by Thomas Perry
The F.B.I. man fired two times at their prone figures. Then there was a click as though he had removed the magazine from his pistol. The two men heard it too, or sensed it. They popped up and fired eight or ten times while he slid his next magazine into place.
One of the two men made a run and jumped to the second roof. Just as he came down, the F.B.I. man fired once. But the other man had been waiting for it, and he fired wildly in the F.B.I. man’s direction to keep his head down. He used the pause to make his run and jump to join his companion on the second roof.
When the F.B.I. agent rose to fire at him, he got off only one shot before the man’s companion fired a rapid salvo to make him drop down again.
Jane watched anxiously as the two men used the same strategy to reach the third roof. Each time the F.B.I. agent tried to raise his head to aim at the one who was vulnerable, the other one would lay down a barrage of fire that forced him to go down again. Jane had led them both into a terrible place. Jane was already trapped on a roof with a steep slope, and she could not hold a view of the two men long enough to fire. All she could tell in the darkness was that they were moving closer and closer, and the F.B.I. agent had gone as far as he could without being trapped beside her.
He had fired probably ten times and then he had needed to reload. Why wasn’t he carrying a government-issue Beretta 92 with a police-only fifteen-round magazine? He had been walking around town alone, in a jacket and tie. He had been looking for a doctor’s wife, not conducting a raid on Brian Vaughn’s house, or getting into a firefight. He was probably using something smaller that he could carry without attracting attention, with a single-stack ten-round magazine like the ones they sold in every gun store. It was very unlikely that he was carrying more than one extra magazine.
Jane saw him beginning to crawl toward the edge of the roof closest to the two face-changers, and her heart skipped, then beat harder. It was much worse than she had guessed. He had not been reloading his pistol. He had been checking the magazine to see if he had another shot left: ten in the magazine, one in the chamber. He was out. As she watched him, she found that she could feel his thoughts again, and she felt despair. He was moving to the spot where he believed the first man would leap to his roof, so he could jump the man, disable him, and take his gun. It was a desperate, hopeless plan.
Jane watched as the first man began his run. They must have sensed what had happened too. They knew he was out of ammunition, just as she did. The man ran harder. He was going to jump.
Jane stood up and screamed, “Hey! Over here!” The man hesitated, slipped, and barely stopped himself from toppling over the edge. His friend dashed to his side and grabbed his arm to steady him, and they both ducked down.
The F.B.I. man turned, sprang to his feet, and ran across the fourth roof toward the last gap. He launched himself into the air, landed on his side, and rolled to his belly, as Jane had. He slid a few feet downward, then stopped just as the two men realized what he had done and fired.
He had landed high enough on the sloped roof so that they couldn’t achieve the proper angle. Their shots cracked over his head into the sky.
From the peak of the roof, Jane called down, “Stay on your belly and come up at an angle, toward the chimney. It’s higher than their roof, so they can’t quite see you.”
“I’ll try,” said the agent. He didn’t sound very optimistic.
“Don’t pretend to be nervous,” said Jane. “You’re Superman.”
She could hear the agent give a little huff of air that might have been a chuckle. “What’s to stop them from doing the same thing?”
She said, “I’m leaving a little present for you on the upper side of the chimney. That should help.” Then she moved along the crest of the house, away from him.
When she reached the edge, she lay on her belly, grasped the shingles again, and let herself slide, hand below hand, down the slope of the roof. At the very end, she turned and looked down to be sure that she had seen clearly from above. A thin black cable stretched from the telephone pole across the alley to the corner of the house.
She reached down and tugged on the wire. It was looped once around a metal hook screwed into the clapboard, then stapled once to the wooden trim, and finally it disappeared into a hole drilled into the house. It seemed to be a cable-television hookup. Her eyes followed the wire across the alley to the telephone pole, but she could not tell how it was connected on the other end. As she grasped the wire and slowly eased her weight off the roof, she tried to convince herself that it would hold her. She reached out farther on the wire with her right hand, and her body swung and bounced a little. The swing helped bring her left hand up to the wire for the next grasp. She began to move out over the alley, swinging from hand to hand.
She heard a sound behind her, then felt the cable jerk and begin to sag. The loop had tightened, and the metal hook was threatening to pop out of the clapboard. She moved her hands faster, trying to keep her body from swinging.
Jane dropped four or five feet as extra cable began paying out of the drill-hole in the house. She heard a loud crash, and something like broken glass from inside the house, and then a thud against the wall. Jane knew what it was. The coaxial cable had been screwed into the back of a television set, and her weight had pulled the television set off whatever it had been sitting on. The set was caught against the wall, and the only thing that could be holding the cable to it was that little metal connection.
Jane began moving toward the telephone pole again. In her imagination she could see the television set jammed against the wall, and she remembered that the backs of all the television sets she had ever seen were just brittle plastic. Maybe the metal connection would come right out, but with its base, it would be too big to go through the hole.
