by Thomas Perry
Stillman said, “Pull into the lot.”
“It’s not closed,” said Mary. “The lot is full of cars.”
“That’s right,” Stillman said. “We won’t stand out as much if we’re one of thirty cars.”
Mary pulled ahead into the parking lot, turned off the headlights, and headed for the darkest corner.
“Not there,” said Stillman. “Find an empty space in the middle someplace.”
Mary parked in the third row and turned off the engine. “Well, here we are. Why are we?”
Walker said, “It doesn’t seem as though we’re analyzing the problem right. We need to think.”
“While you’re thinking, come with me for a minute,” said Stillman. “Serena, stay put. Keep the key in the ignition and watch for trouble. If it comes, pull out fast and pick us up.”
Walker got out and waited while Stillman joined him. Walker gazed away from the building at the fields beyond. “Do you think we could make it that way?”
“I did until I saw those rifles come out this evening. A weapon like that isn’t much use in a town where everybody’s related to you. It’ll go through the wall of a house and come across the living room still dangerous. And you don’t need a big scope to hit anything half a block away. I think they’re hoping we’ll get sick of hiding and try running. As soon as we’re in ankle-high grass with nothing on any side of us for a hundred yards that’s bigger than a daisy, they’ll take us.”
“Then what are we doing?”
“This whole town seems to be armed. If one person in this lot got distracted when he parked here, he may have left something that I can use.”
“What are the chances of that?”
“Better than if we don’t look,” said Stillman. “You take a close look at this building. See if there’s a way in.”
Walker stepped toward the New Mill Systems building, then stopped between two cars and pretended to tie his shoe. He used the time to study the structure from below. He searched the eaves for cameras and floodlights, but he didn’t see any.
He went toward the rear of the building. There had to be something back there besides these featureless brick walls with their tiny windows. He turned the corner. There was nothing but a concrete walkway directly beside the building, a treeless lawn, and a high chain-link fence like the one at the east end of town. He kept going. He turned the next corner. There was a big Dumpster placed close to the wall. He looked at it closely. There was a padlock on it, so he couldn’t even open it to see whether it would be a good place to hide.
From here he could see the parking lot. With difficulty, he picked out Scully’s red Blazer in the third line of cars, but he couldn’t see Mary. He scanned the lot for Stillman. He didn’t see him at first, but then he detected a shadowy shape drifting from car to car, hunched low to peer in the windows.
Walker took a step toward the lot, then stopped and looked at the position of the Dumpster. Quickly, he put his hands on the lid, pushed down, and raised himself to the top. He brought his feet up and knelt there for a moment, then carefully placed his feet near the rim so his weight wouldn’t cause the lid to bend and make a booming noise. He stood, shakily, and looked through the small window.
He was disappointed. There was a big room that looked like the inside of just about any other business. It wasn’t so different from the open bay on the seventh floor of the McClaren Building. There were desks with computer terminals, filing cabinets along the walls, and bulletin boards with maps and papers pinned to them. The night shift was in: a few people were at desks working, a few walking around carrying papers or coffee cups. Then he began to notice small, unexpected things.
He craned his neck to see the map above the desk closest to him. It was Florida. At the far end of the room was a big console that had a lot of electronic equipment on it, small modules with dials and speakers. There was a woman wearing earphones sitting in front of it, fiddling with some knobs.
Walker put his hands on the wall of the building and leaned closer so he could look down at the woman sitting at the desk to the left, below the window. She was staring at a computer screen, typing. Walker kept his face to the right side of the window and tried to see her screen, but he could not. He leaned farther, saw her open the top drawer of her desk, take out a piece of chewing gum, and start to unwrap it. Inside the drawer, beside the gum, was a pistol.
His eye caught movement to his right and he instinctively ducked close to the wall, prepared to jump. Then he picked a shape out of the shadows and recognized Mary, making her way toward him, and in a moment he could make out the bigger shape of Stillman, hurrying along behind.
