“They use chalk,” Jacobi muttered.
Chapter 113
JOGGING BACK from afternoon practice, Rusty Coombs took the four-mile loop from the field house around South Campus. He decided to make the last two hundred meters an all-out sprint.
A police car wailed past him. Then another speeding cruiser.
At first, the sight of the cruisers jolted him. But as he watched the cars trail away, he relaxed. His muscular legs churned on.
Everything was fine, just fine. He was safe here at Stanford. One of the privileged few, right?
He went back to what he’d been thinking about before the cops rudely interrupted. If he could get his body fat down to 7.8, and slice his time in the forty another tenth or two, he could maybe move up to the third round of the NFL draft. Third round meant guaranteed bonus. Stick to the plan, he told himself. Fantasies had a way of becoming real, at least his did.
Rusty chugged onto Santa Ynez, a block away from the frat house where he and several other football players lived. As he turned down the street, his body slammed to a halt.
What the fuck… They’re here for me!
The street was ablaze with flashing lights. Police cars… three of them, and two maroon campus security vehicles in front of his house. A crowd milling in the street. Town cops weren’t allowed on campus for anything trivial. No, this was bigger, wide-screen….
He knew in a sickening flash that everything was over. He wouldn’t even have the chance to cut the lights out on the little bitch who had killed his father. His legs still moved, jogging in place.
What shot through his mind was, How the fuck could they have known? Who figured it out? Not Lindsay Boxer!
A geeky student in baggy red shorts with a red knapsack thrown over his shoulder came up the street toward him. Rusty continued to jog in place. “Hey, what the hell’s going on?”
“Police are looking for someone,” the guy said. “Must be something big, ’cause everyone’s saying cops from San Francisco are on the way.”
“No shit,” Rusty muttered. “All the way from San Francisco, huh?”
Too bad, he thought. He was pissed. He was also sorry it had to end. But he’d always fantasized about how this might play out.
He reversed himself and started jogging back in the direction of the Main Quad. His stride picked up speed, swiftly and powerfully.
Rusty Coombs turned his head as another police car, siren wailing, shot by. No point hiding out any longer. The cops were here in numbers.
Fortunately, he had the perfect ending.
Chapter 114
JACOBI AND I SPED DOWN 101 toward Palo Alto at a steady ninety. Signs for Burlingame, San Mateo, and Menlo Park shot past. We were pumped to take this creep down within the hour.
I was hoping we could take Rusty Coombs by surprise. Maybe as he came out of a class. There were thousands of students on the Stanford campus. He was armed and very dangerous, so I wanted to avoid a confrontation if I could.
I had arranged to meet Lieutenant Joe Kimes of the Palo Alto Violent Crimes Detail at the dean of students’ office in the Main Quad. As we closed in on Palo Alto, Kimes called back. He reported that Coombs couldn’t be found. He had no scheduled classes that afternoon. He wasn’t at his residence or the stadium, where the Stanford football team had finished practice about an hour ago.
“Does he know there’s an APB out on him?” I asked. “What’s happening down there, Joe?”
“It’s hard to keep a low profile here,” Kimes said. “He could’ve seen our cars.”
I was starting to worry. I’d hoped we could get to Coombs before he knew we were coming. He liked attention—he wanted to be a star.
“What do you want us to do?” Kimes asked.
“I want you to put the local SWAT team on alert. Meanwhile, try to find the big creep, Joe. Don’t let him out of our trap. And Joe, this guy is extremely dangerous. You have no idea.”
Chapter 115
THE ELEVATOR ASCENDED RAPIDLY and when it opened, Chimera looked out on the observation deck of the Hoover Tower, more than two hundred and fifty feet over Stanford’s Main Quad.
There was no one up there on the deck. No one to bother him, no one to kill right away. Just the flat blue sky, the concrete WPA-style dome, the giant carillon bells that tolled thunder across the campus.
Rusty Coombs flicked off the elevator power switch, freezing the doors open.
