by Crider, Bill
The industrial park had once, during the Second World War, been one of the largest Army camps in the country, and there were still signs of the old camp to be found. Now and then some rancher would even discover an old unexploded shell in the field where his cattle were grazing, and in the places where tanks had been serviced there were still concrete roads and grease pits. Most of the roads were now cracked and hidden by mesquite trees, but some of them were still passable, and generations of Pecan City teenagers (and not a few adults) had changed their cars’ oil in the grease pits without much regard for the damage the old oil would do to the environment if it spilled out into the pit.
A little creek ran through the industrial park and passed along just behind the softball field’s outfield fence. There was a regular little woods of mesquite, pecan, oak, elm, and hackberry trees behind the fence, but it didn’t hamper the game. Though a couple of balls had gone over the fence in batting practice, no one had hit one into the creek, much less far enough to have it get lost in the trees beyond.
Past trees the vacant factory building stood on a little hill. To the left of it was the Pecan City golf course, and of course there were a number of pricey homes around the course, the kind of homes that teachers at Hartley Gorman College couldn’t afford. Burns knew that the Balls, Harvey and Karen, who were on his list of toy soldier suspects, lived in one of the bigger ones, and he could see it from the parking lot.
The rest of the team was already on the field, and today Dawn Melling was pitching. Burns wondered how she could get her pile of black hair under a baseball cap, and when he went through the gate, he could see that she hadn’t managed it. The cap was sitting amid the hair, which straggled out all around. Nevertheless, she still looked pretty good out there on the mound in her tight jeans and a white HGC T-shirt that was filled to capacity. She had worn the shirt to an earlier practice, and Mal Tomlin, who was not nearly as sensitive to women’s issues as Burns had suggested that the initials should be changed to HGD, at the very least.
“Come on, Burns,“ Mal called out from the infield. “Make it snappy. We need to give Dawn a little workout so the old soup bone will be ready for Saturday.“
Burns was picking up the lingo faster than he was picking up any real baseball skills, so he knew that “the old soup bone“ was Dawn’s arm. He didn’t think it would need too much work because he was confident that the student batters, at least the males, would be so distracted by Dawn’s appearance that they wouldn’t be able to hit anything smaller than a regulation NBA basketball. In Burns’s opinion, Dawn was the faculty’s secret weapon, and his real hope was that because of her flashy form there would be few balls hit in any direction, much less his.
Of course that wouldn’t excuse him for being a poor hitter himself, but he thought maybe the faculty wouldn’t need more than a couple of runs if the student team didn’t score any at all.
“You can bat,“ Tomlin told Burns when he approached the playing field.
Mal seemed a little jittery, and Burns didn’t blame him a bit. Burns didn’t think he’d be at baseball practice if he’d been shot at the night before as Mal had.
“You’re holding us up,“ Mal said. “Come on. Get in the box.“
Burns picked up the black bat he had used on the previous day. If Mal was a little snappish, who could blame him?
Abner Swan was catching again, and he slammed his fist into his mitt a couple of times.
“Come on, Dawn,“ he said. “Throw it right by him.“
Burns didn’t think that would be hard for Dawn to do. Just about anybody could do it.
Dawn lobbed the ball toward the plate, and an odd thing happened. For the first time in his life, Burns could actually see the ball clearly. It seemed to move so slowly that it was almost as if it were floating toward him. Maybe those peanut butter sandwiches had improved his vision or his reflexes or something.
When the ball reached the plate, it appeared to hang motionless, and Burns just knew he was going to hit it a mile. He took a mighty swing, and the bat connected with a satisfactory smack.
The ball soared high over right field, and it was heading for the fence. Burns was so surprised that he almost forgot to run toward first base, but then he remembered that he had to run even if the ball went out of the park.
And it was definitely going out. As he trotted toward first, Burns saw Don Elliott turn to watch as the ball sailed over the fence.
Just as it did, Elliott seemed to stumble. His cap flew off, and then he pitched forward on the outfield grass. Burns heard a crack like the sound of a distant firecracker. He crossed first base and kept going straight into right field.
“Call 9-1-1,“ he yelled, hoping someone had brought a cell phone. “Call Boss Napier.“
As he stepped onto the outfield grass, Burns heard something buzz by his ear, and then he heard again the crack of what he was sure must be a rifle in the distance. He looked at the old factory building, but he couldn’t see anyone in it. The late afternoon sunlight reflected off the metal sides of the building and off the window glass that remained. The other openings were dark and empty. Burns kept moving.
When he reached Elliott, Burns could see blood on the speech teacher’s head and on the grass. But Elliott wasn’t dead. Burns could see his hand moving.
If Burns had been an expert in First Aid, he would have stopped to help, but he didn’t think there was anything he could do. The paramedics would be on the way as soon as someone called, and they could do more for Elliott than Burns could. So could just about anyone else on the field.
So Burns kept going. He came to the chain-link fence. It was only about four feet high, but Burns knew he couldn’t vault it. He’d just emasculate himself. So he stopped and climbed over it, dropping down on the other side.
