Capwell stabbed another piece of turkey, and this time he embedded the fork’s tines in the table. He stared at it, his mind churning with emotions he was unable to sort out. And then he found he was picturing the fork sticking out of Jamison, sticking out of his back.
You can make it happen, something said to him. It was a voice, and yet it wasn’t, as if human speech was the closest he could get to describing it and thus the term he was forced to use. It came from behind him, from inside his head—from everywhere and from nowhere. And yet it was real. He had not imagined it.
Capwell looked around the room. He knew there was no one else there, but it was the instinctive thing to do. The voice hadn’t frightened him. There was something comforting about it, seductive, and he wished he could hear it again.
When he shifted his gaze back to the table, Janey lay on it, naked, the fork protruding from her belly, blood seeping out around the tines. She looked at him, her eyes pleading. For just a second, his heart went out to her, and he wanted to pull the fork from her stomach, get help, beg her to forgive him. But it was too late for that. Looking into her pleading eyes, he thought, Bitch!
Yes, the voice said soothingly, yes, yes, yes.
And then they were both there on his scarred kitchen table, Janey and Jamison, lying beside each other, looking as though they were about to make love, right in front of him, mocking him. Getting up so fast he knocked the chair over, Capwell dashed to the drawer in which the knives were kept, grabbed a butcher knife he’d stolen from the store.
Yes, yes, yes. Do it. Do it!
With a roar, Capwell rushed to the table, raising the knife. They were still there, Jamison caressing her now, one hand on her breast, the other on her pussy, neither of them paying any attention to the fork sticking out of her. Capwell swung the knife downward with all his strength, its blade passing right through Jamison’s chest and sinking into the wood of the table top.
Yes, yes. Wonderful. Oh, how wonderful! Feel it, how good it feels. Feel it. Feel it.
And Capwell did feel it, a hot surge of power and vitality and elation. It was as if he’d just won a million bucks in a contest, had a triple orgasm, received a shot of a potent narcotic, drunk deeply from the Fountain of Youth. Simultaneously. All the gloriously good feelings chasing each other around inside of him.
And then the image vanished. There was a fork sticking out of a TV dinner tray and a butcher knife protruding from the table’s wood surface about a foot and a half from the fork. The good feelings vanished. Capwell stood there, confused, trembling, afraid.
You can get them back, the good feelings.
“How?” Capwell asked the empty room.
You know.
And he did, too. If he accepted the voice, just sort of drew it in like a breath of air, the good feelings would be back. Power instead of helplessness. The ability to hurt those who had hurt him.
Something icy slipped down his spine, like the time Eddie Mertz had stuffed a Sno-Cone down his shirt at the county fair when they were ten. Except that chill had just been on the outside. A quick squeal of surprise, and then the sun was warming him, and he and Eddie were scuffling in the dirt, laughing and throwing half-hearted punches at each other.
The cold he felt now was different. It was inside. Inside his marrow, inside that core part of him that made him what he was, inside his essence, his very being. And a part of him was screaming for him to say no, to reject this thing that wanted to… to what?
“What do you want?” he asked.
You know.
And at least on some level he did. Although it was July and hot and muggy and the air conditioner was broken, Charles Capwell shivered, his summer tan turning a whitish blue, his skin crawling into gooseflesh. No, he thought, no, no, no. But the refusal was weak, for he wanted the good feeling back, needed it the way a heroin addict needs his next fix. Now that he’d experienced it, without it he was cold and hollow and afraid.
“Who are you?”
I am you.
“No.”
I am everyone.
Capwell just stood there, shivering, not knowing what to do.
I’m leaving now.
“No!” The trembling was worse now, as if he were having a seizure or in the grip of St. Vitus’s dance.
You want the good feeling back?
Capwell didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he said. “Oh, please, yes.”
2
Janey Donovan was at her cash register when Charles Capwell came in and headed for the meat department. He walked past Janey, deliberately not looking at her, making it clear he was still pissed. Jesus. She hadn’t done anything to encourage the guy. She’d been friendly to him, the way she was to everybody. Her daddy always called her his little chatterbox. Talking and being nice was simply her way.
Capwell had always seemed to be a decent enough guy, a quiet man who was usually sort of withdrawn, in there with himself, needing his own company more than anybody else’s. A tall, thin guy with dark hair, he was neither good-looking nor bad-looking. He reminded her a little of Ernest, the guy in the TV commercials who was always getting windows slammed on his fingers and things like that. Except Capwell was a lot less talkative.
Janey had been taken completely by surprise when he asked her out. Capwell just didn’t seem the type. For one thing, he was around forty, which made him twice her age. Although that in itself might not have been enough to make her say no, Janey was all but engaged to a guy named Brad Houghton. When she’d tried explaining this to Capwell, he looked something like a hurt puppy, and then his eyes glazed over. Ever since then he’d been acting freaky.
Janey was ringing up the purchases of a woman with two obnoxious boys who’d been shoving each other and knocking batteries and disposable lighters from their display by the checkout counter. One of the boys picked up a candy bar, peeled off the wrapper, and began eating it. Janey made a point of looking at the kid, then at the mother, and then ringing up the price of the candy bar.