Then he slung the black nylon duffel bag he was carrying onto the floor and leaned against the concrete wall, his back to one of the eight barred windows. He opened the bag, removing his disassembled PSG-1, the sniper’s scope, and two additional pistols, along with clips of ammunition.
This was something else—breathtaking, actually. The bomb, right? He could see mountains to the south and west, the outline of San Francisco to the north. It was a clear day. Everything was calm, perfect. The Stanford campus stretched out before him. Students crept like ants down below. The best and the brightest.
He began to hook together the rifle, clicking the barrel seamlessly into the stock, fitting on the customized shoulder rest, until the assembled piece rested in his arms like a prized musical instrument.
A sparrow perched on the carillon bells. He aimed and squeezed the trigger in a dry run. Click.
Then he screwed the sniper’s sight onto the stock. He snapped in a twenty-round clip.
He crouched behind the cement wall. The wind rattled by, sounding like a gust snapping a canvas sail. The sky was a gorgeous turquoise blue. I’m going to die, and you know what? I really don’t care.
Students were casually traversing crosswalks, lounging and reading on benches. Who knew…? Who suspected any danger? He could have his pick. He could immortalize any of them.
Rusty Coombs swung the barrel of his rifle through the metal bars in one of the dome’s six-foot-high windows. He squinted through the sight and searched out the first target. Students popped into view: a pretty Japanese girl with auburn hair and dark glasses nuzzling her Caucasian boyfriend on the green. A geek in a bright yellow sweatshirt riding a yellow bicycle. He shifted the sight. A black student with long corn braids walking toward the student bookstore. Coombs smiled. Sometimes it even amazed him how much hatred he had inside. He was smart enough to know that he didn’t just despise them, he despised himself. Despised his buffed-up body, the imperfections only he knew about, but most of all he hated his thoughts, his obsessions, the way his goddamn mind worked. He’d felt so alone, for so goddamn long. Like right now.
In the distance, he caught sight of a blue Explorer with flashing lights. It pulled up in front of the administration building. The tight-assed bitch from San Francisco jumped out. His heart pounded.
She was here. He’d have his chance at her after all.
He fixed the sight on the pretty Oriental girl smooching her boyfriend on the lawn. Christ, he hated both of them. Disgraces to their races.
Then, as a second thought, he swung the rifle over to the jig girl with the cornstalks, a gold heart-shaped pendant bobbing on her neck, a glint in her brown eyes.
It’s just my nature. He smirked, coiling his finger around the cold metal trigger.
Chimera was back in business.
Chapter 116
THE EXPLORER screeched to a stop outside the administration building. Jacobi and I got out and cut through the Spanish loggia overlooking the Main Quad.
We ran right into Kimes, barking orders into a handheld radio. He was with the grim-faced dean of students, Felix Stern. “We still haven’t found Rusty Coombs,” Kimes told me. “He was seen on the Quad twenty minutes ago. Now he’s disappeared again.”
“How are we doing with that SWAT team?” I asked him.
“They’re on their way now. You think we’ll need them?”
I shook my head. “I hope not. We won’t need them if Coombs got spooked and split.”
Just then, we heard shots. I knew that none of the police would fire first. Besides, it sounded like
rifle fire.
“I think he’s still here,” Warren Jacobi deadpanned.
Screams of panicked students echoed down the loggia. Then they started to run toward us, fleeing the Quad.
Someone shouted, “He’s in the Hoover Tower. The fucker, the fucking madman!”
Jacobi, Kimes, and I ran right into the stampeding students. Joe Kimes was on the radio. “Shots fired! All personnel and EMS to the Hoover Tower. Use extreme caution!”
We got to the green in the next few seconds. Students were hiding behind trees, pillars, large flower pots, anything that afforded some cover.
Two students were down. One of them was a black woman, a bloody circle widening on her chest. Goddamn him. Goddamn Chimera.
“Stay down! Stay where you are!” I yelled across the Quad. “Please keep your heads down!”
