When he stepped out onto the roof and ducked beneath the camera, the soft tar roof oozed beneath his shoes. He looked up. The camera continued to move back and forth. He checked his watch and timed it. Since it rotated a full 270 degrees, it took forty-five seconds to make one full sweep.
He looked north toward the utility shed on the roof of Pavilion C. He could just barely make out the camera, could not see which way it was aiming. He kept himself pressed firmly against the wall of the shed, eyes jerking between he camera overhead and the camera across the way. The pavilions were separated by a twelve-foot gap that dropped fifty feet.
Suddenly light sparked off the lens of the opposing camera and he could ascertain that it was aimed due west and continuing to track. The camera directly over his head faced west at that moment, about to make its return swing. He timed the opposing camera until he again saw another glint of light from the lens. There was no dead spot between the fish-eye patterns of the two cameras. They were working as intended.
He had to have a dead spot in which to cross the roof. His only choice was to slow down the camera above him. He didn’t dare stop the camera altogether: though not their primary function, these cameras showed a good view of the far streets, and Jacobs couldn’t be sure Steuhl wouldn’t be using them to keep track of the police actions. He blocked the body of the camera with his hard hand and slowed it. The servo-motor groaned under his efforts. He impaired its movement for twenty seconds, allowing it to track, but not at its normal speed. Now, when one camera faced west, the other did also. He had his gap, a twenty-to twenty-five-second lapse in synchronization that would allow him to cross.
***
“Hurry,” Mykos Popolov said.
Coleman and several others continued to stack the sacks of fertilizer, silica sand, and charcoal. “A little wider,” Popolov ordered.
The men continued their work.
Popolov had filled each of the empty extinguishers with a mixture of two thirds fertilizer, one third paint thinner, and a half bag of crushed Kingsford charcoal. He had placed the rocket igniter, which looked like an oversized firecracker, inside the entrance hole of each tank and had snaked the fuse through the small hole he had drilled in the threaded plug used to seal each extinguisher shut. Popolov used some Super-Glu to seal the fuse in the hole. The threaded plugs had to maintain pressure for as long as possible; this would increase the force of the blast. He tightened each top nut as firmly as he could and examined his work. Combined, the tanks contained enough explosive material to do the trick. If the charges failed, it would be for one of two reasons: if any of the top nuts failed, then that tank would become a small rocket fueled by the combustion of the ignited chemicals inside, leaving the wall like a missile; or if the force of the blast could not be contained by the “sandbagging,” then the explosion might not exert enough directed force into the wall, and the impact would be lost, the effort useless.
He checked his watch. Less than twenty minutes remained: he was behind schedule. “Any action out there?” he asked Coleman. The young black man ran to look and returned, shaking his head. “The doors are still locked.”
“We’re past time. Even if the doors open now, we won’t have time to get everyone out through those exits. We’ll have to blow the wall.”
He looked at his creation. Four small holes had been left in the bunker-like stack of fertilizer bags in order to reach through and light the fuses. It had taken Coleman and two of the hardware store staff the better part of fifteen minutes to stack the bags in the service hallway. This half of the long service corridor that provided a delivery area for the stores on the pavilion’s west side was unseen by the immobilized camera, and though an exit to the outside delivery bay existed at its far end, the door was maglocked and under the control of the Chubb. Popolov studied the stacked bags of fertilizer, potting soil, bagged sand, and cement. He hoped the man-made wall would contain some of the blast and redirect the shock back into the cement. He said, “We’ll give him a few more minutes. If we don’t receive a signal, we go ahead anyway.”
***
The two rooftops were separated by a twelve-foot-wide alley. The buildings connected in only two places: a short skyway at the south end of Spanner’s Drugs and a passageway at Level 1. If Jacobs missed, it would mean a fall of fifty feet. He struck out at a full sprint, preparing for the jump.
He counted to himself as he ran, keeping track of his twenty-five-second dead spot in the camera tracking. It was a small envelope of time to work in. Five… six… seven… eight…
He reached the edge, leaped up onto the stub wall, and sprang forward like a diver, arms outstretched.
