by Jim Magwood
He carefully tested the doorknob and felt it turn, crouched down until just his head was above the sill and pushed the door slowly out until he could see the roof in front of him. Nothing in sight, so he slowly raised up and started through the door. He stepped with the swinging door to the left, pushed it against the wall, and then motioned the others out. They went to the right and held against the wall, eyes swinging over the roof. The front of the building, where the shooter had apparently been, was behind them, and he would have been over to their right. Paul motioned that he would go around the stair housing to the left and motioned the others to the right. He stepped slowly around the housing, trying to see everything as he went, sweeping the area with his Glock as well as his eyes. Nothing. There was nothing in sight for anyone to hide behind—just flat roof, so he moved on around the housing and to the back of it that fronted the front edge of the roof. Still nothing in sight.
He saw the first motion of the other officers as they came around the stair housing, gave them an all-clear motion from his side and moved with them toward the front corner of the roof where they thought the shooter had been. Again, nothing to hide behind. A flat roof with just a few air conditioning shafts. They looked carefully, but there was nothing really big enough to conceal anyone. They scanned the rooftop and saw that it appeared deserted all the way to the far corner, so continued to move across it, still very carefully, but now fairly well convinced the shooter, if there had been one here, was gone.
When they got to the edge and saw it was, indeed, vacant, Paul said, “You guys go back around the edge all the way. Check behind everything. Be sure we didn’t…”
WHAM.
All three men spun toward the shattering sound with weapons almost coming alive, their eyes wide with shock and fear. Paul realized he was only inches from the roof edge—in fact, his foot was touching the base of the three-foot wall— and he knew he was just a slight misstep from going over. He jerked away from the edge, his weapon swinging left and right to cover the area back to the stairs. “The door,” Jesse shouted. “It’s closed. He got past us!”
The three men raced back to the door to the stairs and threw it open. Quickly, but carefully, looking down, they saw the passage was empty and they heard no noises. Robert started down when suddenly a figure appeared at the bottom. Robert frantically flattened himself against the wall and was already pointing his weapon down at the man when a voice shouted, “Police. Don’t move.”
Relieved, but shaking, Robert shouted back, “Police here. It’s okay.”
Both men cautiously looked the length of the stairwell at each other, then the man at the bottom stepped into sight and the two relaxed.
Robert called, “Did anyone just come down? We missed him up here.”
The other officer replied, “No. I’ve been here for a minute or so, and no one came down.”
Robert looked back up at Jesse and Paul and said, “He didn’t come down. Must have gone off a fire escape.”
The three dashed back out to the roof and looked down the outside walls for an escape route. Paul found it going down the back wall—a fire escape ladder with an easy jump from the end to the ground. Several police cars were parked around the base of the building now, so they knew the gunman had made his exit before anyone had arrived. Gone now, unless someone happened on him in one of the blockades around the area.
The men went over to the corner where they thought the shooter had staged and started looking for any signs. Jesse noticed a rifle shell in the corner and marked it by laying a piece of notepaper by it and weighting it with some roof rock. Paul saw some scratches on the top of the wall surrounding the edge of the roof, pulled a blank page from his notebook and weighted it with roof gravel on the flat just below the scratches.
They finished their inspection of the roof, then Paul and Jesse went back down the stairs to get evidence tape and report their findings. Jesse went back up with the tape while Paul talked with the Sergeant. He heard that the fire was almost contained and that nothing more had happened at the shooting site. He was told to head back over to the scene of the shooting to gather whatever statements he could get.
Nobody had anything more than what the camera lady had already given, so Paul headed back out to the streets about 2 a.m. When he finally got off his shift, he was tired enough to go home instead of sticking around, and he fell into bed for a few hours of restless sleep. He woke several times and wished the dog was there to jump up beside him.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Across the park off the side of the apartment building, the shooter calmly sat under a tree with low hanging limbs and watched the confusion. He had a continuous sneer on his face as he saw the police rush from the fire to the building he had just left and begin their search. For him. He laughed out loud at that thought. They thought they could find him? Fools! Nobody was going to catch him. Nobody. Because he was the dark, and you didn’t catch the dark. ‘Cause you couldn’t see the dark. It wasn’t there. That’s why they called it dark, you idiots. He noticed the first cop on the scene at the building and wondered if he was going to be in charge. Wondered, too, if he was going to have to have some time with the cop some day. Some time in the dark. Until then, he had his work to do. As he got up and slowly shuffled off into the trees, the rifle in the special holster he had sewed into the coat bumping into his leg, he chuckled at the thought and began humming a little made up song to himself—Time in the dark! Just you and me. Someday soon. Just you and me.
CHAPTER 6
Paul woke about noon with a raging thirst. He realized he really hadn’t had anything to drink since before beginning his shift yesterday. The fridge didn’t offer any bottles of juice, and the perking coffee would take too long, so he swallowed three glasses of water from the tap. As he stood propped against the kitchen counter, looking down the hall, his eyes fixed on the picture wall where Diane had kept the everexpanding folio of the family. His eyes welled over as they always did and he couldn’t pull away. Many times he would stop in the hall beside the pictures and just stand there, looking, wishing, willing them all back—until the shaking would start.