A shot rang out from the tower. Then a second and third. A male student dropped from behind a slatted bench.
“Please stay down!” I screamed again. “Stay the hell down!”
I fixed my eyes on the belfry of the tower, searching for a shape, a gun, anything to set Rusty Coombs’s position.
Suddenly, two more shots echoed from the tower. Coombs was definitely up there. There was no way we could protect this many people. He had us where he wanted us. Chimera was still winning.
I grabbed Kimes. “How would I get up there?”
“No one’s going up there,” Joe Kimes snapped back, “without a SWAT escort.” His eyes were wide and frozen. He shouted into the radio. “All SWAT and medical teams to the Main Quad! Sniper is shooting from the Hoover Tower. At least three down.”
I looked him in the eye. “How do I get up there, Joe?” I demanded. “I’m going, so tell me the best way.”
“There’s an elevator on the ground floor,” Dean Stern cut in.
I pulled my Glock out of my side holster and checked the smaller Beretta I had fastened to my ankle. Chimera was up in that dome, raining bullets down.
My eyes fixed on a building that would provide some cover. Jacobi reached for my arm. But he knew he wasn’t going to stop me.
“You wouldn’t give me a minute to grab us both a vest, would you, L.T.?”
“I’ll see you up there, Warren.” I winked. Then I broke for the tower in a tight crouch.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, I wondered—why am I doing this?
Chapter 117
JESUS, HE FELT GOOD.
Chimera pulled back the rifle and sat against the hard concrete wall. In a moment, hell on earth was going to bust loose in the Quad. SWAT teams, snipers, maybe even helicopters. He knew he had the advantage—he didn’t care if he died.
He fixed on the big carillon bells. He’d always liked the stupid, damn bells. When they played, you could hear them all over campus. He wondered, when this was over, when he was no longer around, if he could have bells played at his funeral. Yeah, right.
Then he realized he was alone in the Hoover Tower and had just killed five people. What a fucking day this had been—what a life he’d had. He was going down in history, no doubt about that anymore.
He lifted himself up and peered over the side. Suddenly, everything was pretty quiet down there. The Quad had been cleared. Soon there’d be a high-tech SWAT team on the scene, then he’d just have to take out as many as he could get. They were going to have to earn their overtime pay.
But for now, up here, man, everything was beautiful….
Then he spotted Lindsay Boxer! He squinted through the rifle sight to be sure. The “hero cop” who had killed his father. She had run from the cover of the administration building, zigzagging in a crouch toward the tower. He was glad she was here. Suddenly, everything changed. He could still bring this bus in on time….
He followed the darting shape and gently closed his left eye. He let his breathing slow to an almost meditative rate.
He was thinking that his father had taken nine shots.
So should she.
He drew in a breath and fixed the crosshairs on her white blouse.
You’re a dead woman.
Chapter 118
IT WAS QUIET NOW in the quadrangle. Rusty Coombs was either taking a breather or reloading.
Let’s do it. Me and you, pal.
I headed for the building in front of me. I felt a kind of controlled hysteria. Not good. I knew I was a target, and that Coombs could shoot.
Suddenly, I heard a gun burst behind me. I glanced and saw Jacobi firing at the tower.
Before Coombs could train on me, I darted under the cover of thick poplar branches, then around the building to within a few yards of the base of the tower.
I looked around and saw Jacobi with Kimes. He shook his head at me. I knew it meant, Please, Lindsay, stay put. I can’t do backup once you’re in the tower. I winked at him almost apologetically.
I ran around the tower until I found an entrance on the north side. I headed up the stairs and found myself in a marbled WPA-style lobby.
Elevator straight ahead.
I pressed for the elevator over and over, my gun trained on the doors. They didn’t open. In futility, I slammed my fist against the polished chrome doors. I screamed, “Police.” The shout echoed down the halls. I needed someone, anybody. I had no idea how to get to the top of the tower from here.