“This isn’t a good place to be,” he whispered. “This is it—the place where they run everything. It’s like a command center.”
“Maybe that’s good,” Mary replied. “Maybe they won’t look here while we call.”
“Call?”
Stillman held up his hand and Walker could see a small black object in it. “I found one that was open. No guns, no keys, but there was a cell phone in it.”
“What are you waiting for?” said Walker.
“I didn’t come back here to ask what you wanted on your pizza,” said Stillman. “I wanted to get out of sight.” He stepped around the corner into the shelter of the building and in a moment Walker could hear the beeps as he began to punch numbers on the phone. Walker felt his heart beating faster. The waiting seemed impossible to bear.
Stillman said, “This is an emergency. I’d like to be connected with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Yes, the FBI. The closest one to Coulter, New Hampshire.” He paused. “Okay, just give me the number and I’ll dial it.”
Walker’s eyes moved to the window as he tried to calm his nerves. The woman across the room looked different this time. She had the earphones clamped on her head, and she was moving the dials on her console with intense concentration. Walker heard the beep as Stillman terminated his connection.
The woman was standing now. She half-lifted the earphones from her ears as she raised her head and called out. Two men and another woman left their desks and hurried to lean over the console.
Walker said, “I don’t like—”
“Sshh!” Stillman was dialing again.
“This is an emergency. My name is Max Stillman. I’m in the town of Coulter—”
The woman at the console flipped a switch. Stillman stopped talking and flinched. Even from atop the Dumpster, Walker could hear the whistling, crackling noise coming from the cell phone.
“They’re jamming your call,” said Walker. “Turn it off.”
The noise stopped, but Walker could see that the people inside the building were suddenly animated. The woman at the console was saying something. Others were gathering near her. Walker watched in horror as the lady just to the left of the window opened the desk drawer and took out the gun. It looked huge in her small, manicured hand. Three men came in from another room carrying shotguns, on their way to the door.
“They know we’re here!” he said, and jumped from the Dumpster.
They ran along the side of the building, with Stillman in the lead. At the corner he did not stop with his customary caution to look, just kept running for the line of parked cars. He moved between two of them in the first row, then to the next row, and the third, with Mary behind him and Walker last. When Stillman was beyond the third row, he turned up the aisle and dashed toward the Blazer.
Walker heard a metal door swing open and bang against a wall. There was a sound Walker had not heard since he was fourteen, but it was so distinctive that he identified it instantly: the click as the shotgun foregrip was pushed forward an inch, followed by the quick snick-chuck as the slide moved back, then forward to pump a shell into the chamber.
The roar tore the air, and the rear window of the car beside him was swept away, blown backward in a shower of shattered glass. There was another roar, and the car ahead of him shuddered and listed a bit to the side as its left front tire was
ripped apart and the car dropped to its rim.
Stillman plucked the keys out of Mary’s hand, pushed her into the back seat, and climbed in behind the wheel. As he started the car, Walker flopped inside beside Mary and slammed the door.
The car’s tires squealed and Stillman backed through a gap in the next row to put more cars between him and the men in front of the building, then stomped on the accelerator and sped across the lot to the street. There was another loud report, but Walker could not detect any damage to the windows.
“You can sit up now,” Stillman said, then made the first turn to the right.
“Do you think you got through to them?” asked Mary.
“The FBI?” said Stillman. “They picked up the phone, but I didn’t get to tell them what was on my mind. I think that was our chance to yell for help, and nobody heard us.”
41
Stillman drove up New Hampshire Street, keeping the Blazer at a speed that would not attract attention. “In some circumstances, I might consider driving one of these things down the bank of a stream somewhere and hoping the water’s not deep enough to swamp it. But the reason they built a mill and a bridge along this stretch is that this is the narrows. The river is deeper and faster by the town, and the banks are steep.”
“I have another idea,” said Walker. “It’s not a great one.”
“Tell us, and we’ll insult it ourselves,” said Mary.