The family had never really had any problems. The kids had survived their early teen years without many struggles. They all loved on each other regularly. They talked and shared. Until the world had crashed down on them and their lives had dissolved.
He pulled himself away from the counter, turned to put on some coffee and walked into the living room. Living? he thought. Right. He dropped into the easy chair and looked out the side window to the yard. Some trees led off to the woods behind the house; the lawn ran around to the back yard and the fishpond he and Diane had put in. The view used to be his favorite from in the house. Now, it was just there. The back yard had a few rolling hillocks running gradually down to the woods and used to be a favorite place where he and Diane sat at night. The kids would even join them at times and they would just enjoy the evening sky and the quiet. Now, it was just there.
The last time he had been out there was a month or so ago, and he had just grabbed a soda and gone out as soon as he had gotten home. The anger had hit him within a few minutes and he found himself lying face down in the grass screaming. He didn’t know how long he had been there, and wondered if the neighbors had heard. Maybe he only thought he had been screaming. He didn’t know. Before he realized what he was doing, his Glock was in his hand—and he was shaking again. He sat there for what seemed hours, then found himself pressing the weapon hard against the side of his head. It was several minutes before he slowly lowered it and found it ready to fire. Just the slightest pressure on the trigger…
In between bouts of the shaking, he carefully unloaded the weapon and laid it on the grass. He had soaked his clothes with sweat and was shaking more from emotions than from the cold. It still took him almost another hour to get himself up and back into the house. He had stripped and crawled into bed—and laid there shaking and crying for hours before exhaustion took him under.
&nbs
p; As the memory left him, he got up and poured some of the fresh coffee. He walked back to his (their?) bedroom and got into a steaming shower and stood there forever trying to get the ache to cook away. Finally he got out, dried off and dressed in casuals. He went back out to the kitchen for a bowl of tasteless cereal and two more cups of coffee. He didn’t often cook anymore.
He was sitting back in the living room when the mailman came by and stuffed the usual pile of junk through the door. He dragged himself out of the chair and walked over to pick it up and sort out the bills. As he flipped through the paper, a postcard came to view. Nice picture, he thought, for an ad for a new solar water heater or some other junk.
And then he found himself sitting on the floor against the wall. The handwriting… Sarah. All he could do was stare at the card. He couldn’t even start reading. He realized he hadn’t even taken a breath and finally filled his lungs with choking gasps.
Slowly, he turned the card over and looked at the beautiful desert scene. Nothing fancy. But the most beautiful picture he thought he had ever seen. It blurred in front of him and he felt the tears. Wiped his eyes on his sleeves and then slowly turned the card back over. The shaking started again and he didn’t know if he really wanted to read the card. Forced himself to focus on the beautiful handwriting...
Daddy. I’m okay. I know you looked for me and I’m sorry to have hurt you so much. I’m okay. I’m with some good people who are looking out for me. I hope you’re okay. I’m sorry, and I miss you. I had them mail this for me when they went to SF. I have to stay away for a while, but I’m okay. Sarah.
The postmark was from San Francisco and it had been mailed only four days before. He carefully turned the card back over and noted that the picture sure wasn’t San Fran. A desert scene. Maybe a high desert, with some pretty nice vegetation. Could be anywhere, he thought. He turned the card back over and read the words again, trying to find some hidden meaning in them. A code. Anything. But they were just words. He read them again. And again.
She was okay. It was all his mind could wrap around at the moment. She’s okay. He started to wonder a little where she was and if there was some clue to finding her, but the card had nothing in it to identify. Just the desert scene, and that could be anywhere. No buildings. No signs. Just desert. But it said she was okay. A little smile began to cross his face as he continued sitting there holding the card. And he realized suddenly that he wasn’t shaking.
He jumped to his feet and ran to the phone; caught it on the third ring. “Sarah? Sarah?”
“Huh? Sarah? What are you talking about? It’s me. What?”
“Yeah. Sorry, Tony. I thought it might be… What’s up?”
“Sorry to bother you, buddy, but we need you down here. Something’s come up and we’re short. Can you get here quick?”
“Uh, yeah, I guess. Now? Before shift?”
“Yeah, Sarge called in a couple of us. Asked for you, if you can.”
“Okay. I’ll be there in about an hour. What’s up?”
“Another school like last night, Paul. Bad. Messy. Out of nowhere. A couple of people shot again. There’s a couple of rookies holding down the scene and everyone else is tied up. Sarge asked for you since you’ve almost got that gold shield. You should head right over there direct: 425 Chesapeake Street. It’s the Hendley Elementary School.”
Paul was quiet for a moment, then said, “Okay. About an hour,” and hung up.
It was a small school this time. A small, storefront Jewish yeshiva, he thought he remembered. But, why, he thought? They hadn’t likely ever done anything to anyone. Why a tiny religious school with good little kids in it? It had been torched about six in the morning, luckily before anyone was there, but it had spread to the little shop next door. At first the crew hadn’t found anyone on either of the premises, but after it had cooled and they had a chance to get a good look they found the old man and woman behind the store counter. Burned beyond recognition, but they could see the bullet holes in their foreheads.