An older man in a maintenance uniform emerged from down a corridor. He recoiled at the sight of my gun.
“Police,” I yelled. “How do I get up there?”
“Man’s blocked the elevator,” he said. “Only way up is the auxiliary stairs.”
“Show me. Please. It’s a matter of life or death.”
The caretaker led me through a door and up to the third floor, then down a corridor to a narrow set of stairs. “You got yourself thirteen flights. Fire door at the top. Opens from both sides.”
“Wait in the lobby and tell anyone who comes that I’m up here,” I said as I headed into the narrow stairwell. “That’s a matter of life or death, too.”
“Yes ma’am. Understood.”
I started up. Thirteen flights. And I didn’t know what to expect at the top. My heart was racing and my blouse clung to my back with cold sweat.
Lucky thirteen. With each story, my breaths grew tighter and sharper. My legs began to ache, top to bottom, and I run four times a week. I didn’t know if I was crazy, going in there without backup. No, hell, I knew I was crazy.
Finally, I pushed past twelve and reached the top. Jesus. Only a solid metal fire door separated me from Chimera. My heart was exploding.
Through the door I heard more shooting. K-pow, k-pow, k-pow. He was at it again. I was scared that someone else might be killed. I was angry, pissed, I wanted him so bad. I checked my Glock and sucked in a breath. Oh God, Lindsay… whatever you do, do it fast.
The fire door had one of those heavy emergency levers that had to be pushed down to release.
I pressed it down and burst onto the observation deck.
Chapter 119
I WAS STRUCK with a blast of blinding sunlight. Then the chilling sounds: k-ping, k-ping, k-ping… the ejecting shells from the rifle jangling to the floor.
Rushing onto the deck, I spotted Coombs. He was kneeling in front of an opening with his rifle extended through the bars.
Suddenly he pivoted toward me.
His gun exploded in my direction. A deafening burst, orange flashes all around. Loud metallic dings.
I dove away from the door, peeling off a burst of four shots. I didn’t know if I’d hit him. I sucked in a breath, waiting for a stab of pain to see if he’d hit me. He hadn’t.
“It’s a lot harder when somebody’s shooting back at you,” I yelled.
I was crouched behind a tall metal grating. It housed a collection of seven massive bells. Each looked as if it could shatter my eardrums with a single ring. The rest of the observation deck was no more than an eight-foot-wide path. It circled the bells with viewing openings every six feet or so in the wall.
Coombs was on the other side—the bells acting as a cover for both of us.
His voice called out, an easy, arrogant twang, “Welcome to Camelot, Lieutenant…. All these big-shot brains down there… and now you coming all the way up here just to talk to me.”
“I brought along friends. They won’t be talking, Rusty. They’ll be looking for any shot to take you down. Why die like this?”
“I don’t know, seems like a good plan to me. You want to die up here with me, be my guest,” Rusty Coombs called back.
I squinted through the grating, trying to get a fix on where Coombs was. Across the belfry, I heard him shove in a fresh clip.
“I’m glad it’s you. I mean, it’s fitting, don’t you think? You nail my dad, now I get to do the same to you.”
His voice seemed to shift, as if he was circling.
I started to circle as well, my Glock aimed toward the corner of the bell housing.
“I don’t want you to die up here, Rusty.”
“A little slow on the uptake, aren’t you, Lieutenant? Just like always. I gave you everything I could think of. The chimera symbols, the van, the nine one one… What did I have to do, send you a fucking E-mail and say, ‘Hey, fellas, I’m over here?’ Took you long enough to figure it out. Cost a few lives along the way.”
Suddenly, a burst of gunfire rattled the iron grating, bullets clanging loudly off the bells.
I ducked down, holding my head between my hands.
“Your father’s gone,” I shouted. “This doesn’t bring him back.”
Where was he now? I peered through a gap in the grating. Brain freeze.
There was Rusty Coombs. He was smiling at me, his father’s smug, hateful grin. I saw the rifle extended through the bell housing.