The mother said, “Ricky, behave yourself.”
Ricky was about five, runny-nosed and brown-haired, and he looked at his mother as if to say, Get stuffed. His brother, who was about a year younger, tried to take the candy bar away from him and got knocked down for his efforts. The younger kid began to wail.
His mother pulled him to his feet. “You’re all right, Davey. Let’s not make a scene.”
He too gave her a contemptuous look. Janey had always figured she’d raise two, maybe three kids, but watching this scene was giving her second thoughts. Perhaps a childless marriage would be best.
She kept ringing up the purchases. Eggs 80¢, ground beef $2.35, canned dog food 49¢. The store was thinking about computerizing everything, putting those machines in the checkout counters that could read the bar codes and automatically ring up the price. But for now Janey and the other checkers were doing it the old-fashioned way.
She rang up the last item the woman had in her cart and punched the total button. “A hundred and three fifteen,” Janey said.
Pulling out her checkbook, the woman shook her head. “Every time it costs more. Pretty soon nobody will be able to afford to eat anymore.”
The woman finished writing the check and started to pass it over, but it never reached Janey’s hand. A loud bang had just sounded to Janey’s left, causing her to jump. The woman with the obnoxious boys was staring in the direction from which the sound had come, and although she was still holding out the check, her outstretched hand was nowhere near Janey. She looked like someone passing out handbills to passersby. Even her two bratty kids had stopped pushing each other and were staring in the direction of the sound, everybody in the store thinking one thing: gunshot. But at the same time they were thinking it, they were also telling themselves that it couldn’t really have been a shot, because things like that happened on the six o’clock news, not in real life, not to them. The store was absolutely silent. No cash registers eating up the weekly grocery bill. No bag boys putting th
e milk on top of the bread. No rattle of grocery carts.
Janey realized she was staring at the door to Mr. Jamison’s office, which was back near the meat counter. What had happened in there? But before she could even attempt to answer that question, the door opened and Charles Capwell stepped out. He was holding a handgun, a huge one with a barrel that looked as long as a length of pipe, one of those Magnums, Janey supposed.
All of a sudden, people started shouting, screaming, moving. Janey was moving, too, toward the door, as fast as she could go. If Capwell had just blown away Jamison, there was no reason to assume he wouldn’t kill a few others as well, and Janey knew where she stood on Capwell’s list of admired people. These thoughts flashed through Janey’s mind in a fraction of a second, and then they were replaced by mindless terror that recognized only one need: escape.
She was going so fast that she nearly smashed right through the automatic door, which opened under the assumption that those passing through it would be carrying groceries, not running for their lives. As she squeezed through the still-opening door, another shot rang out, and a plate glass window two feet from her shattered. Then she was out into the parking lot, dashing between a compact and a station wagon. The wagon’s windshield exploded. Capwell was shooting at her. She ran as hard as she could, weaving between parked cars, her legs pumping, her heart pounding. When she finally looked back, she saw Capwell standing in the doorway to the supermarket, holding the huge gun but not aiming at her anymore. And not coming after her.
Some people were standing in the parking lot, staring at her and at the grocery store, looking frightened and confused. Janey hurried toward them, trying to find enough breath to speak.
“Police,” she managed to say. “Get the police.”
3
Lieutenant Steven Kesselring was in charge at the scene. He stood beside the SWAT team van, which was located at the edge of the parking area, out of the line of fire from the grocery store. Only one person had made it out of the store, a terrified woman employee named Jane Donovan, who’d identified the man with the gun as Charles Capwell, another employee. She’d guessed there were maybe forty people in the store, including employees. Although she hadn’t seen anyone actually get shot, she was worried about her boss, Fred Jamison. The first shot had come from his office.
While Kesselring was thinking all this over, another shot was fired in the store. Then another.
The lieutenant wished he knew what he had in there. Was the guy blowing pickle jars off the shelves, or was he killing people? The woman had seen one gun, probably a Magnum. Did he have any other weapons? How much ammo did he have? What the hell did he want?
But then the last question was pointless. The guy probably didn’t want anything, at least not anything that would make sense to someone with a normal brain. People who did this sort of thing just sort of went bug-fuck. Something in the brain shorted out, blew a fuse, whatever. There was no way to reason with them, second-guess them, for they were communicating with themselves in their own wacko language, which nobody else could understand.
“We’re tied in to the phone lines,” the SWAT team sergeant told him. His name was Mathers, and he was a tall, thin black guy, looked like a basketball player.
“Let’s see if he’ll come to the phone,” Kesselring said.
They climbed into the van, and Mathers dialed, handed the phone to Kesselring. The lieutenant listened as the phone in the grocery store rang. Ten times. Fifteen. Twenty. Twenty-five. Kesselring tried to make himself stop counting, but he was unable to do so. Someone answered on the thirty-second ring.
“Hello,” a woman said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“This is Lieutenant Kesselring of the Pittsburgh Police. Who am I talking to?”
“Judy. Judy Steinmetz.”
Mathers, who had slipped on a pair of earphones, was listening in.
“What’s happening in there, Judy?” Kesselring asked.