For a moment it felt almost like flying. Then he smashed into the opposing concrete. His strong hands slipped on the smooth sandy surface, his weight sucking him toward the asphalt below. Dangling in the crevasse between the two sheer walls, he dug his fingernails into the concrete, scratching and clawing.
… eleven… twelve… thirteen… fourteen…
He swung his knee over a protruding metal drainpipe and stopped his fall, his hands barely holding onto the small stub wall. A slight change in balance and he would go over backward.
… twenty… twenty-one… twenty-two…
Not enough time to reach the shed on the roof of Pavilion C without being seen by the cameras. He continued to count, waiting it out.
When he thought the cameras were back in position, giving him a second chance, he inched his hands in the direction of the drainpipe to better his leverage and managed to pull himself up and over the small stub wall.
He tumbled onto the soft hot-tar roof and scrambled toward the corner of C’s utility shed.
With ten seconds remaining until his time envelope expired, he made his move. There was only one way inside: the vents on the top of Pavilion C’s glass canopy. He took four large steps and threw himself onto the grid of large glass panes that covered Pavilion C’s Atrium.
He moved quickly up the narrow steel supports like a monkey up a palm tree, ass in the air. Still counting, he reached twenty and flattened himself against one of the huge panes, remaining absolutely still. The camera would be aiming directly at him now.
***
Susan saw Jacobs on the monitor at the same moment Brock did. Toby was climbing one of the glass canopies. Steuhl pivoted in his chair toward the monitors.
Panicking, she blurted out loudly, “How long do you think you can get away with this, Steuhl?”
He spun in his chair and faced her. Toby lay in plain view behind him.
She continued talking, eyes flicking to Brock, who had lost his color. “They know all about you,” she improvised, trying to hold the man’s attention. “They know about your accident in the SEAL. They know about your discharge, your father’s accident, the judge.”
“The judge? What do you know, lady? They killed my father. Dragged him… they dragged him from his home. All so they could build this piece of crap. This place is an open wound, lady. This place is crap. Cheats and liars, every last one of them. Cheats and liars with their fine print and fancy lawyers. It ends today. Either they make things right by me or I put this place down.”
Behind Steuhl, the camera in the monitor continued to track and Toby disappeared from view. Susan kept it up. “They are innocent people. How will killing them help?”
“Innocent?” He sneered. “There ain’t one innocent person in this whole world, lady.” He rolled his chair toward her. “You innocent, lady?”
“Keep away from her,” Ralph Perkins said.
“You telling me what to do, crybaby?” Behind the thick glasses, Steuhl’s eyes looked as fixed and hard as polished marbles, like the glass eyes of a wild game trophy. “You innocent, pal?” he asked Perkins. “You so fuckin’ innocent?” Steuhl grabbed the gun. “I bet not.” He shot Perkins in the shoulder.
Perkins passed out, blood running from his wound. The roomed smelled of the bitter powder.
Steuhl said calmly, “If there’s on
e thing this great country of ours taught me, lady, it’s how to shoot a weapon. You know what they told us, lady?” he asked, taking Susan’s chin in his moist palm. “They told us there weren’t no innocent people out there.” He ran his hand down over her breast and she cringed.
Brock struggled helplessly. “Leave her alone.”
On the same monitor, Susan saw Toby start to climb the frame of the glass canopy. If Steuhl turned around…
“You innocent?” Steuhl said, aiming the gun at Brock.
“It’s all right, John,” she said trying to cool him down. “You can touch me if you want. I don’t mind.” It was the most difficult thing she had ever said.
“Up yours, lady. You and your fancy clothes.” He started to swivel the chair.
“John!”
He looked back at her. “What the hell do you know, lady? You’re ignorant. You live in your own little dollhouse world.”
“The children, John? Do the children deserve it? Let the children go, John.” Toby continued his climb.
