The Killing Season (33 page)

“You think we got him?” Edwards said.

Before Banner could answer, the tall man’s right hand shot up to quiet them, his left pressing the earpiece of his headset deeper in to pick up what was being said more clearly. “Second floor is clear; they’re about to go out on the gallery.”

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

7:01 p.m.

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

7:01 p.m.

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

7:03 p.m.

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.

He could just start firing, of course. It would be the easiest thing in the world, a turkey shoot. But he needed Banner’s daughter.

Plans are often useless; planning is indispensable. Wardell made a snap decision. The situation had shifted, but was still eminently salvageable. He needed only to secure a handful of hostages, Banner’s daughter among them. That meant he would need to descend to the hall. He laid the Remington down and selected a handgun—the Glock—from the canvas duffel. He reached down to the floor to open the access panel.

The hall beneath him was still in darkness, but his eyes were beginning to adjust to it. Below him he could make out figures fumbling around in the dark. Wardell stepped through the hatch and slid down the sides of the ladder. A woman brushed past him, apologizing briskly. Others passed by, wondering aloud what was going on. Still plenty of people, plenty of potential hostages.

Just a minor setback. There was still time to turn it into a positive.

76

7:11 p.m.

People were still flowing out from the main entrance, adding to the swelling crowd outside the school. Many of them looked back at the building as they exited, evidently expecting to see smoke or flames or some other reason for the interruption to their evening. A couple of children were crying, but the presiding air seemed to be one of bemusement tinged with irritation. A tall, bespectacled woman in her early thirties with long strawberry-blond hair and a red skirt was holding one of the main doors open, ushering people out and looking official about it. I pushed through the mass of disgruntled parents and excited kids and tapped her on the shoulder.

“Do you know if Miss Bass made it out yet?”

The woman broke off from hollering instructions and looked me up and down. “You’re looking at her.”

“I’m Blake,” I said. “We just spoke on the phone.”

She stared back at me, “I seem to recall that,” she deadpanned.

“Thank you,” I said with sincerity.

“No sweat, but I have to say, even though I’ll be in ­trouble, I sure hope you’re wrong about this.”

I indicated the doors and the stream of refugees from the school, a stream that appeared to be slowing. “Many more to come out?”

“Hard to say. After what you said was about to happen, I didn’t think we had time to take attendance.”

“You cut the lights on the stage?”

“Uh-huh. Every light in the gym. Fire alarm virtually simultaneously. There was one right next to the fuse box.” She paused and looked at me over the rims of her glasses. “What?”

“Nothing. I just don’t generally meet people this . . . efficient.”

“Mister, I teach drama in an elementary school. Those little bastards will eat you alive if you don’t have your shit together. Pardon my French.”

I put a hand on her shoulder as I moved past her and through the door. “Miss Bass, I’ll pardon you pretty much any­thing.”

I moved through the doorway and into a wide foyer, about a hundred feet square. The foyer was low-ceilinged with ancient polystyrene tiles. At the far side of the scuffed linoleum floor was a glass case displaying various cheap trophies accumulated for soccer or cake decoration or whatever the hell students compete in these days. The space was entirely empty of people. Which meant that either the flow of ­families leaving the gym had naturally petered out, or it had been stemmed. Two corridors led off the foyer at either side. A sign on the right-hand wall sported blue arrows labeled for various classrooms, upper levels, cafeteria, and a couple of other selections. There were only two arrows on the left side: small gym hall, large gym hall.

I approached the corridor slowly, conscious of the thick silence between the urgent clangs of the fire bell. The ­familiar school smell of pencils and disinfectant seemed ridiculous in the situation. I reached the wall at the edge of the corridor and backed against it, pausing for a second to listen between clangs. I stuck my head around the corner in time to see twin wood and glass fire doors slam outward, rebounding violently off whitewashed cinder-block walls.

Half a dozen kids ran toward me. It was difficult to guess what ages they were. There was a foot in height variation from the tallest to the smallest, and they were decked out in costumes from the show. Every last one of them was terrified. The first couple of them blew past me, apparently not even seeing me. I grabbed the upper arm of the tallest kid as he swept past. His momentum actually took his feet off the ground as I gripped him. He turned around, letting out a scream that would have impressed Janet Leigh, struggling to get loose.

“It’s okay. I’m with the police,” I said. Not true, but a scared child doesn’t often need to hear the truth. “What’s happening?” I said, indicating the direction from which they’d come.

The kid was around ten or eleven, wearing blue jeans, a checkered shirt, and a black waistcoat. I guessed he’d lost the Stetson somewhere back along the corridor. He stopped struggling a few seconds after he realized it wasn’t making any difference and turned his tearstained face up to mine.

“Please, mister, let me go.”

“Sure. Just tell me what’s happening.”

“A m-m—ma—” he stuttered, either through fear or inability to get the word out through the sobs.

“A man? With a gun?”

The kid swallowed and nodded fiercely.

“Is anybody else back there?”

The kid was trying to pull away again, his head moving side to side. I didn’t think that was in response to my question, but more a denial of the whole situation. I glanced back down the corridor. The double doors had settled back into place, guided gently by torsion springs. The two wire-glassed windows in the doors showed nothing in the corridor beyond.

I tightened my grip and pulled him closer, hating the anger in my voice as I growled, “Listen to me, kid. This is very important. Is anyone back there?”

He blinked tears out of his eyes and seemed to calm himself for a moment, my words having the effect of a bucket of cold water. “Yes, sir. Annie Banner and Mr. Bence. The m—the m—” He stopped, blinked again. “He wanted us all to stay, but we ran. Please.”