She was dangling over a spot just past the center of the alley when the cable gave way. She fell straight down a few feet, but then the connection at the pole caught and her fall became a swing. She loosened her grip on the thin cable to go lower, but the telephone pole seemed to be coming toward her at an incredible speed. She held her feet up in front of her to cushion the impact, but then she twisted in the air. Her shoulder glanced off the pole and she lost her grip. She hit the ground hard, rolled, and lay on the gravel, dazed.
Jane had to get up and move. Her shoulder and side hurt, and there was a dull pain in her left ankle. She tested her weight on it and found she could walk. She took a few steps, then a few more, heading toward the end of the alley.
She stared up at the rooftops, but could not see any of the three men. She began to trot, and she could tell that she would be able to run after all. She stopped, turned, and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Hey!” she shouted. “Doesn’t anybody want to say good night to a lady?” She pivoted and began to run.
She passed between two of the posts at the end of the alley and into the municipal parking lot, then dodged to the left to run along the only line of cars left there this late at night.
She reached the end and prepared to turn right to head for the cross street that would take her under the freeway, and then saw the pay telephone on the corner. She told herself it was too soon to stop. She should get far enough ahead to be sure they wouldn’t convert a glimpse into a clear shot. How could she possibly be more exposed to their view than she would be standing under a street lamp at the first intersection? She took a step toward the telephone. There were plenty of telephones farther away. She had seen lots of them along the beach.
Jane paused and listened. There were still no sirens. She was sure that people all over town must have heard the shots. But there was nothing in this neighborhood except closed shops, so apparently nobody had been around to tell the police exactly where the shots had come from. Their only way of finding out was to get into cars, patrol the streets, and listen.
Jane ran to the telephone, lifted the receiver, and dialed 911. She heard a female voice say “emergency” something, but Jane said, “There’s an officer under fire o
n a roof by the parking lot at Chapala and Castillo. I repeat, officer under fire.” She left the telephone hanging to be sure they could trace the call if they needed to, but she didn’t run toward the freeway underpass to reach the beach, as she had planned. Instead, she turned away from the ocean and ran along the sidewalk. She ran in the open, under the glowing street lamps because that was the way to move at top speed. She did not know this street, but she could tell the direction it was leading her, and she knew that she would not miss the corner where she wanted to turn. It was the street where Brian Vaughn lived.
43
Marshall crouched in the darkness on the steep roof, with his back to the chimney. He felt behind him with his right hand, and his fingers closed on a familiar shape. He clutched the grips and raised the weapon close to his face. He could make out the word “Walther” and the model number P99 stamped into the receiver. It made a nice, timely gift, he thought. Without it his death would be about a minute away. Maybe it was, anyway.
Marshall moved around to the far side of the chimney and stared down at the building he had just left. He saw the first man make the leap back to the building beyond it. After a couple of seconds, his partner joined him. They were trying to make it back to the one with the ladder. She had done it. They were going after her.
He stuck the pistol into his coat pocket and began to crawl along the peak of the roof. He said to himself that he was too old to be this stupid, or maybe too stupid to have grown this old. He had come into Santa Barbara alone because he had wanted to get the woman’s cooperation. He had gotten her cooperation, all right. And that was only after he had emptied his sidearm punching holes in shadows from fifty yards. Now he was going to do something else that was even more stupid.
He had nearly reached the edge of the roof. He raised his head a little to verify what he had remembered about the height of the building. He rose unsteadily to his feet, straddling the peak of the roof. He took two steps forward, then the third right on the bent shingles at the crest, then the fourth, fifth, and launched himself into the air.
He had guessed that the peak was high enough above the flat top of the building beside it to make up for the fact that he couldn’t get a running start on a sloped roof. As he began his fall, he was not certain that he had been right. But after a second his optimism returned. He braced himself for the landing, tried to break his fall, but felt the impact from his ankles, up his spine, to his shoulders. He rolled, pulled the pistol out of his belt, and brought it up.
One of the two men was lying on the next roof with his arm extended toward Marshall. But Marshall was in the same position, the gift pistol’s single-dot sight already settling on the man’s head. Marshall squeezed the trigger and the man jerked once, then lay still.
Marshall ran forward and jumped to the roof where the man lay. He saw the second man run across the next roof, then leap to the one with the ladder. Marshall heard the sound of running feet in the alley below … police? He heard a voice shout, “This way.”
He ran to the edge of the building and looked down into the alley. There was a third man waving at the man on the roof. He had stayed on the ground, and must have been working his way along the row of buildings, waiting for a shot at Marshall or the woman. But now he was a hundred yards ahead of the other man, and he was going after her. Marshall knew that the man who had been retreating toward the ladder would reach it in a few seconds, and the shot at him was the more likely of the two, but this one was close enough behind the woman to have a chance of catching her.
Marshall turned his body away from the man on the roof to bring his right arm beyond the edge below his feet, and straighten it. As he looked down into the alley, the gift pistol in his hand was already part of his field of vision. He brought the single white dot between the two dots of the rear sight, let it settle on the top of the running man’s head, and squeezed the trigger.