“Listen to me, lady. The children grow up and they ain’t no different than their parents. You ever been here on a weekend night? You ever seen the children? There ain’t no children anymore. The children have all gone. There ain’t nobody innocent. If they force me, I’ll drop the place. You can bet on that.” He smiled again.
“But they know who you are, John,” she reminded him.
Toby climbed out of the camera’s view and disappeared for good off the monitor.
“They’ll never catch me. I got this all figured out. Got it figured good.” He tapped his chest. His teeth were urine yellow. “I’m in control now. I know what I’m doing.”
That’s what I’m afraid of, she felt like saying.
***
The topmost course of glass panes on each of the pavilion’s canopies opened like those in a greenhouse to allow for the venting of the hottest air, despite the air conditioning. When Jacobs considered how to reach Dispatch, this ventilation system had come to mind.
The vent panes in C worked off of thermostatically controlled screw mechanisms that attached to the interior I beams. At a preset temperature the vents would open automatically, allowing the heat that collected in the apex of the canopy to escape. By midafternoon in August, these vents were always wide open.
Except for today.
Because of the lack of crowds, the combined cooling effects of the air-conditioning and the Atrium’s fountain had stabilized the pavilion. The vents on C were nearly closed, now only a matter of inches to go.
He couldn’t believe his luck. Ten minutes earlier the vents might have been open enough to crawl through. Now he could barely fit his arm inside.
None of C’s rooftop surveillance cameras showed the absolute peaks of the glass canopy, so he would remain out of view as long as he stayed up high. If he couldn’t gain access here, his plan was ruined. Several thousand lives hung in the balance.
He had little choice. He thrust his arm into the gap as the automatic screws continued to twist. The metal frame clamped down firmly on his forearm. He drove his arm deeper into the ever-tightening space, tearing his skin open on the hooks that locked the vents shut. His fingers groped for the cotter-pin that held the lifting mechanism together.
The screw continued to twist, severely pinning his arm. It felt as if a bone might break. His eyes began to sting. He attempted to lever the large pane of glass open with his arm, but the attempt failed. The screw shanks continued. With one last effort, he drove his arm deeper. His fingers touched the warm cotter pin. He took hold of the splayed ends and pinched them together. The metal resisted. Far too slowly, the ends moved together.
The gap continued to close against his forearm. Sweat streamed from his brow, into his eyes. He grew light-headed from the pain.
He pulled the cotter pin out of the hole, and it fell against the closed screen. He jerked his arm again, cutting it more deeply. With great effort, he tugged the bar attached to the screw mechanism out of the hole in the lifting device. The window freed.
He tied his handkerchief loosely around his bleeding arm and bound the wound. Lifting the heavy pane, he reached inside and tore the screen. Then he shoved his foot through and began to lower himself inside with only the flanged edges of the warm steel to grip.
Fifty feet below him, the unforgiving stone floor awaited a mistake.
Shleit hurried down the concourse, the briefcase flapping at his side, his head to the ground. Time was running out.
With his head down, he felt vulnerable. Haverill had been shot in the back. He couldn’t get the image out of his mind.
He turned down the short hall off of Level 3’s east concourse, as he had been instructed. He stopped when the voice told him to.
A puppet in someone else’s hands.
Something caught his eye. Steuhl? He snapped his head up in time to see a man—Jacobs!—dangling from the center of the glass canopy.
As he looked up, his face came into the camera’s view.
***
“Bastards!” said Steuhl, on seeing Shleit’s face. “They’ve tricked me!” His finger fell toward the autodialer.
“No,” Brock yelled. “The money!”
Steuhl spun around, picked up his revolver, and waved it insanely at Brock. “You want it?”
“You think you’ll ever get that money if you blow the pavilion? Use your head. The threat of blowing the pavilion is all you’ve got.”
Steuhl dragged the handgun’s barrel along his lips, as he considered this. He nodded and rose quickly from his chair, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Shleit was still waiting as he had been told. He opened the door to Dispatch and once again placed the ashtray down to hold the door open.