“When we first saw the police station, there were sixteen cars in the lot, remember?”
“Sure,” said Stillman.
“Well, there don’t seem to be anything like that number on the streets tonight.”
Stillman’s expression seemed to intensify. He turned at the next corner and turned again to go east. “You’re absolutely right. There are definitely going to be a few in the lot. At least one might have the keys in it. If not, I can probably—”
Mary said doubtfully, “You want to go to the police station to steal a police car? Why is that better than this thing?”
Stillman spoke quietly, as though trying not to alarm her. “Because this one has been seen, and we’re going to have to try to run the bridge.”
Stillman accelerated as he went up each block, then slowed at each corner to look both ways before he accelerated again. Suddenly, he swerved to the right. Ahead of them was a police car, parked a yard from the curb on the right. A policeman was out of it at the front door of one of the houses. The door opened and he stepped inside the house. The second cop was getting out of the car on the driver’s side. He saw the Blazer’s headlights coming toward him, so he stood and waited.
Walker and Mary ducked down as Stillman passed him. Stillman said, “This one’s going to cross the street on foot. Looks like they’re going house to house. There he goes. Hold on tight.”
Walker tried to articulate what he was thinking, but Stillman acted too quickly for him to speak. Stillman stopped the Blazer, then threw it into reverse. He turned in his seat to stare out the rear window, backing up fast. There was a loud, sickening thud, and Walker sat up and watched in horror as the man flew ten feet back, hit the pavement, and rolled.
Stillman stopped, flung his door open, and jumped out, bathing the interior of the Blazer in light. Mary and Walker got out too, as Stillman ran to the injured man. He knelt, then stood up, carrying the man’s sidearm in one hand and his keys in the other. He dashed to the police car and got in. When the others were beside him, he accelerated down the street.
“Do you think he’s dead?” asked Mary.
“No, but he thinks he is, and he’ll probably stick to that opinion until they get him to a hospital.” Stillman drove hard for a block, then said, “Serena, honey, crawl over into the back seat. Put your lap belt on, but lie down low. There’s not enough room up here.”
Mary turned and climbed to the back. Stillman slapped the policeman’s pistol against Walker’s chest. “You take this.” He let go.
Walker caught the gun before it could fall into his lap. Stillman said, “That’s got a police-only fourteen-round magazine. In a minute, I’m going to have to drive down Main Street with my head held high, so I can see where we’re going. When we get near the bridge, there will be a lot of people waiting with guns. At that point, I would appreciate it if you would use that pistol. If all you do is kick up some dust and get them to duck instead of taking a calm and steady-handed aim at my forehead, I’m going to be pleased. If you also happened to hit somebody, it would improve our chances of causing hesitation and uncertainty.”
Walker said nothing. He examined the pistol to be sure he knew where the safety was, adjusted his hand on the pistol grip, and tested the weight, then turned to look over the seat at Mary.
Mary put her hand on Walker’s shoulder. Her face was ashen.
Stillman was now nearly to the corner of Sycamore Street. He braked gently as he went into the turn. “All right, ladies and gentlemen. I think this has to be our street. We’ve got to have room to build up a little speed before we hit the bridge.”
Walker and Mary touched hands over the back of Walker’s seat, and then Mary put her head down in the back. “I’m ready,” she said.
Walker turned to face the windshield and gripped the pistol. “Me too.”
Stillman glided to the corner, stopped to look both ways, then drifted ahead slowly and turned west onto Main. He accelerated smoothly until the car was going about forty miles an hour, then held it there. Walker saw Grant Street go by, and looked at the speedometer, but Stillman’s speed was constant.
Walker saw that a few pedestrians were still out on the sidewalks, making their way home, but most of them had already gone inside, presumably to complete the thorough search that the chief had suggested.
As they passed Grant Street, he had a glimpse of another police car with its lights flashing, moving fast along New Hampshire in the direction of New Mill Systems, or possibly toward the place where Stillman had hit the cop.