“The … the man with the gun told me to come in here and answer the phone. He says he can’t do it himself because he can’t see the door from here.”
“Is anyone hurt?”
“Yes. There’s a man in here. He’s on the floor. He looks … dead.”
The woman was still speaking in her whispery monotone. Shock, Kesselring supposed. At least she wasn’t hysterical. She was reasonably coherent; she could answer questions.
“Is anyone else hurt?” he asked.
“He … he shot two other people. I don’t know if they’re … I don’t know how bad they’re hurt. He won’t let anyone go to them.”
“Where are the people in the store? Where does he have them?”
“They’re lined up along the meat counter. He just stands there with the gun, watching them.” Then she lowered her voice to a barely audible whisper. “He wasn’t able to round everybody up. Some of them made it to the back of the store. They can get out that way.”
Mathers picked up a microphone. “Sam one to Sam three.”
“Sam three,” came the response.
“There are supposed to be some people trying to come out your way.”
“They’re coming now, about ten of them. It’s okay. They made it.”
Over the phone, Kesselring said, “They’re okay. They made it out.”
“Good,” the woman said. “Wait, he’s yelling something to me.” She was silent for a few moments, then she said, “He says … he says he wants you to send him the girl that got out—Janey Donovan.” She was silent again, apparently listening. “He says he’ll kill one person every five minutes if you don’t do it. He says I have to hang up now.” The line went dead.
“I need those plans,” Kesselring said to Mathers.
Into his microphone, Mathers said, “Sam one to six Adam twenty-four.”
“Six Adam twenty-four.”
“What’s your ETA?”
“About ten minutes. I’ve got the blueprints and a guy who used to be the manager of the store.”
“Ten-eighteen and code three,” the SWAT sergeant said, which meant to rush and use all his emergency equipment, both lights and siren.
“Call the store again,” the lieutenant said.
Mathers dialed, handed the phone to Kesselring. He let it ring fifty times. No one answered. A uniformed officer stuck his head into the van and said, “Someone’s coming out the front of the store.”
Kesselring and Mathers scrambled out of the truck. A man was emerging from the grocery store, walking slowly, holding his hands up.
“That him?” Mathers asked. “Or one of the hostages?”
“I don’t know,” Kesselring said. “I wish that Donovan woman was still here.” Janey Donovan had become hysterical, and an ambulance had taken her away.
The man who had emerged from the store stopped when he was about fifteen feet from the entrance. “He says he wants to know if … if you’re ready to give him Jane Donovan.”
“Sam four to Sam one,” came over Mathers’s hand-held radio.
“Go,” Mathers said.
“I can see a guy inside the store. He’s got a large handgun, and he’s using a woman as a shield. No clear shot.” Sam four was one of the SWAT team members. He was on the roof of a two-story building across the street from the supermarket.
The man who’d come out of the grocery store was about fifty, gray-haired, dressed in slacks and a white shirt with tie, no jacket. He looked terrified.
“What do we do?” Mathers asked.
“Stall,” Kesselring answered. To the man standing in front of the store, he said, “Tell Capwell the Donovan woman’s in the hospital. We might not be able to get her here.”
One of the store’s plate glass windows had been shattered. Capwell was using the opening to communicate with the guy outside. Kesselring was unable to make out the words.
“He says the woman wasn’t hit,” the man said. “There’s no reason for her to be in the hospital.”
“She was hysterical. She had a breakdown.�
�
Again the voice from within the store; then the man said, “He says that if … if you don’t get her right now, he’ll kill me.”
“We can send for her,” Kesselring said quickly. “But it’ll take a little time.”
This time there were no words from within the store. The man standing there with his hands raised looked on the verge of collapsing. Sweat glistened on his face. He was swaying slightly. Suddenly, as if someone had just given him an enormous hypo of adrenaline, the man was running, cutting to his left, trying to get out of the line of fire from the grocery store. A loud bang came from the store, and the man was shoved forward as if he’d been hit by a truck. His arms flailing, he landed face-first on the asphalt parking lot.
“Can we get him?” Kesselring asked. “Maybe roll a vehicle between him and the shooter?”
“We can try.” Mathers’s tone made it clear he thought the guy was dead. So did Kesselring.
“Set it up,” Kesselring said. He hurried back to the SWAT van, climbed inside, and dialed the number for the grocery store. The phone was answered on the fifth ring.
“Hello,” a man said. “This is Capwell.”
“This is Lieutenant Kesselring.”
“I got everybody locked in a room back in the produce section, so I can talk to you in person now.”
“Give this up, Capwell. Leave the gun inside and come out. Nothing will happen to you.”
“No way.”
“Why? What’s in it for you to hurt a bunch of innocent people?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
“No. There’s no point. The next one dies in a few minutes if you don’t send me Janey.”
“We’re working on it. You have to give us time.”
“How’s three minutes grab you?” The line went dead.
A police car pulled up, lights and siren going. A uniformed officer and a chunky bald guy wearing a business suit climbed out, headed for the SWAT van.
“George Thompson,” the civilian said as Kesselring stepped out of the van. “I’m the regional manager for the chain, and I used to manage this store.” He held up a roll of papers. “These are the plans of the store.”
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