(and two years before he had poisoned his wife)
Johnny shivered. Whatever the impression was, it didn't matter. It was an impression of a man who was long dead now.
The rifle gleamed up at him.
When men do it in wartime, they give them medals, he thought.
He began to assemble the rifle. Each click I echoed back, just once, solemnly, the sound of a cocking pistol.
He loaded the Remington with five bullets.
He placed it across his knees.
And waited
Dawn came slowly. Johnny dozed a little, but he was too cold now to do more than doze. Thin, sketchy dreams haunted what sleep he did get.
He came fully awake at a little past seven. The door below was thrown open with a crash, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out, Who's there?
It was the custodian. Johnny put his eye to one of the diamond shapes cut into the balustrade and saw a burly man who was bundled up in a thick Navy pea coat. He was coming up the center aisle with an armload of firewood. He was humming “Red River Valley”. He dropped the armload of wood into the woodbox with a crash and then disappeared below Johnny. A second later he heard the thin screcing noise of the stove's firebox door being swung open.
Johnny suddenly thought of the plume of vapor be was producing every time he exhaled. Suppose the custodian looked up? Would he be able to see that?
He tried to slow the rate of his breathing, but that made his head ache worse and his vision doubled alarmingly.
Now there was the crackle of paper being crumpled, then the scratch of a match. A faint whiff of sulphur in the cold air. The custodian went on humming “Red River Valley”, and then broke into loud and tuneless song: “From this valley they say you are going… we will miss your bright eyes and sweet smiiiiile…”
Now a different crackling sound. Fire.
“That's got it, you sucker,” the custodian said from directly below Johnny, and then there was the sound of the firebox door being slammed shut again. Johnny pressed both hands over his mouth like a bandage, suddenly afflicted with suicidal amusement. He saw himself rising up from the floor of the gallery, as thin and white as any self-respecting ghost. He saw himself spreading his arms like wings and his fingers like talons and calling down in hollow tones: “That's got you, you sucker.”
He held the laughter behind his hands. His head throbbed like a tomato full of hot, expanding blood. His vision jittered and blurred crazily. Suddenly he wanted very badly to move away from the impression of the man who had been cleaning his nose with the silver toothpick, but he didn't dare make a sound. Dear Jesus, what if he had to sneeze?
Suddenly, with no warning, a terrible wavering shriek filled the hall, drilling into Johnny's ears like thin silver nails, climbing, making his head vibrate. He opened his mouth to scream. -It cut off.
“Oh, you whore,” the custodian said conversationally.
Johnny looked through the diamond and saw the custodian standing behind the podium and fiddling with a microphone. The mike cord snaked down to a small portable amp. The custodian went down the few steps from the podium to the floor and pulled the amplifier farther from the mike, then fooled with the dials on top of it. He went back to the mike and turned it on again. There was another feedback whine, this one lower and then tapering away entirely. Johnny pressed his hands tight against his forehead and rubbed them back and forth.
The custodian tapped on the mike with his thumb, and the sound filled the big empty room. It sounded like a fist knocking on a coffin lid. Then his voice, still tuneless, but now amplified to the point of monstrosity, a giant's voice bludgeoning into Johnny's head: “FROM THIS VAL-LEEE THEY SAY YOU ARE GOING…”
Stop it, Johnny wanted to scream. Oh, please stop it, I'm going crazy, can't you stop it?
The singing ended with a loud, amplified snap! and the custodian said in his own voice, “That's got you, whore.”
He walked out of Johnny's line of sight again. There was a sound of tearing paper and the low popping sounds of twine being snapped. Then the custodian reappeared, whistling and holding a large stack of booklets. He began to place them at close intervals along the benches.
When he had finished that chore, the custodian buttoned his coat and left the hall. The door slammed hollowly shut behind him. Johnny looked at his watch. It was 7: 45. The town hall was warming up a little. He sat and waited. The headache was still very bad, but oddly enough. it was easier to bear than it had ever been before. All he had to do was tell himself that he wouldn't have to bear it for long.
The doors slammed open again promptly at nine o'clock, startling him out of a catnap. His hands clamped tightly over the rifle and then relaxed. He put his eye to the diamond-shaped peephole. Four men this time. One of them was the custodian, the collar of his pea coat turned up against his neck. The other three were wearing topcoats with suits underneath. Johnny felt his heartbeat quicken. One of them was Sonny Elliman. His hair was cut short now and handsomely styled, but the brilliant green eyes had not changed.
“Everything set?” he asked.
“Check for yourself,” the custodian said.
“Don't be offended, Dad,” one of the others replied. They were moving to the front of the hall. One of them clicked the amplifier on and then clicked it off again, satisfied.
“People round these parts act like he was the bloody emperor,” the custodian grumbled.
“He is, be is,” the third man said-Johnny thought he also recognized this fellow from the Trimbull rally. “Haven't you got wise to that yet, Pop?”
“Have you been upstairs?” Elliman asked the custodian, and Johnny went cold.
“Stairway door's locked,” the custodian answered. “Same as always. I gave her a shake.”
Johnny silently gave thanks for the spring lock on the door.
“Ought to check it out,” Elliman said.
The custodian uttered an exasperated laugh. “I don't know about you guys,” he said. “Who are you expecting? The Phantom of the Opera?”
“Come on Sonny,” the fellow Johnny thought he recognized said. “There's nobody up there, We just got time for a coffee if we shag ass down to that resrunt on the corner.”
“That's not coffee,” Sonny said. “Fucking mud is all that is. Just run upstairs first and make sure no one's there, Moochie. We go by the book.”
Johnny licked his lips and clutched the gun. He looked up and down the narrow gallery. To his right it ended in a blank wall. To his left it went back to the suite of offices, and either way it made no difference. If he moved, they would hear him. This empty, the town hall served as a natural amplifier. He was stuck.
There were footfalls down below. Then the sound of the door between the hall and the entryway being opened and closed. Johnny waited, frozen and helpless. Just below him the custodian and the other two were talking, but he heard nothing they said. His head had turned on his neck like some slow engine and he stared down the length of the gallery, waiting for the fellow Sonny Elliman had called Moochie to appear at the end of it. His bored expression would suddenly turn to shock and incredulity, his mouth would open: Hey Sonny, there's a guy up here!
Now he could hear the muffled sound of Moochie climbing the stairs. He tried to think of something, anything. Nothing came. They were going to discover him, it was less than a minute away now, and he didn't have any idea of how to stop it from happening. No matter what he did, his one chance was on the verge of being blown.
Doors began to open and close, the sound of each drawing closer and less muffled. A drop of sweat spilled from Johnny's forehead and darkened the leg of his jeans. He could remember each door he had come past on his way here. Moochie had checked TOWN MANAGER and TOWN SELECTMEN and TAX ASSESSOR. Now he was opening the door of MEN'S, now he was glancing through the office that belonged to the O'SEER OF THE POOR, now the LADIES” room. The next door would be the one leading to the galleries.