Shoot / Don't Shoot

watching her face. “Anything?” he, asked.

“Not yet,” she returned.

Joanna resumed her seat on the stool. By then Butch had ordered her a diet Coke, which she ac­cepted with good grace. With Jenny in danger, Joanna was surprised she could drink a soda or sit still or even talk. It was as though she existed—living and breathing—in a little vacuum of nor­malcy, one that Butch Dixon somehow helped make possible.

When she came back from the telephone, he didn’t say anything for a long time. He seemed to be lost in thought. “While you were gone,” he said, “I was sitting here thinking. I just remembered something. Larry Dysart didn’t stop drinking booze until just a few months ago. And sometimes, when he used to be on the sauce, he’d get off on a big nonstop talking kick. One time he was telling me about what a crazy bastard old Tommy Tompkins was. I always figured that was the pot calling the kettle black.

“But anyway, he was talking about this bomb shelter Tommy used to have. It was supposed to be a big secret, because when Armageddon came, Tommy didn’t want too many people knowing about it. I’ll bet it’s still there. You don’t suppose ...”

Joanna was already on her way to track down Sergeant Rodriquez. “Get hold of Detective Strong,” Joanna told him. “Tell her they’re looking in the wrong place.”

Moments later, the phone rang at the end of the bar. Joanna answered it herself.

“Where?” was Carol Strong’s one-word question.

“Somewhere on the APOA campus,” Joanna an­swered. “My best guess is you’re looking for a bomb shelter.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

It was almost 8 P.M. when the Search and Rescue dogs picked up a trail that led to a man-hole just off the railroad right-of-way. The manhole was labeled UTILITIES, with no specifica­tion as to what kind of utilities might be involved. Inside were conduit runs and circuit-breaker boxes—all of which proved to be dummies.

The girls’ trail led down the ladder and through a concrete tunnel to what was, ostensibly, a dead end. Carol Strong had Butch Dixon and Joanna brought to the scene while a lock technician tried to solve the problem of how the trail the dogs had followed down the tunnel could pass through what appeared to be a solid concrete wall.

“They’re in there,” Carol told an anxious Joanna once she was standing near the head of the line of people at the far end of the tunnel. “I don’t know if they’re both there, and I don’t know if they’re all right,” Carol continued. “All I do know for sure is that when we tap on the wall, somebody taps back.”

Joanna felt her knees go weak with relief, but it was another half hour before the locksmith discov­ered the release mechanism. With a creaking groan, the seemingly massive wall slid aside, moving smoothly on well-oiled rollers. At once, seven sep­arate flashlights probed the darkness beyond the opening.

Jennifer Brady, wearing the same clothes she had worn that morning, stood illumined in the glow of lights, both hands on her hips. Blinking in the sud­den glare, she tumbled out of the darkness with Ceci Grijalva right on her heels. Tears of joy coursed down Joanna’s face as she gathered both girls into her arms.

After enduring her mother’s fierce hug for as long as she was willing, Jenny pushed away. “Mommy,” she said accusingly. “It was dark in there. What took you so long?”

A jubilant Butch Dixon let out a yip that was a cross between a rodeo rider’s triumphant Yippee and a fairly respectable imitation of a coyote’s yip.

“Who’s that?” Jenny asked, peering up at him. “And what happened to his hair?”

“That’s Butch Dixon,” Joanna said. “He’s a friend of mine. It’s because of him that we found you as soon as we did. And as far as his hair is concerned, it all fell out because his grandmother gave him a permanent when