That last one grabbed my attention. It had come from nearby.
I wiped my forehead with my sleeve. The additional disadvantage of my position, aside from being far removed from everyone else, was that the entire second floor of this small section was dark. There were no vending machines, no exit signs, and no windows, since the hallway was lined with classrooms. The doors leading to those rooms, however, did have windows, and gradually, as my pupils adjusted, I could just grasp the outline of the corridor from the dimly filtered streetlights outside.
That allowed me one discovery: There were no chairs in the hall, so the sound I’d heard had come from one of the rooms.
Whoever I was stalking knew the building. The door he’d entered hadn’t been jammed, but it had been left locked so as not to appear suspicious. Since Dennis had been put out of action just seconds before Pierre had been shot, no time had been wasted picking a lock. Therefore, the gunman did indeed have at least one of the building’s four passkeys. In addition, he’d known that particular door led to the most discreet approach to the cafeteria, and that McDermott’s arrival through the main entrance would encourage us to face in the wrong direction at just the right time. Ironically, had Pierre not lost his cool, it might have worked.
But what did all that tell me? That he had to be in one of the north-facing rooms, the only ones which gave out onto the roof, and which were invisible from the ground level.
I looked out into the corridor again. Using that logic, I had two choices, both of them almost directly facing me: the two doors of the only classrooms whose windows afforded the access my quarry was seeking.
Crouching, I slipped across the hall and placed my hand very gently on the doorknob of the first door. Slowly, hoping that perhaps in his haste he’d forgotten to lock it behind him, I twisted the knob. The sweat began to pour off my forehead, stinging my eyes.
The knob fully over now, I positioned myself on the balls of my feet and gave a little push. As I did, the door released a loud mechanical snap.
I instantly yielded to instinct. Rather than pulling back and surrendering my hard-won surprise, I threw my weight against the door and dove in to one side of the room, covering my head with my arm to ward off any chairs or tables that might be in the way. The room blew up with the sound and light of a single gunshot, and I heard the sharp splat of a bullet hitting the door I’d just used.
I rolled on the floor, trying to find a target against the slightly pale windows lining the opposite wall, but my eyes were still blinking away the white star left behind by the muzzle flash. There was the sound of glass shattering, of feet scrambling for a toehold, and of a distant thump as something heavy landed on the roof outside.
I staggered to my feet and punched the button on my microphone. “He’s on the roof, he’s on the roof.” Against the night sky, I could see a shadow running and hear his feet slamming on the gravel as he made for a distant rooftop greenhouse.
Not wanting to fire indiscriminately, I made to follow and placed my hand right on a jagged shard of glass. I swore and stepped back, using my gun barrel to sweep the window frame clean. “He’s making for the greenhouse. Close in on him from downstairs.”
I tried again and this time jumped cleanly to the roof. It was higher by two feet than the pale rubber-coated roof on which the small greenhouse stood, so I quickly moved to the lower level where my footsteps would make no sound.
There I paused to reassess. The greenhouse, a small fifty-by-thirty-foot student research facility, was a penthouse of sorts, with an interior metal staircase leading down to a cavernous forestry and horticulture classroom, a part of the career-training school. I couldn’t see the door of the greenhouse from my vantage point, but I was betting that was where the gunman had been heading. Unfortunately, if he was on his toes, he now knew what I knew and had therefore probably changed his plans; that meant I was either staring at an empty structure and he was long gone in another direction, or he was waiting around the corner to plug me as soon as I became visible.
I began circling the small glass building from a distance, my eyes on its sharp-edged silhouette, watching for any crouching form, waiting for an ambush. As the narrow end came into dim view, I could see the flimsy metal door was half open. Encouraged, I began closing in, slowly, cautiously, still balanced and poised to duck to either side. The first three feet of the greenhouse walls were aluminum, so I kept almost on hands and knees for cover as I peered around the edge of the doorway and looked down the short cement-floored aisle. Warm, fetid air hit my face, tinged with the slight sweetness of confined vegetation and damp earth. I listened and heard only the faint hum of some overhead fans, along with voices and the sounds of people gathering down below, no doubt preparing to make an assault up the narrow stairs.
From where I crouched, I could see a light switch just inside the door. I reached in quickly, turned it on, and slipped back to see what would happen. The building lit up like a jewel in the night, but not a sound or a movement followed suit.
I gingerly poked my head back around the corner. What I saw made me laugh. I straightened up, crossed the threshold, and after a brief final glance around the place, walked to the middle of the aisle, keying my radio as I went. “All clear. I’ve got him in the greenhouse.”
Stretched out before me, spread-eagled and unconscious on the floor, his gun several feet beyond his reach, was the inert body of Selectman Luman Jackson.
Willy Kunkle, his part done, was nowhere to be seen.
35
“This is an outrage. Take these off.”
Sammie Martens checked Jackson’s handcuffs and gave him a contemptuous shake of the head. “I don’t think so.”
She crossed the room to where Brandt and I were talking with Billy Manierre. “He’s still bitchin’.”
“Okay, thanks Sammie. Did you read him his rights?”
She nodded.
“Great. Why don’t you pile him into your car and take him downtown, but don’t bring him into the building till we get there. I want to keep this under wraps for a while.”
We all waited until she’d escorted Luman Jackson out the door, ignoring his protests as he passed. “What’s your game plan?” Brandt asked.
We were still in the high school, off the cafeteria in a small, windowless dining room. Jackson had been checked for the thump on his head, which all but Brandt assumed I had given him. The troops had been sent home with no explanations and without having seen either McDermott or Jackson. Brandt and Billy had been concocting a properly vague press report to explain all the lights and sirens. The shots were now firecrackers, the whole affair ascribed to “probably teenage vandals,” pending a further investigation.
I answered Brandt with a smile, lightly fingering the bandage I’d wrapped around my cut hand. “I’d like to talk to both of them tonight, before they start thinking too much. Maybe put Jackson in Dunn’s office, for privacy, and have Fred cool his heels in Interrogation. Is Dunn coming himself, or sending a deputy?”
Brandt chuckled. “Not hardly; he’s hooked on this case. Said he’d meet us at the Municipal Building.”
I looked around at the empty room. “Then I guess it’s show time.”
Brandt was driving while I looked out the passenger window at the still city passing by. We were rolling down South Main Street, toward the center of town, following the patrol car carrying Fred McDermott. When I’d been on the graveyard shift, many years back, this had been my favorite time of night-the long quiet pause between the last of the rowdies packing it in and the first stirrings of the early-morning crowd.