The register was still closed and the money inside. Burned, but still there. The fire had obviously been started in the school, so why were these two killed? Were they just there early to open and saw something? Someone had already checked and verified the owners were an old couple, Mr. and Mrs. Lubrani, so it looked like this was them. Didn’t look like there was any reason for them to be in the path of the arsonists. But there’s always a reason, he thought. Always.
“I think you’d better come take a look at this,” one of the firemen called.
It was a jar, an old canning jar with the lid on and screwed tight, with some paper inside.
“The fire is obviously arson. We’ve found several tracks already. Looks like someone punched a hole in the three back windows and reached through and tossed some bottles of accelerant through. Molotov cocktails, likely. Then we found this right here beside the front door, behind the display table on the sidewalk. It’s lucky we didn’t break it with our stuff. There’s writing on the paper. Didn’t touch it except with gloves, and then just turned it around so I could see what was in it.”
Paul knelt down on the sidewalk, then got down onto his stomach. Got his face up close to the jar and tried to read the message. “Give me a glove,” he asked the fireman. He put it on and carefully turned the jar a couple of times. “Yeah, I can see words but not enough to read them. We’ll have to get it to the lab.”
He got back up and carefully put the jar in an evidence bag and in a box he had in the trunk. Then he locked it away. When the detectives got there later, he passed it on to them.
They all dug around for a while, then turned the scene over to the technicians and the arson crew. It wasn’t until he finished his shift the next morning and was ready to head home that he was told about the writing.
They let them go for fun but some body had a gun. They should have been alert and they wouldnt have got hurt. So the dark is here and will punish them for the fear. Be ware of the dark. Its here and there. Some body dont see it. No body does. The dark is every where. The dark sees in the night and it walks at night.
Paul felt the shaking in his hands again as he thought of the note. The dark.
“Thanks for taking the time to se me, Pastor. I appreciate it.”
“No problem at all, Paul. It’s good to see you again. We haven’t talked for a little while. How’s life treating you?”
Steve Sanders had been the pastor at the church on the north end of the city for a few years now, and thoroughly enjoyed meeting with his people. Hope Center, just off Wisconsin Avenue near the McLean Gardens, was fairly simple but had been growing well for quite a while, mainly due to Steve’s gift of really loving the people and sharing his beliefs with both conviction and patience. He didn’t believe in beating people down, yet he certainly didn’t believe in watering down his messages. People definitely understood what their pastor believed and were treated regularly to messages on how to use the Scriptures to live better, more fulfilling lives. And, he was always there for them when needed. Paul had called him early Friday morning and Steve had invited him over immediately.
“Well, life is life, Steve. I’m moving over to the Detective Division next week but don’t have a handle on it yet. Should be a good move, though. Lots of opportunities to work with the people, probably more extended periods of time than as a street cop. Maybe not as many people, but more time with them. Oh, and I meant to tell you last week, I got a postcard from Sarah.”
“You did? Where is she? How is she?” Steve said excitedly.
“Don’t know any of that. It was just a short one from out west somewhere. Couldn’t trace it from anything on it, but she said she was okay. And it was her handwriting.”
“Oh, Paul, I know that must have given you some good feelings. I’ll keep on praying for her, and you, and hoping she gets home soon.”
“Yeah, thanks Steve. That would be a dream come true. Or a prayer really answered.”
“So, what else is happening?”
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“I’m hoping you can give me a little guidance. Things have been happening that I can’t get hold of and I’m not sure what to do—how to proceed.”
“Well, give me a try. What’s bothering you?”
Paul paused for several moments trying to gather his thoughts. Steve just sat quietly, letting him get to the talking stage. Finally, Paul said, “I’ve handled a couple of these school fires in the last week, and I’ve got some real bad feelings about them. Feelings that’ve got me scared, I guess, and I really don’t know where to go about it.”
“You mean for counseling, like for stress or something?”
“Well, maybe that too, but not that specifically. I guess I have some bad feelings about where this is all coming from, what’s behind it all. I’m moving to the Detective Division next week, and I can likely either get further involved in these cases or maybe even get out of them. With the feelings I’m having, I’m not sure what to do. I don’t even know if the feelings are from my job stresses or something else all together.”
“Well, congratulations on the move, at least. I think you’ll do well there.” He paused. “Can you maybe explain your feelings a little more for me? You sound like you may have some specific thoughts.”
“Yeah, maybe. I’m getting a feeling that there’s something sick behind this. Maybe evil would be the way to put it. Like there’s something more than just someone going around torching buildings. I know that’s done all the time, but this doesn’t seem the same. It’s as if there’s a purpose behind it, or something. There’s no clues out there yet that are driving me; nothing I’ve come on yet. Maybe somebody in the detectives knows something and I’ll find out next week, but I’ve just got these feelings. And they really don’t feel good.”