He ran a few yards into the trees and saw the ball he had hit lying there. He gave it only a passing glance and went on to the creek bank. The creek was a small one, and the muddy water that flowed in it was never more than a couple of feet deep. Today it was more like six inches deep and not much wider. Burns clambered down the bank, stepped across the water and scrambled up the other side.
He didn’t really think he had much chance of catching up with whoever had shot Don Elliott, but he was certain that the shooter was in the abandoned building on the hill past the woods. So he kept moving. Maybe the shooter would stumble and sprain his ankle trying to make his getaway, and then Burns would have him. Unless Burns sprained his ankle on the way to the building.
Burns arrived at the edge of the trees without injury and looked at the rusting metal building. It was rectangular, two stories tall. Burns was facing the side. He could see no movement inside, and no one took a shot at him, so he jogged around to the end, where there had once been a wide metal door that slid open on a track. The door was gone now, and anybody could go into the building with no problem. In fact, the opening was so wide that a person could drive a Hummer inside if he had a mind to.
Burns didn’t go in. He stood to one side of the door and stuck his head around to see if he could spot anyone or anything.
Light from the windows fell in long rectangles across the concrete floor. Burns had no idea what had been made in the building, but he could see what looked like old oil stains on the concrete. A long steel track bolted to steel supports was suspended from the ceiling, and at the far end of the track a short chain hung from a big pulley.
There was another, smaller, door at the far end of the building, and it was open as well, creating a slight draft. Birds had at one time nested in the broken windows, and a couple of feathers drifted through the light along with the dust motes.
The building had no second storey, but there was a steel stairway up to a catwalk that led to a small enclosure of some sort. Maybe it had been an office.
Burns knew that he shouldn’t climb the stairs. He knew that if he did, Boss Napier would chew him out for spoiling the crime scene.
So the smart thing would be to stay right
where he was.
But if he did that, the shooter might get away. The building was open at both ends, so he could just walk downstairs and zip out the end opposite the one where Burns was standing, and there wouldn’t be a thing Burns could do to stop him, not if he had a rifle.
On the other hand, if Burns went to the stairs and blocked the way, he might get shot.
There just wasn’t a good choice. Burns looked down at his legs, which had begun to sting. He saw that they had been scratched and scraped by tree branches and maybe a sticker vine or two. He hadn’t noticed at the time. His arms were scratched as well. But it wasn’t too bad. Not nearly as bad as a bullet would be. Burns didn’t like to think of himself with scrambled brains. He thought about Don Elliott, but he pushed the thought away.
Most likely the shooter had left the building long ago, Burns thought. He’d shot Elliott, taken a shot at Burns for good measure, and then gotten out of there.
Or not. There was only one way to find out.
Burns stepped past the wall and entered the doorway.
Chapter Twenty-One
Burns’s old running shoes made no sound on the concrete as he walked to the stairway, and other than Burns the only moving things in the place were the air currents created by the two open doors and the broken windows. Now and then a piece of a nest would float down from a window, and Burns got the feeling that he was as alone as he could be with the city limits of Pecan City.
Just as he thought that, a small lizard darted out of a crack in the concrete and scuttled into the shadows by the wall. Burns looked carefully, but the lizard wasn’t carrying a rifle. So Burns didn’t worry about him.
When he came to the stairway, Burns examined it to see if there were any signs that someone had climbed it that day. He couldn’t tell, though he had no doubt that Boss Napier had a crime lab expert who could. That is, if Burns didn’t obliterate the signs.
Burns stared at the enclosure at the top of the stairs. There was nobody up there, he told himself. And there was certainly no need for him to go up there and find out whether he was wrong. He could just stand where he was and block the stairway.
So that was what he did. He was still there when Boss Napier came through the wide door and called out to him.
“What’s the story, Burns? You have our killer cornered?“
“Technically speaking, there’s no corner where I’m standing,“ Burns said.
“You know what I meant,“ Napier said, walking over to join Burns at the foot of the stairs. “Is he up there.“
“I don’t think so. He might have shot Don from there, though. Is Don all right?“
“For a man who’s been shot in the head, he’s doing pretty well. The bullet just grazed the top of his scalp. Blazed a pretty good trail down it and knocked him out. He bled a good bit. Scalp wounds always do. And he might have a concussion, but that beats scrambled brains any day. He’ll be making speeches again before you know it, but he won’t be playing any baseball for a while.“
Burns agreed, and he was glad to hear that Don was going to be all right.
“I don’t think we should go up there,“ Napier said, looking up the stairway. “We’ll leave that to the evidence team. Not that they’re likely to find anything. They didn’t at the pharmacy. Our guy is being careful.“
“I’ve been thinking,“ Burns said.
“Always a dangerous thing to do, especially for you.“
“I have an idea. If you don’t want to hear it, that’s fine.“
“You don’t have to get huffy, Burns. You’re supposed to have a sense of humor, remember. Barrel of laughs and all that.“
“I didn’t hear any jokes,“ Burns said.
