He noticed there was a dark smear running vertically down the face of the dam, but the overflow stream was already washing it away.
He stood up, his heart pounding, and backed farther into the bushes to retrieve the bag with the cylinder. The smell of gunpowder was very strong in the close branches of the willow trees. His ears still rang, and he realized he had a death grip on the butt of the .38. He stuffed the gun in his waistband, conscious of the warm barrel against his belly. He couldn’t believe what he’d done: He’d killed a policeman. The pain in his back forgotten for the moment, he grabbed the bag and pushed hurriedly across the dam. He broke out of the willows and, gasping for breath, began to run across the lawn toward the side of the house.
Stafford jumped up out of his chair in the kitchen when he heard the gunshot, spilling some coffee onto the table. It had sounded as if it had come from across the pond. He listened for a moment, then reached for the phone. He didn’t know the sheriff’s office phone number, so he dialed 911. A woman’s voice answered, asking in a twangy southern accent what his emergency was.
“Gunshots at the Willow Grove Home,” he shouted. “Get Sheriff Warren up here!”
He slammed down the phone and looked hurriedly around the kitchen for a shotgun, or any other kind of weapon. But he knew that if they had anything, it wouldn’t be out where he or the kids could ever find it.
From upstairs, Mrs. Benning’s voice called down to him, asking what that noise was.
“Stay upstairs, Mrs. Benning,” he called. “Keep the kids up there with you until I tell you differently. I’m going to see what that was. I’ve called the sheriff.”
He turned out the lights in the kitchen and then those in the front hall. The front door was open, but he couldn’t see anything outside because of the front porch lights. He finally found the switch for those, turned them off, and then stood just inside the front door, his face near the screen, listening. All he could hear were the night sounds from the pond and the surrounding trees. A gentle breeze stirred the tops of the pecan trees, then slid across the pond and whispered through the willows. He could hear Mrs. Benning moving around upstairs, a door closing, but it didn’t sound as if the children were awake. He looked at his watch.
Nine-twenty.
He concentrated on the sounds from outside, trying to detect footfalls or any other human noise. The old house made its own night noises as the day’s heat finally gave way to the cooler night air. That had definitely been a gunshot, probably a short-barreled .38, from the sound of it. He felt helpless with only one functioning arm and no weapon, although his ability to shoot left-handed was just about nonexistent.
The problem was that this house had too damned many doors and porches.
He stepped back into the hallway, gently shut the front door, and locked it. Then he went through to Gwen’s part of the house and shut the open French doors leading out to her side porch. He went through to her bedroom, where there were more French doors, which he also shut. Then through the office, with a quick check into the equipment alcove, but there were no doors there. Finally he went back to the enormous kitchen.
He’d forgotten to turn out the porch light by the back steps. By that single white light, he could see that there was no one in the kitchen, although the dining area was in shadow. But because of the light, het;ould not see out into the immediate yard behind the house, nor, for that matter, onto the porch area by the kitchen door. The sheriff had already locked the kitchen door. He stopped just inside the kitchen and listened again, really wishing he had a weapon. But he didn’t, so the best he was going to do was to get the.doors locked and wait for the 911 call to have an effect.
He stepped across the kitchen, trying not to make any noise, past the huge old woodstove, past the table with the bag on it, past the — He froze.
“Wondered when you’d see it,” Carson said from the darkness in the dining area.
Stafford sighed and turned to look in the direction of Carson’s voice.
He could see the man’s shape, sitting in a chair, but nothing else.
“You lied to me, Stafford. You said we had a deal.”
“We did have a deal. There’re a half dozen FBI guys waiting for you with the sheriff at his office in Graniteville right now, wondering where the hell you are.”
“Another lie, you son of a bitch,” Carson said, moving slightly so Stafford could see the glint of the revolver in Carson’s lap. “The sheriff and I just met up. He wasn’t in town. He was sneaking up on the house.”
“What happened?”
“He got shot, that’s what happened. He went into the pool beneath the dam. I made him get rid of his gun, but
Bhe had another one in his boot. Reached for it. He was going to shoot me. It didn’t work out.”
Dave thought about his 911 call. The FBI would come even if the locals didn’t. Except if Carson was telling the truth, the sheriff had already been on his way. He wished he could see Carson’s face; the man didn’t sound right. He started to move closer, but the sound of a revolver being cocked stopped him.
“That’s close enough. I’ve already shot one cop tonight. He didn’t think I had it in me. Hell, didn’t think I had it in me. But in for a penny, in for a pound, you know? A second one wouldn’t make that big a difference. Now, there’s a cylinder in that bag. Take it and put it in that big icebox.”
“In the icebox?”
“Just do it. Something’s cooking in that little jewel, and I’m notyeady for it to pop open. Not yet, anyway. Then get me a phone.”. “A phone?”
“There an echo in here? Yeah, a phone. Put it over here on the table, and then sit down right next to it. I want you to get me the number of the NBC affiliate in Atlanta.
Wendell Carson’s going into the publicity business.”
Stafford opened the bag and extracted the heavy cylinder. It looked just like the drawing and the image on the Army monitor. The metal surface was damp and warm. He shivered-in voluntarily when he realized what he was holding. He opened the oversized refrigerator’s door, slid the cylinder in next to a container of milk, and closed the door. He then walked over to where the phone lay on the kitchen counter. When he picked it up, he realized he’d knocked it off the hook when he slammed it down. He replaced the handset and took it over to the dining table.
As he got closer, he could see a little more of Carson’s face, but not enough to make out an expression. He could hear the man’s labored breathing. As Stafford sat down, the phone rang.
“Go ahead, pick it up.”
Stafford did. It was the 911 operator, asking for confirmation of his call. Stafford looked over at Carson. “I called nine one one,” he told him, tilting the phone so the operator could hear what he was saying to Carson. “What do you want me to tell them?”
“Tell them the truth. Tell them I’m holding you and everyone in this house hostage. Tell them I have a gun and a cylinder full of nerve gas.
Tell them anyone tries to get close to the house, I’ll start killing kids. If they try to storm the house, I’ll open the cylinder, kill everyone in the fucking county. Tell ‘em all that; then hang up. I want to use that phone.”