The man’s left leg was striding forward, but when the foot hit the ground there was no life in it, and it didn’t hold his weight. From above, it looked to Marshall as though he were suddenly ducking to run downward into the ground.
Marshall pivoted and dashed for the gap between the buildings. He landed on the next roof still running, then leapt to the last one. When he reached the ladder, the alley seemed to explode into glaring white light. He involuntarily flinched and turned his head to shield his eyes. Across the roof he could see that the fronts of the buildings along the far side of the street were lit up by the colored warning lights of police cars, flashing, then sweeping across the facades, then flashing again. Doors slammed, hard rubber shoes pattered up the alley below him.
Marshall stood above the ladder and raised his hands high, so the men below could see him clearly. He shouted loudly, so they would hear. “F.B.I. Special Agent John Marshall,” he called. That seemed to satisfy the policemen below him, for the moment. None of them seemed inclined to shoot.
A couple of them looked away from him at the three policemen who were bent over the man he had shot from above. “That’s not all of them,” Marshall called down.
“How many? What description?”
He hesitated for a half second, then pointed away from the direction the woman had run. “One male. Armed. He took off that way on foot.”
Jane made her way back along the quiet, empty streets, listening. There were distant sirens, but the sky a few blocks south of her was already bright with the lights of police cars blinking garish colors into the foggy night air. She supposed the sirens were the reinforcements.
Jane moved along the street behind Brian Vaughn’s house, winded, sore, and dazed. She knew that the only sensible thing to do was to get into her car and try to make it out of Santa Barbara now, but she had been drawn here. She could not let all that had happened come to nothing. She had to salvage one piece of evidence that something had occurred tonight besides three unidentified shooters trying to kill an F.B.I. agent.
Jane cautiously stole up the driveway and into the back yard of the house behind Brian Vaughn’s. She moved to the fence and pulled herself over it. The lights in the house were still on, and the kitchen door was ajar, as though everyone had dashed outside to escape a fire that had unaccountably gone out.
She saw the video camera lying where she had dropped it behind the garbage cans when she had run to the house. She picked it up and looked at the little window. The tape was still in it. The intercom was a foot or two away, so she picked it up, too.
Over the soft hissing of the intercom came the sound of footsteps. She listened. Somebody was still in the house. She took a step closer to the back door, and her head came forward to bring her body into a crouch.
She heard the steps moving quickly now, almost a run. Then she heard the front door slam. She dropped the camera and the intercom at her feet and sprinted along the side of the house on the driveway.
Just as she reached the corner of the house, a man crossed the sidewalk, stepped to the curb, and reached for the door handle of Brian Vaughn’s little red Miata. His fingers closed on it, the door swung open, and the dome light came on.
Jane saw the face and drew in a breath: she knew it. It was not the face of the man she had seen in Vaughn’s doorway, or of either of the men she had seen when she was with Richard Dahlman. It would not even have surprised her if the man she had electrocuted in L.A. had merely been stunned and lived to drive up here for the pleasure of seeing her die. This was the face of a genuine ghost.
The man got into the car, started the engine, then suddenly turned his head in Jane’s direction. She stepped back into the shelter of the house, but it was too late. The ghost had seen her too.
She hurried back up the driveway, staying in the shadows close to the clapboards of the house, where he would have a hard time getting a clear shot at her. But in a moment she heard the car accelerate up the street and away.
Marshall stood outside in the midday sunshine while the forensics team completed the search of the house where Charles Langer ha
d died. He had watched them from the doorway for a long time, moving slowly and methodically outward from the body, and by now they would be close to the perimeter. He had seen this process too many times. Hours and hours ago, while he had stood in the alley answering questions, he had watched them searching the ground and the roofs, marking each spot where a brass casing had been ejected from a gun, drawing diagrams and taking pictures, and he’d had time to evaluate their competence. They didn’t need his advice on how to handle this house.
He heard an engine, and watched without interest as another unmarked police car pulled up and two men in sport coats got out. The older one with thinning blond hair walked up the sidewalk and stopped in front of him. “Are you Special Agent Marshall?”
“Yes,” he said.
The man gave him a look that was friendly, but not quite a smile. “I’m Lieutenant Harris. I’ve been assigned to help out.”
Marshall nodded. In a town the size of Santa Barbara it was hard to imagine a case that would distract them much from this one. Every detective they had would be engaged for at least a few days.
“I’ve got a couple of things in the car you might want to take a look at.”
Marshall walked with him to the curb. There would be lots of conversations like this in the next day or two. They would want him to resolve inconsistencies in what their eyes were telling them, and he would try, and fail. He accepted the plain manila envelope the lieutenant handed him, and looked inside. There were several enlarged photographs. The first two were pictures of the two men he had shot in the alley, but now they were lying in a morgue. There were two small x’s marked on each picture in a random pattern over each man’s torso.
“What’s that?” asked Marshall. “The marks.”