“Not Chip,” he said sadly.
“Does he ever say anything about it?”
“No, no,” he assured her.
Oh, but she bet he did. She bet Chip said a great deal.
“God, that’s no problem at all,” she proclaimed.
He smiled hopefully. “So, it doesn’t matter?”
“Not the size of the baton that makes the music,” she recited without a trace of doubt.
32
“Some guy with a gun at St. Joe’s, sniper maybe,” Tony Santella yelled across the newsroom. “Debbie, get down there. Move.”
She grabbed her pen and pad and slung her purse over her shoulder.
“Who’s going with me?” she called to George.
“Cappy.”
“Got it,” Cappy said. He walked toward the door to the garage, holding back the desire to run to the van and the story.
Throughout the newsroom reporters stopped their typing and phone chatter. Photographers moved into a listening position. This could be a big one. Cappy slammed out the door and the spell was broken. They all moved back to their work.
“He’s on the third floor or something,” Tony said.
“Okay,” said Debbie.
“I’m sending out the remote truck,” George called after her.
“What have we got?” she asked Cappy.
“Sniper, that’s all I know, and everybody in town is going to be there.”
She felt good again, alive, for the first time since the abortion. This is what she wanted to do, this kind of run-and-gun story. This is what she was proud to do for a living.
“Hell,” Cappy swore and made a quick turn. “They’ve already got the streets blocked.”
He had to get past the cops. He drove into an alley, across a side street and into an enormous empty lot.
“Over there, over there,” he pointed to a break between two buildings. “You can see the hospital but it’s a haul. Call George and find out what side the guy’s on.”
“George, which side is the guy on? North, south, which side?”
“What?”
“What side of the building, the sniper, what side?”
There was no answer.
“George, can you hear me?”
“Gee, I don’t know,” he mumbled. “Can you see anything?”
“Move,” Cappy yelled, and threw open the van door.
“Here, here.” He tossed her the box with the clip-on mikes and tucked an extra cord into the waistband of his pants.
“Let’s go.”
They walked quickly through the lot and, rounding a building, faced the flashing lights of a patrol car.
“Where is he?” she asked the officer.
“Up there,” he nodded to the hospital across another empty lot. “You can’t go any farther. This is as far as you go.”
“Right,” she said. “Anybody hurt?”
“I don’t know. Hey, you, get back.” His attention switched to a newspaper photographer who had moved into his line of sight.
“You too,” he ordered Debbie.
“Everybody must be on the other side,” she said to Cappy who was trying to get a focus on the multi-storied building.
“If we could get up there,” she nodded toward a parking garage facing the east side of the hospital, “we could get a direct shot to the hospital.”
Cappy looked doubtful. They would have to walk back to the lot, make a wide circle away from this cop, staying along the back of the buildings, then break and run for the garage. They would make it only if the cop didn’t glance sideways and spot them when they made that run. Was it worth the effort?
“There has to be another door to that garage, the door for the stairs, one we can’t see from here,” she insisted.
“If we’re lucky,” he grumbled as they began their slow move away from the small crowd that had gathered.
They walked back toward the alley and began to make the wide half circle. They crept tight to the buildings before breaking for that run to the garage.
“Shit, it’s not even finished,” Cappy said, seeing the blue construction-site dumpster. Debbie disappeared around a corner of the building.
“Cappy,” she called, “there’s a door here. It’s open. Come on.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he grunted behind her as they climbed the stairs.
At the third level, she slowly pushed the door open and peeked out.
“I think this is good,” she whispered.
Cappy peeked out as well. “Looks okay to me.”
Like children, they tiptoed into the empty garage, the unfinished cement floors crackling beneath their steps. Cappy went straight to the far edge that faced the hospital. He stood and stared and then fell into a crouch, yelling. “Goddamn, get down. Jesus, I think that’s him. Right there. Do you see him? Over there, at that window. Oh God. Sweet Jesus God Almighty.”
“Where, where?” She stretched to see the wall of hospital windows level with the garage.
“There, the next floor up, middle window. Wait a second.” He lowered his head to the camera eyepiece. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Not much light, not much,” he muttered, “but that’s him. Talk to George.”
He unhooked the walkie-talkie from his belt and skidded it across the floor.
“I need a better shot,” he said and, with the camera held like a rifle, he duck-walked forward, pulling the recorder behind him.
“George, Debbie. Do you hear me? George?”
“Go ahead, Debbie,” answered Tony Santella.
“We’ve got a shot,” she said, careful with her words. Every newsroom monitored every other newsroom’s frequency. If they figured out where they were, an army of reporters and photographers would soon be pounding up the stairs.
“Good.” Tony’s voice was calm. “Find someplace to go live. We want to do a cut-in.”
She didn’t answer as she stared at the windows. How could Cappy see so far? Suddenly, she gasped. She could see a man, not his face but the shadow of him. She believed she could see a rifle in his arms.
“Debbie, did you hear me?”
“Oh wow,” she laughed nervously.
“We need a live shot. Get some place where we can set up,” he ordered.
“I’ll be back.” She clicked off.
“Did you hear that?” she gave a hoarse call to Cappy.
The door slammed behind her. She jumped in terror.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” the man shouted and waved a gun at her.
“Reporter,” she shouted back, her arms raised.