He disappeared down the back hall.
Susan stretched for the ashtray immediately, her joints nearly disconnecting. She could not reach it. “Where’s Toby?”
“The canopy to C,” said Brock, familiar with every inch of monitored area. “He’s close.”
“Damn!” she snapped. “I can’t reach it.”
“Here,” said Brock, scooting in back of her. She slid farther, her toe now only inches from knocking the ashtray loose.
“Your shoe,” Susan said. “Give me your shoe.”
***
Jacobs worked his way down the canopy’s superstructure, the Atrium below. Hand over hand, fingers gripping the edge of the girder with difficulty, he lowered himself down the steep incline.
His arms ached and his hands and fingers cramped under his weight. There was no way to rest, no way to support himself other than by his grip on the steel beam. He inched along, trying not to look down, trying not to think how painstakingly slow his progress was.
He had seen Shleit carrying the briefcase and wearing his hat. With a high perspective on the pavilion he looked around for Haverill and finally spotted what appeared to be the man, curled in a pool of blood at the far end of Level 2: dead, by the look of it.
How pitiful the man looked. How helpless.
The sight of Haverill’s corpse drove Jacobs on. He found a reserve of strength and increased his speed down the I beam.
As he finally reached the balconied edge of Level 3, he hooked his feet into the grooves of the I beam and punched a knee into an overhead ceiling panel. He couldn’t drop to the concourse without risking being seen on camera.
***
Shleit awaited another order from Steuhl. What was keeping him? As the door behind him jerked open, he instinctively reached for his weapon.
Steuhl shot him in the back. Shleit spun and fell, momentarily paralyzed by the bullet.
Steuhl grabbed the fallen briefcase and shoved Perkins’s card into the slot by the room marked MAINTENANCE. He entered, headed straight to the garbage shoot, and pushed the briefcase into the hole. It fell away silently and then crunched into the bed of garbage far below. He debated following it down—the garbage chutes had hand grips—but he had mistakenly left the autodialer connecte
d, which meant they could stop his timer, if they guessed which button to push. They had tried to trick him. They had broken the rules. They deserved the worst.
Shleit fired his gun, wounding Steuhl.
The man with thick glasses screamed wildly and grabbed his numbed shoulder, diving into the service hallway and away from Shleit’s next bullet.
Blood on his hand. Bastards!
He ran toward Dispatch.
***
Jacobs took hold of a sprinkler pipe and pulled himself into the darkness of the suspended ceiling.
Dispatch was fifteen yards straight ahead. His eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness. He would be tipped off to its exact location by the thousands of wires that fed into the room.
In the tight space, he had to lie flat and pull himself along, spread-eagled for support between sprinkler pipes. Light seeped in from behind him.
The pipes bowed with his weight. He worried that a support might pop lose and give him away or that a joint would loosen and spray water out, announcing him.
Voices ahead. He hurried now, for one of the voices clearly belonged to his Susan—one of the voices just up ahead.
He lost himself in the narrow crawl space. Suddenly the voices were to his left. Following the pipes had led him away from Dispatch. He paused to try and get his bearings, his pulse rapid and loud in his ears. The voices stopped. Where are you? he wanted to shout.
He continued along, unable to see, dragging his hand occasionally overhead searching for wires. He struck a thick trunk of bound wires. They seemed to run left and back. Turning around on the sprinkler pipes was not easy. He groped to his right, resorting to using a leg while he held himself up above the ceiling panels. His shoe thumped as it struck the next sprinkler pipe over. It was too far away to cross to it without risking going through the ceiling. Blind in the darkness, he returned his full weight to this pipe and continued down until he crossed an intersection with a heavy roof support. He guided himself along, hanging awkwardly from the support, which was sprayed with a foam insulation. He reached the neighboring sprinkler pipe, lowered himself carefully onto it, and continued back toward where he hoped he would find Dispatch.
Hidden Charges Page 36
