Joanna’s mind raced as she tried to sort things out. As the fleeing suspect ran toward the house she caught a glimpse of something in his right hand. Was it a stick or a tire iron? Or was it a gun? From the little she had seen, there was no way to know for sure, but if one suspect carried a gun, chances were the other one did, too.
The kid with his hands in the air couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen. He wasn’t a total innocent. No doubt he’d been involved in previous run-ins with the law. He knew the drill. Without being ordered to do so, he had automatically raised his hands, spread his legs, and bent over the hood of the car. Most law-abiding folks don’t react quite that way when stopped for a routine traffic violation. They are far more likely to start rummaging shakily through glove compartments, searching frantically for elusive insurance papers and vehicle registrations.
As the camera’s focus switched once more from the driver back to the fleeing suspect, Joanna again glimpsed something in his hand. Again she couldn’t identify what it was, not for certain.
“Stop, police!” the invisible officer bellowed. “Drop it!”
The shouted order came too late. Even as the voice thundered out through speakers, the fleeing suspect vaulted up the steps, bounded across the porch, flung open the screen door, and shouldered his way into the house.
At once the camera started moving forward, jerking awkwardly up and down as the cop, too, raced up the sidewalk and onto the porch. Taking a hint from what was happening on-screen, Joanna began trying to wrest the Smith & Wesson out of the holster. Once again, the gun hung up on the balky leather while the belt and holster twisted loosely around her waist. Only after three separate tries did she manage to draw the weapon.
When she was once more able to glance back at the screen, the cop/camera had taken up a defensive position on the porch, crouching next to the wall of the house just to the right of the screen door. “Come out,” the cop yelled. “Come out with your hands up!”
Just then Joanna heard the sound of a woman’s voice
coming from inside the house. “Who are you?” the rising female voice demanded. “What are you doing in my house? What do you want? What…”
Suddenly the voice changed. Angry outrage aged in pitch and became a shriek of terror. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t please! No! Oh, no! Nooooooooo!”
“Come out,” the officer ordered again. “Now!”
By then Joanna had the gun firmly in hand. She read her feet into the proper stance and raised the revolver. The Smith & Wesson seemed far heavier than the brand-new Colt 2000 she owned personally, the one she was accustomed to using in daily target practice. Even holding the gun both hands, it wasn’t easy to keep her aim steady.
Suddenly the screen door crashed open. The first thing that appeared beyond the edge of the door was an arm holding the unmistakable silhouette of a drawn gun followed by the dark figure of the man who was carrying it.
As the suspect burst out through the open doorway, Joanna bit her lip. Aiming high enough for a chest shot, Joanna eased back on the trigger. At once the classroom reverberated with the roar of the blank cartridge. Immediately the room filled with the smell of burned cordite, and the video screen went blank.
Holding the VCR’s remote control, smiling and nodding, Dave Thompson stood up and looked around the room. “The lady seems to know how to shoot,” he said. “But the question is, did she do the right thing?”
The guy in the front row was already waving hand in the air. “The officer never should have left the vehicle,” he announced triumphantly. “He should have stayed where he was and radioed for backup.”
That same sentiment was echoed in so many words by most of the rest of the class. While debate over Joanna’s handling of the incident swirled around her, she resumed her seat.
The main focus of the discussion was what the officer should have done to take better control the situation. “He for sure should have called for backup,” someone else offered. “What if the other guy was armed, too? While the officer was chasing the one guy, the other one could have turned on him as well.”
The consensus seemed to be that, in the heat of the moment, the officer may not have done everything in his power to avert a possible tragedy. The same held true for Joanna.
Finally Dave Thompson called a halt to any further discussion. “All right, boys and girls,” he said. “That’s enough. Now we’re going to see whether or not Officer Brady’s response was right or wrong.”
With a flick of the remote, the video came back to life. The man in the video image stepped out from behind the screen door. His right hand was fully extended, and the gun was now completely visible. He let the door slam shut behind him and then turned directly into the lens of the camera. As soon as he did so, there was a collective gasp from the entire room.
To her horror Joanna saw that he was holding something in his left hand, something else in addition to the gun in his right—a baby. A screaming, diaper-clad baby was clutched in the crook of his left elbow. As he moved toward the camera, the suspect held the frightened child chest high, using baby as a human shield.
A wave of goose bumps swept down Joanna’s body. Sickened, she realized she had deliberately aimed for the suspect’s chest when she fired off her round. Had this been a real incident—had that been a real bullet—it would have sliced through the child. The baby would have died.
From the front of the classroom Dave Thompson looked squarely at Joanna. A superior, knowing grin played around the corners of his mouth.
“I guess you lose, little lady,” he said, tapping the pointer in his right hand into the palm of left. “Better luck next time.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
That whole first day was spent on lectures. By the time class was out for the evening, Joanna was more than ready. On the way back to her room, Joanna stopped by the lounge long enough to buy a diet Coke from the vending machine and to make a few phone calls from the pay phone.
The soda was more rewarding than the phone calling was. No one was available to talk to her, not at home and not at the office, either. Both Frank Montoya and Dick Voland were out of the office, and the answering machine out at the High Lonesome clicked on after the fourth ring. Joanna hung up without leaving a message.
Back in her room, Joanna settled herself at the desk and tried to wade into the seventy-six pages of text Dave Thompson had assigned to be read prior to class the following day. It didn’t work. Chilling flashbacks from the shoot/don’t shoot scenario kept getting in the way of her concentration. Finally, exasperated, she tossed the book aside, picked up her notebook, and began scribbling a hasty letter:
Dear Jenny,
I’m supposed to be studying, but I can’t seem concentrate. Claustrophobia, I think. You do know what that is, don’t you? If not, ask Grandpa Brady to explain it.
The only windows in this place are right up almost at the ceiling. They’re called clerestory windows—the kind they have in church. They let light in, but they’re too high for someone inside to see out. It reminds me of a jail....
As soon as Joanna wrote the word “jail,” she remembered Jorge Grijalva. And his two children.
Turning away from the letter, Joanna paged back through her notebook beyond the day’s lecture notes until she found the page of notations she had written down based on the articles in Juanita Grijalva’s envelope. For several moments, she sat staring at the names that were written there. Then, making up her mind, she opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out the phone book. After all, since this was Peoria, a call to the Peoria Police Department ought to be a local call.
But when she dialed the number, Carol Strong wasn’t available, and Joanna didn’t have nerve enough to leave a message. Instead, she looked the other two businesses that were mentioned there. At the WE-DO-YU-DO Washateria, Anna‑Ray Melton wasn’t expected in until seven the following morning, and none of the white page listings for Melton gave the name Anna-Ray. Next, Anna tried asking for Butch Dixon at the Roundhouse Bar and Grill. Raucous country/western music wailed in the background.