Banner tensed, heard breaths being taken in from the others gathered. An interminable pause followed, though it could have been only a matter of seconds.
Finally, the tall man closed his eyes and nodded. “Suspect is down. Confirm, suspect is down. Good job, fellas.”
Banner was shaking her head even as smiles broke out on the faces of the men around her. “It’s not him.”
“What do you mean?” Edwards asked.
“The victim’s not dead. If nobody’s dead, it isn’t Wardell.”
“Banner, did you just see—”
“She’s right.”
They both turned to look at the SWAT commander, who was holding his earpiece again. He spoke into the mouthpiece part of the headset again. “Miller, can you hold on the suspect’s face?”
Then he turned the tablet around to show them the video feed from the team up on the gallery. The image itself was shaky, obviously being broadcast from a helmet-mounted camera, but the conclusion was high-definition: the unconscious or dead man lying on the ground beside a discarded rifle was not Wardell. The shooter was a skinny kid of no more than twenty, maybe a college boy. Shoulder-length dark hair pooled around his head on the ground like a dark halo.
“Holy shit,” Edwards remarked. “A copycat?”
Wonderful, Banner thought. With the blanket coverage and the building tension, she supposed it had been inevitable that Wardell’s spree would provoke something like this before too long. Either this kid had been inspired to carve out his own piece of celebrity, or it was something more calculated: an attempt to kill some enemy or ex-girlfriend and pin it on Wardell. It really didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that Wardell was still out there somewhere.
The rain began to fall, fast and hard. The SWAT commander departed and Edwards followed in his wake with barely a nod to Banner, no doubt to make sure he’d appear in the news coverage. Banner looked around for the cop who’d given her the ride from the JRTC but was unable to pick him out from the dozens of other uniformed officers. They’d all be kept busy here for some time, meaning it would be quicker to make the trip on foot. She started across the road, heading for Adams Street, checking the display on her cell as she walked. One missed call, one voice message received. She speed-dialed voice mail, heard Blake’s voice.
“Banner, it’s Blake. I know where he is, and you need to know I’m on my way.”
The full message lasted twelve seconds. Banner listened to the remainder, feeling the bottom drop out of her world.
73
It was almost time.
Strictly speaking, the first one would be the only necessary kill. The first kill would bring Blake and Banner running. Wardell smiled, because he knew there was no need to hold back this time, nothing to be gained by resisting the urge for more.
There: the target had taken to the stage, finally. Wardell put his eye to the scope, tracking her as she moved about the stage. He adjusted the focus a little, to the point where he could see the individual curls of dark hair on her forehead. Something about that brought a realization: This would be his youngest victim to date. The realization came unencumbered with any kind of trepidation or remorse, but merely the mild interest of a sociologist noting a minor new statistical trend.
Annie Banner was dressed in a purple dress and matching hat. It was a miniature, stylized version of the kind of flouncy apparel favored by well-turned-out ladies in the Old West.
Wardell relaxed his arms and let the crosshairs float across the stage with her, keeping her head in the dead center. He blanked his mind, breathed in and out. In and out. The kid paused, stage right, held up her hands in an exaggerated fit of pique. Wardell put his finger on the trigger, breathed in, and pressed hold. Pressed hold.
74
The rain battered down on the windshield and was swept aside by the wipers to form twin waterfalls on either side. The waterfalls flashed red and blue in time with the siren. Given that I’d already punched out a federal agent, I was betting that stealing a police car probably couldn’t make things appreciably worse for me.
I ran another red light, swinging a little wide to avoid the grille of a slow-to-react bus crossing North Franklin Street. The needle dipped down to forty-five as I took pressure off the gas pedal, and then it climbed again as I cleared the cross street and continued west, crossing the Chicago River. I took the on-ramp for the 90 at close to seventy, then put my foot all the way down as I swung across to the outside lane. I risked taking my eyes of the road to check the GPS on my phone and saw the red dot representing my destination creep in at the top of the screen.
I cursed myself again for taking so long to identify Wardell’s target, for taking so long for it even to occur to me. Wardell didn’t care about taking out a politically important target. He cared about impact, sure, but it was still personal. It was always personal. Killing the seven-year-old daughter of a federal agent would have all the impact he was looking for, but it would also guarantee Banner and I would come running, ready to be next in line.
I saw the sign for my exit ahead, slowed to a marginally less-insane speed as I hit the surface streets again, and found the road I was looking for. A minute later, a sprawling redbrick building hove into view on the left-hand side. I saw a free-standing sign that labeled it as Barkley Elementary School.
I prayed for two things: first, that I wasn’t too late; second, that the person I’d spoken to had taken my warning seriously and had acted exactly according to my instructions. I knew the second prayer had been granted as I reached the front entrance of the school, braking hard and slewing to a stop in the middle of the road. An ancient-sounding school bell was sounding an insistent, pulsing ring as perplexed groups of parents and children spilled out onto the sidewalk. I allowed myself a scintilla of hope at that: perplexed was good. Perplexed wasn’t terrified.
I opened the door and got out, reaching for my Beretta as I faced the front entrance.
75
Two things happened.
First, the image of Annie Banner’s little head vanished from the scope. Then, an ear-splitting clanging cut through the quiet of the projection booth like a three a.m. phone call. Wardell flinched, his finger instinctively moving back from the trigger.
He opened his other eye and moved his head away from the scope. That was when he realized that there was no problem with the scope itself. The gym hall below was in utter darkness. The stage lights had all been extinguished, the black felt curtains holding out any glimmer of light from the outside world.
The clanging kept on, a short-long pulse vibrating in Wardell’s skull. The goddamn bell must have been attached to the outside wall of the booth. He could make out the hint of sounds from below, where two hundred or so people scrabbled in the dark. Chairs scraping loudly, the scuffle of feet, children crying. Mass confusion, just like Wardell had wanted.
No, not like he’d wanted, because it wasn’t on his terms. The confusion enveloped him too; he didn’t soar above it. Wardell clicked the night vision back on, but the scene had shifted unrecognizably. The stage had cleared. People were pushing and shoving in the direction of the exits. A few of the adults were trying to direct the crowds in the darkness. People were already beginning to find their way out, moving with urgency but without real panic. Once the doors were open, it wouldn’t take long to clear the hall.