire, Moira, Betty, and Grace would come down on the scaffolding and head for the woods.
She shut her eyes as Moira began to lower her with the crank. She’d always been afraid of heights and what awaited her on the ground wasn’t exactly reassuring. The only thing that kept her going was the thought of Walker out there alone, pinned down by Marc’s assault rifle.
The scaffolding swayed and Ellen bit back a moan of fear. She couldn’t make a sound. It was vital that Marc not see the scaffolding. It was their only means of escape.
Walker rubbed his hands together to warm them. It was bitter cold despise the windbreak under the pines. He knew he had to move soon, before the sky began to lighten. The darkness was his only advantage.