He looked out the rear window and saw another police car followed by three of the newly arrived rental cars making a quick turn off Main at about Birch Street. He began to feel a small, tentative hope that stealing the police car had been the best thing to do. As they passed pedestrians, he saw each of them look up to see the patrol car moving past, but then some looked away to talk to their companions, and some half-turned to look back at the other cars coming down Main toward them.
Stillman’s eyes kept flicking up to the rearview mirror. He reached to the console and turned on the radio. There was buzzing and squawking, so he turned the channel knob twice and heard a female voice. “Officer down. Repeat, officer down. Location the three hundred block of Maple. Suspects have been spotted at New Mill Systems. All prowl units respond. Repeat—”
Stillman switched it off. “They got the order mixed up,” he said. “That’s why they’re all going the wrong way.” When Walker said nothing, he glanced at him, and looked alarmed. “You’ve got to be up to this. They’re doing their absolute best to kill us right now.”
Walker said, “I know. I’m not forgetting.”
Stillman’s eyes snapped ahead again. He took a deep breath and his face set in a look of stony concentration.
Franklin Street flashed past, and Walker could feel that Stillman was accelerating again. He saw the speedometer nudge up to fifty. Far ahead, there were two police cars parked at oblique angles on the bridge, with their front bumpers nearly touching. Walker saw that Stillman was not slowing down. He was going to try to punch through between them.
Walker turned on the radio, plucked the microphone off its hook, and pressed the thumb switch. He gave his voice a laconic radio monotone. “Can you get those two units off the bridge, please? We got an injured man in the back.”
He could see that one of the men standing on the bridge had heard. He got inside one of the cars, and Walker saw him turn his head to stare up the street at the approaching police car.
Stillman flipped another switch on the dashboard, and Walke
r saw the black hood beyond the windshield reflect blue, then red, then blue again as Stillman sped on.
“Looks as though they’re buying it,” said Stillman.
But the radio buzzed with sudden life. “Give identity of the victim. Repeat, identity of the victim,” pleaded the female voice. Another voice, a male, broke in. “I’m Code Six at the scene, and the victim is still here. He’s Darryl Potts and he’s not in the back of any car yet.” “First caller, give your code and location.” “I see him. He’s on Main, heading for the bridge,” said a new voice.
Walker pressed the talk switch again. “I see him too. He’s trying to clear the way to get Darryl to the hospital. Move those units now!”
The dispatcher cut through the growing cacophony, her voice artificially calm. “Cancel the last request. Close the bridge. Repeat, close the bridge and stop all traffic.”
Stillman’s foot stomped on the accelerator, and Walker felt his head snap back against the headrest. The wind rushing in the window tousled his hair and flapped his shirt sleeve. Walker dropped the microphone and used his thumb to slip off the safety of the pistol. He stared out the windshield. There were more men at the bridge now, a few climbing up from the riverbed and the others trotting from the Old Mill parking lot.
Walker put his right arm out the window, raised the pistol, and aimed at a group of them standing in front of the cars. He fought the wind to hold his aim steady, squeezed off the first shot, and saw a man jerk and fall. The others scattered, some jumping aside, some running toward the backs of the cars.
Walker fired at them, not aiming along the sights anymore but pointing the gun as though he were pointing a finger, pulling the trigger, then fighting the recoil and lowering the muzzle in time to fire again. His shots hit the ground in front of the cars, throwing gravel and bits of pulverized asphalt into the air, punched holes in car doors, smashed windows and windshields, spraying glass.
As they came closer, he leaned out a bit farther, brought his arm in front of the windshield, and fired over the hood at the car to his left, then aimed again at the car to his right, trying to scatter his fire as widely as possible. Each time he saw any movement or caught a partial glimpse of a man beside, above, or below a car, he fired at it. Usually, a head or leg quickly jerked out of sight in a reflex of alarm, but there were a couple of shots when he felt an intuitive sensation between hand and eye that told him he may have hit something.