He could never make it across the huge playing area, and if he did there was no place to go when he reached the other side.
The bullpen gate was open; he gulped air into his tortured lungs and bolted through, desperately hoping that there would be a way out on the other side. There was, another gate stood open, but beyond it there was only a great openness, and the concreted banks of a dry river where he could never hope to hide. Then he saw the foot of the towering A-frame and fastened to it the little car provided to lift the maintenance man up all of the way to the ringlike halo that was the symbol of the team and of the stadium itself.
In total desperation Johnny ran for the car and jumped inside. He swung the gate shut which gave him a slight protection and for a few precious seconds studied the simple control mechanism. Then he looked and saw two uniformed policemen running down the third base stands toward him. They were already dangerously near, and they had guns too. His last hesitation disappeared; he pushed the handle and felt the car at once begin to rise under him. It moved very slowly, but fast enough so that he could see the ground falling away and know that for the moment he had taken refuge in something that would give him sanctuary above his enemies.
He reached the base of the scoreboard and watched as the intricate panels moved past him, sinking downward as he rose. Then he looked over the edge and a quick paroxysm of acrophobia seized him. He fought it by looking upward and seeing the great suspended halo much closer than it had been before. The last of the scoreboard moved past and he was on the dizzying height of the overhead structure being carried steadily upward to his doom.
With every bit of courage and self-possession that his spirit would yield, he forced himself to reach for the control. He pushed the handle to the center position. The car stopped.
He was poised now, between heaven and earth. His body began to shake, his knees threatened to unlock, and for a moment blackness began to swirl before his eyes.
14
At close to a dead run Virgil Tibbs tried to follow the sound of the shot, but in the hard-faced tunnels and corridors under the stadium the noise echoed back and forth from a dozen different directions. Other people erupted onto the scene, players still in uniform, a man in a business suit, two anxious policemen. They converged on the spot where the usher still lay face down in the tunnel. The Angel trainer, clad in white, arrived on the run carrying a first aid kit. Two other men, bearing a folded stretcher, were close behind him.
As the trainer began to run expert hands over the man on the floor, the usher began slowly to come to life. He raised himself on his hands and knees, shook his head as though to clear it of disbelief, and then with the trainer’s assistance managed to get to his feet.
“Are you all right?” the man in the business suit demanded anxiously.
The usher rubbed the sides of his face with the palms of his hands. “I…I guess so.” His knees were visibly shaking; the trainer broke a capsule and held it under his nose.
“What happened?”
The pungent fumes from the capsule helped the man to recover himself. “A kid shot at me.”
“Where is he?”
“He ran away.”
“What happened? Tell us.” There was urgency in the businessman’s voice.
“Well, first I saw this kid up above. He wanted to come down here and I told him it wasn’t allowed. Then, when I came down here myself, he showed up again, coming down the tunnel.” He nodded to indicate the direction.
“Go on, don’t waste time.”
“Like I said, this kid came walking down the corridor. He wanted to go to the clubhouse; he said something about Tom Satriano.”
Virgil clenched his teeth in frustration, then he listened as the man went on.
“I told him he couldn’t, then the kid got ugly. He had on a cowboy suit. He drew what I thought was a toy gun and threatened me with it. I walked right up to him and then he fired; the gun was real and I don’t know how he missed me. I hit the deck and the kid ran. That’s all.”
“Was he aiming at you, as far as you could tell, when the gun went off?” Tibbs asked.
“Right at me. Like I said, I don’t know how he missed.”
The sergeant in charge of the stadium police hurried up, closely followed by a tense Mike McGuire. “The boy,” the sergeant said. “He’s up on the big A. The maintenance car was unlocked. He got into it. We can’t control it from down here, but my men’ll handle it.”
“No!” Mike McGuire’s voice cut with a sharp edge. “You might hurt him. Leave it to me.”
Virgil spoke then, quietly, but with conviction. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take over: this is a rather special case.” He looked at the sergeant. “I don’t know your name.”
“Wilson.”
“Sergeant Wilson, I know that this is your responsibility, but I know quite a lot about that boy and I think that I understand him.”
The man in the business suit interrupted. “May I ask who you are?”
“Virgil Tibbs, Pasadena police. This boy is our problem, it’s my case.”
“Ted Bowsfield, Virgil, I’m stadium manager for the Angels.”
Tibbs nodded his acknowledgment to save time. “The boy isn’t dangerous, the account that your usher just gave you isn’t entirely correct. I realize, of course, that he’s been badly frightened. I think I can get the boy to come down and resolve all this.”
“Then go ahead, we’ll help you all we can.”
Virgil did not wait for any more; he ran quickly up the stairs to the field box level, focused his attention on the scoreboard and its towering supporting frame, and took in the whole situation at a glance. Then he went back down immediately to confer with Wilson. “We’ve got a little time,” he said. “For the moment the boy isn’t going anywhere, at least I hope to heaven he isn’t.”
“I’m with you.”
“All right. First of all, please get your uniformed men out of sight of the boy, it may lessen his tension a little. Have somebody stand by the power cutoff for that car and set up a line of communication so that we can get word to him quickly if we have to.”
“Good. What else?”
“I’d like a thorough check of the tunnel, the boy may have thrown away his gun while he was running. I’ll cover the area outside.”
Mike McGuire seized Tibbs by the arm. “While you’re talking my boy is in danger. Someone’s got to climb up there and help him. I’ll do it, he won’t shoot me.” He let go his hold and started down the tunnel; after a step or two he broke into a run. Virgil paced him until they both burst out into the sharp sunlight. Against the glare of the high bright sky Mike pulled up, and shuddered. Then he formed a megaphone with his hands and before Tibbs could stop him called up. “Hang on, son. I’ll come and help you!”
A thin, terror-racked voice came down from the car high above. “Don’t, Daddy, don’t!” The words ended in a hysterical sob.
Mike felt a strong hand on his shoulder, turned, and looked into the dark face close to his. “You’re a brave man, Mr. McGuire,” Virgil said, “but don’t try it, not now. Johnny is completely terrified; if you try to help him, he might do anything.”
Mike stood, his head tipped far back, staring at the high perch where his son was isolated.
“We’ve got to calm him down-to let the fright and terror drain out of him.”
McGuire’s body shook with suppressed emotion. “But somebody’s got to climb up there and save him…I’m his father.”
“I know, but that doesn’t make you a steeplejack. When Johnny calms down, I think we can persuade him to come down by himself. In that way no one will be hurt. It will mean a great deal to him that you’re here to welcome him. But if he had the idea, even for a moment, that you were coming up to punish him…” He left the sentence unfinished.
“Then what do we do?”