macadam. The pain exploded in my sacrum. A cry broke the silence of the yard. I slammed my mouth shut.
Where was Yankowski? Thick shadows hung off the wings of the main building, onto the acre of gray paving behind it, dark enough to hide him. Lights, dim against the fog of the night, looked more like mosquito lamps than beacons. I could make out the big square gymnasium across the yard, but the corners were fuzzy, and Yankowski, pressed unmoving against it, would be invisible. At the edges of the yard, the wind jostled the branches of tall full trees, but between the buildings there was no vegetation to be moved. In the dim light the school yard looked like a black and white photograph shot without a flashbulb—forever still, forever too dark to reveal its secret.
Revolver in one hand, I aimed the flashlight alongside the outbuilding to my right. The beam skimmed the ground till it was eaten by the fog. No Yankowski.
The sirens sounded closer, coming in from all directions.
Gritting my teeth against the pain, I moved forward, my rubber-soled shoes silent on the macadam. As I rounded the corner of the school, the wind whipped loose strands of hair in my face. I pushed it away and stared ahead at the deserted acre and a half of school yard. There were a hundred places to hide here, around the corners of the wings, under staircases, behind dumpsters, behind the outbuildings; or in the woody underbrush on the east side, in the backyards of the houses to the west; or around the pool, the playground, the trees that edged the track to the north. If he crossed Hopkins Street into the residential area with its maze of backyards, we could spend hours—and half the manpower in our department—and still not come up with him.
I flashed the light back into the black vee between these two thrusting wings of the school, but Yankowski wasn’t there. The wind iced the sweat on my face and neck. Standing still, I listened for the slap of moving feet, for that labored hiss of Yankowski’s breath. On King Way a car screeched to a halt, then started up. I noted the pitch of the sirens, trying to judge how close they were. Murakawa would be circling to the west. He should be rounding the corner soon onto Hopkins and coming up by the pool.
I stepped out farther into the yard. Headlights threw gray-white cones onto the macadam.
I peered across the yard toward the buildings at the north side. They were too far away for the flashlight beam. I could just see outlines through the fog, filling them in from memory. Near the gym was a small garage-sized structure, beside it a smaller storage shed. West of that was a large wooden umbrella with wings extending out on two sides; during the day seventy-five students clustered on the benches there out of the sun, lobbing scrunched-up papers in the general direction of the heavy, weighted metal waste-bins. To the west the earth had been humped up to create two small bare hills. I eyed them, for variations, a suggestion of a head peering over the top. Yankowski could be anywhere.
To my left the headlights of the patrol car threw long fuzzy beams. I paused, waiting for them to come nearer, and bathe the yard in their strong light. They didn’t move. The car had stopped. Of course, the gate was locked; the driver would be climbing over as I had. He’d have called Grayson. Grayson would have notified the dispatcher, who would be trying to get hold of the school custodian. Fat lot of good! By the time the custodian got here, Yankowski could be in San Francisco.
A flashlight beam shone around the corner of school wall. I flicked my light. It fell on a uniform. Devlin? He flicked back. He would finish at the building.
My beam just made the unlit yard blacker. Turning it off, I started across the pavement, letting my eyes reaccustom themselves to the dark. I glanced back at the mounds of dirt, trying to see them as separate from the leaves waving in the distance. The mounds sat dark and unmoving. I
Where was Yankowski? Thick shadows hung off the wings of the main building, onto the acre of gray paving behind it, dark enough to hide him. Lights, dim against the fog of the night, looked more like mosquito lamps than beacons. I could make out the big square gymnasium across the yard, but the corners were fuzzy, and Yankowski, pressed unmoving against it, would be invisible. At the edges of the yard, the wind jostled the branches of tall full trees, but between the buildings there was no vegetation to be moved. In the dim light the school yard looked like a black and white photograph shot without a flashbulb—forever still, forever too dark to reveal its secret.
Revolver in one hand, I aimed the flashlight alongside the outbuilding to my right. The beam skimmed the ground till it was eaten by the fog. No Yankowski.
The sirens sounded closer, coming in from all directions.
Gritting my teeth against the pain, I moved forward, my rubber-soled shoes silent on the macadam. As I rounded the corner of the school, the wind whipped loose strands of hair in my face. I pushed it away and stared ahead at the deserted acre and a half of school yard. There were a hundred places to hide here, around the corners of the wings, under staircases, behind dumpsters, behind the outbuildings; or in the woody underbrush on the east side, in the backyards of the houses to the west; or around the pool, the playground, the trees that edged the track to the north. If he crossed Hopkins Street into the residential area with its maze of backyards, we could spend hours—and half the manpower in our department—and still not come up with him.
I flashed the light back into the black vee between these two thrusting wings of the school, but Yankowski wasn’t there. The wind iced the sweat on my face and neck. Standing still, I listened for the slap of moving feet, for that labored hiss of Yankowski’s breath. On King Way a car screeched to a halt, then started up. I noted the pitch of the sirens, trying to judge how close they were. Murakawa would be circling to the west. He should be rounding the corner soon onto Hopkins and coming up by the pool.
I stepped out farther into the yard. Headlights threw gray-white cones onto the macadam.
I peered across the yard toward the buildings at the north side. They were too far away for the flashlight beam. I could just see outlines through the fog, filling them in from memory. Near the gym was a small garage-sized structure, beside it a smaller storage shed. West of that was a large wooden umbrella with wings extending out on two sides; during the day seventy-five students clustered on the benches there out of the sun, lobbing scrunched-up papers in the general direction of the heavy, weighted metal waste-bins. To the west the earth had been humped up to create two small bare hills. I eyed them, for variations, a suggestion of a head peering over the top. Yankowski could be anywhere.
To my left the headlights of the patrol car threw long fuzzy beams. I paused, waiting for them to come nearer, and bathe the yard in their strong light. They didn’t move. The car had stopped. Of course, the gate was locked; the driver would be climbing over as I had. He’d have called Grayson. Grayson would have notified the dispatcher, who would be trying to get hold of the school custodian. Fat lot of good! By the time the custodian got here, Yankowski could be in San Francisco.
A flashlight beam shone around the corner of school wall. I flicked my light. It fell on a uniform. Devlin? He flicked back. He would finish at the building.
My beam just made the unlit yard blacker. Turning it off, I started across the pavement, letting my eyes reaccustom themselves to the dark. I glanced back at the mounds of dirt, trying to see them as separate from the leaves waving in the distance. The mounds sat dark and unmoving. I
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