“All right, all right. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. Tell me your idea. We’re not getting any younger here.“
“Now that’s witty. I’m almost laughing now.“
“Gimme a break, Burns.“
Burns decided that Napier was right. He deserved a break. So he said, “I was thinking that you can see Harvey Ball’s house from the softball field. It would be easy enough to walk down here across the golf course, climb up these stairs, take a shot at Don Elliott, and stroll back home.“
“Not bad, Burns. I would have worked that out myself any minute now, of course.“
“No question about that. Do you think it could have happened that way?“
“There’s a good chance it could. Elliott was like your friend Tomlin. He had a routine, too, didn’t he. Softball practice every afternoon this week. Bad to have routines if you’re a target.“
Burns didn’t bother to point out that Elliott, like Tomlin, had no way of knowing he was a target. Instead, he changed the subject.
“How did the shooter get across the golf course with a rifle?“ he asked.
“Easy,“ Napier told him. “Put the rifle in a golf bag and who’s going to notice? In fact, if you were careful, it might be that nobody would even see you.“
“I should have thought of that.“
“But then you’re not a trained lawman. Anyway, right now it would probably be a good idea for us to go have a little talk with Harvey Ball.“
“Us?“ Burns looked down at his sweaty T-shirt and his scratched arms and legs. “I’m not dressed to go calling on a rich lawyer.“
“Rich lawyer. Isn’t that one of those things you English teachers call a redundancy?“
“You’re not as dumb as you look,“ Burns said.
“Thanks. Now are we going or not?“
Burns nodded at the stairway. “What about up there?“
“I trust your instincts, Burns. You said there’s nobody up there, and I believe you. We’ll leave it to the evidence team.“
“But what if I’m wrong?“
“In that case, I guess I’d have to shoot you.“
“That’s another joke, right?“
“That’s for me to know and you to find out.“
“I can never tell when you’re joking,“ Burns said.
“I know. Keeps you on your toes, right? Anyway, here comes the team, so we can leave.“
Burn saw three people coming in through the wide door. He couldn’t tell anything about them. They were just dark silhouettes against the light.
“Come on, Burns,“ Napier said. “We don’t want to waste any more time.“
He started off toward the narrow door at the other end of the building, and Burns trotted after him. They were nearly to the door when Napier stopped, and Burns nearly ran into his back.
“Hold it,“ Napier said.
He was looking at something on the floor, and Burns followed his gaze. Right there in front of them, something was lying in a square of light from one of the windows.
“Is that what I think it is?“ Burns said.
“I don’t know. What do you think it is?“
“It looks like a toy soldier.“
“Bingo,“ Napier said.
“He’s taunting us, isn’t he?“ Burns said.
He and Napier were squatting down on the floor, getting as good a look as they could at the soldier without touching it.
“Us or the people he’s shooting,“ Napier said. He stood up, and Burns was pleased to hear his knees crack. “He’s a real smart-ass.“
“’Crime does not pay,’“ Burns said, standing as well. “’The weed of crime bears bitter fruit.’“
“What the hell?“
“The Shadow,“ Burns said. “Did you think it was Shakespeare?“
“See? I knew you had a sense of humor. And I knew it was the Shadow, too. I was just surprised you did.“
“It seems to me the Shadow might have been wrong,“ Burns said. “I don’t see you catching this guy.“
“Us,“ Napier said.
“I don’t see us catching him, either.“
Napier didn’t respond. He said, “Lampson! Get over here.“
One member of the crime scene team separated himself from the others and walked over to where they were s
tanding. Napier told him to check out the soldier and to be extra careful with it. Lampson said he would, and Burns and Napier went on out of the building.
The afternoon sun was getting lower, and on the golf course some sprinklers were spraying water on the greens.
“Not many players out today,“ Napier said, looking out over the course. “All the better for our pal, the sniper.“
“I was thinking,“ Burns said.
“Not again.“
Burns laughed to show that he had a sense of humor. Then he said, “I was thinking that maybe whoever’s doing this didn’t mean to kill Matthew Hart. Maybe it was an accident.“
They started across the golf course, trying to avoid the greens and the sprinklers. Burns wondered if they should be looking for tracks, but Napier didn’t seem interested.
“You mean you think he might have missed Tomlin and Elliott on purpose?“ Napier said.
“That’s right. Maybe he’s not trying to kill people, just scare them.“
“Are you scared?“
“No. But I think Mal is. And Don Elliott certainly should be.“
“So should the rest of the faculty at the college. For all we know this guy’s shooting at them randomly.“
Burns didn’t believe that. “They must have something in common. We just haven’t figured it out yet.“
“You,“ Napier said. “You’re on the faculty. Finding that connection is your job.“
“I’m an English teacher, not Sherlock Holmes.“
“You aren’t even Dr. Watson, but sometimes you get lucky. It’s happened before. Maybe it will again.“
“Or maybe not.
