Pierre, his voice disguised, had placed the rendezvous telephone call to my office thirty minutes ago, giving the high school as the meeting place. He’d then gone straight there to wait for me. Around us, out of sight and in place for an hour already, were Sammie and J.P. along the “open” corridors; Dennis and Tony Brandt outside the building; and, his exact location unknown even to me, Willy Kunkle.
The cafeteria was right off the building’s main southern entrance, which Pierre had unlocked with his passkey, and which I’d walked through to join him two minutes earlier. Three hallways radiated out from this general area: One continued north from the entrance into the heart of the building; the second took off at a ninety-degree angle to service the east side; and the third, far shorter and narrower, almost inconsequential, led from the back of the cafeteria around a corner to the west, to a few isolated rooms, two staircases leading up, and a side door to the outside.
“Where do you think he’ll come from?” Pierre muttered.
I arranged the pad before me and began to write, pretending to take notes. Most of the room was windowless, but one wall of it was made of glass and looked onto another, equally large dining area which often doubled as classroom space. On its far wall, along with one of the doors I’d chosen to jam shut, there were windows. If this guy was going to come for us, I wanted to make damn sure he believed what he saw until it was too late.
“He’s got three obvious choices. The way we came in, the door at the far end of the east hall, and the one out the side, around the corner. If it were me, I’d take that one; it’d allow me to sneak up on us the best. The other two are too wide-open.”
“Shit. That’s what I feel, wide-goddamn-open.”
He was sweating badly, but then so was I. Armored vests are cool-weather defenses; plus he had the wig on.
I surreptitiously reached under my jacket and keyed the radio mike. “Hi, boys and girls. Everybody in place?”
Over the earpiece, I heard a tinny chorus of acknowledgments.
“You see anyone when you came in?” I asked Pierre, more to keep him occupied than anything else.
He was about to answer when he stiffened suddenly. It was Brandt’s voice on the earphone, reporting from outside. “Someone driving up to the front door.”
“Christ, so much for subtlety.” Pierre let his hand drop casually off the table near his waist, where his gun was hidden.
I stayed the way I was, pretending to take notes.
“One occupant; short-haired male.” Brandt’s voice was calm and detached, reminding me of those jet jockeys who announce they’ve taken a missile and are corkscrewing in.
“He’s parked. Getting out. Pale striped golf shirt, dark slacks, no visible weapons.” There was a pause. “It looks like Fred McDermott.”
I keyed my mike. “Everybody stay put. Let’s see what he does.”
Sammie Martens, who was behind a door in the hallway leading away from the main door, peeked out. “He’s approaching the south entrance.”
We both heard one of the large glass doors rattle as someone tugged at it.
Sammie’s voice again. “Trying to get in locked half of the door.”
The rattling stopped and was followed by a door swishing open. Footsteps sounded in the lobby, slapping against the linoleum. Pierre dropped his hand entirely into his lap, and I heard a small click as he snapped the safety off his automatic.
The dark outline of a man appeared at the corner where the lobby expanded into the cafeteria. “Hello? Is anyone here?” McDermott’s voice was absurdly loud, ringing off the cement walls.
“What the hell?” Pierre whispered.
I spoke into the mike. “I’ll deal with it. Keep sharp; it may be a setup.”
I rose from the table. McDermott whirled at the movement, surprised, and Pierre pulled his gun, slid off his bench, and took aim at McDermott’s chest.
“Put it away,” I snapped at Lavoie, “and sit back down.”
“What’s going on, Joe?” Fred asked anxiously.
I walked over to him, watching his hands, which stayed open and still by his sides. “What’re you doing here, Fred?”
His brow furrowed. “You asked me here.”
Suddenly, the radio interrupted over the earpiece. “Someone at the-” It had been Dennis’s voice, abruptly interrupted.
“Dennis? Dennis, come in.”
“I’m checking on him now,” reported Brandt.
McDermott, who could hear none of this, was looking more and more confused.
Pierre Lavoie, his nerves stretched as far as they would go, stood near the table, his gun still out, his wig torn off, swinging his body back and forth, trying to cover all possible avenues at once.
“Pierre,” I shouted at him, “cover the-”
The words “back hallway” were still in my mouth when another figure appeared at the entrance to the corridor. Pierre brought his gun to bear, there was a blinding flash and a terrific explosion, and Lavoie went flying backwards like a puppet pulled by a string. He sailed across the table and crumpled into the gap between tabletop and bench, his legs sticking awkwardly in the air.
I grabbed McDermott by the neck and threw him down to the floor. “Stay low.” I tore off my jacket and pulled my gun, keying the mike with the other hand. “We have a man down. Shooter’s in back hallway behind kitchen.”
As I ran toward Pierre, I could already hear Sammie throwing open her door and the pounding of feet as J.P. ran down the east hall to join us.
Pierre’s eyes were closed, but he was breathing. There was a bullet hole in the middle of his shirt. I tore it open and checked for blood. Apparently, while the armored vest had done its job, the flight across the table and into the bench had knocked him cold. I quickly straightened him out so his airway would stay open.
Brandt’s voice: “Nobody’s at the door. He’s still inside. I found Dennis. He was knocked on the head but he’ll be okay.”
“Switch frequencies and call for backup.”
“Ten-four.”
I moved to the entrance of the crooked hallway and waited for Sammie and J.P. to join me. “Okay, remember the layout?”
“Isolated two-story segment, about nine rooms downstairs, same above, two staircases, hallway like this upstairs.”
That, in Tyler’s staccato nutshell, was it. This was the only two-story section in the school’s southwest corner, which meant the upstairs windows gave out onto a lot of flat, open roof.
I looked at their two sweat-sheened faces. Both of them held handguns pointed safely up, ready for use. “Okay. Brandt’s got the exit. You two work the downstairs. I’ll go up. Remember, he may have a key, so don’t trust a locked door. And take your time; I’d sooner let him get away than have one of you killed. Deal?”
“Deal,” Sammie muttered, her voice half strangled by adrenaline.
I began working my way up the near staircase, feeling the risers with my toes and keeping my eyes, and my gun, trained up above to where the stairs doubled back on themselves to link up with the top landing. I took my time, moving slowly and quietly, my concentration not only on what I was doing, but also taking in what I could glean from the radio. In the back of my mind, I wondered what Kunkle was up to.
I reached the top without mishap and moved quickly to the angle where the landing turned the corner into the hall. There I removed the earphone to better concentrate and found myself suddenly alone.
I strained to listen for anything unusual, and heard nothing but distant sirens fast approaching; movements from Sammie and J.P. downstairs; and the distinct rasp of a chair being pushed, ever so slightly, out of the way, as by somebody groping in the dark.