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I needed to be able to find her in a split-second survey of the parade scene because my attention had to remain focused on the main lure, Jack. He couldn't wear anything as obvious as a pink hat. Fortunately, tracking him wasn't the issue because he'd staked out a table at the edge of a licensed patio, where he nursed a pint of beer and read a motorcycle magazine. If he attracted the attention of anyone who looked as if he could be Wilkes, Jack would fold up his magazine, vacate the patio and head for the alley beside it, which was right across from my perch and lined up for a perfect shot. Alternately, if Evelyn spotted Wilkes, she'd get Jack's attention and he'd make his way to Wilkes, while staying within my line of fire.
Wilkes could be planning a sniper shot himself, but according to Evelyn, he was crap at distance shooting. Besides, if he wanted to reassert his credibility with the Feds, firing from a safe distance would be a cop-out. Just in case, though, I'd been careful to pick a spot with no surrounding high buildings.
As I was thinking this, something thudded over my head. My first reaction was an instant gut-clench, accompanied by a vision of Wilkes standing at the window over mine, his scope trained on Jack. My second reaction was a stifled laugh. There was no floor above mine--just a roof, one with a sloped front and a high lip, unsuitable for shooting.
From overhead came the distinct sound of gravel crunching underfoot. I gave myself a mental shake. Nerves are a sniper's worst enemy. The slightest tremor, and you might as well put the rifle back in its case.
I checked my pulse. Steady. Good. Now concentrate on--
A chirp from the rooftop exit hatch.
Maybe it was only my mind playing tricks, but until I reassured myself of that, my shot was in jeopardy. I took one last look at Jack, then checked my watch. Six minutes to parade time. I laid down my rifle, slipped out of the sling, then spread my tarp over my gear--the fastest way to hide it.
As I pulled out my handgun, I ran though the description Evelyn had given for Wilkes--late fifties, six foot one, big-boned. The rest didn't matter--a disguise could change hair and eye color, make him older and heavier, but shorter or significantly younger were impossible.
It was only then, as I visualized him, that the full impact of what was happening hit. This man, now sneaking into the building, could be Wilkes. The Helter Skelter killer. My target.
I was transported back to the opera house, to that hour when I'd been so sure we'd get him, and I felt again that excitement, that rising sense of oddly calm anticipation. Senses heightening, muscles tensing, pulse hitting a steady rhythm, sliding into that perfect zone.
In that hour at the window, I'd known who I hoped to find in my scope. Yet I never felt it. Too distant a target, too cerebral a goal. What I loved about distance shooting--that total control--also robbed me of this, that delicious moment of knowing that in a few minutes, I'd see my target's face, hear his gasp of shock, smell his fear.
As a loose ladder rung creaked, I pictured him, frozen in midstep, the creak seeming to ring out like a gunshot. He'd listen for any responding sound from below, then start down again, slower now, testing each rung first. Finally, he'd reach the bottom. A few steps and he'd be at my door, turning the handle...
The soft click of the latch. Good. Now look out into the hall. Make sure it's clear, then step out...oh, better close the door behind you.
Click.
Silence.
He was in the hall, looking, listening. No sign of the Feds--if they had a team camped out on this floor, he'd hear it; there was no need for them to be quiet when they were just pulling stakeout or sniper duty from a fifth-story window. Hearing nothing, Wilkes would start forward again, looking for the best window, which was right here, in my room.
I flexed my grip on my gun and smiled.
At least three minutes of silence passed. Still listening for an occupying force? Wilkes hadn't struck me as the nervous type. Maybe the pressure was getting to him. Another two minutes, then a floorboard creaked. Still sneaking down the hall, expecting trouble?
Another creak. He'd be at my door in a few seconds...
Silence.
From my vantage point, I couldn't miss seeing anyone passing the doorway. So where was he? Being cautious was one thing, but he was moving so slowly--
I stopped, imagining not Wilkes, but an officer from the security detail canvassing the building. But if Wilkes wasn't in this hall, that meant Jack was in danger, down there trying to lure in a killer, confident that I was watching his back.
My gaze tripped between the window and the door. Just a few seconds. Let them pass the door and move on. Dear G
od, I hoped they moved on.
I watched the doorway, tensed for the first shadow. I lowered my gun barrel to leg height. No, too risky for an impulse shot. I might hit his femoral artery. A shoulder shot? That had been my first choice with Wilkes, but would I risk it on a cop? Could I even shoot one?
Silence from beyond the door. Awaiting backup? If so, I had time to move away from the door and...And what? Jump out the window? Hide. I could get behind--
A shadow moved across the door opening. I could make out a filthy sneaker and an arm clad in a battered leather jacket. Hardly standard wear for law enforcement. An undercover officer?
I stayed against the wall and waited for him to step inside. Then I'd knock him down and get the hell out--
The shadow crossed the open doorway. Through the crack behind it, I saw a young man, maybe twenty, dressed in ill-fitting clothes that screamed charity wear. He cast a nervous glance through my doorway, then scuttled down the hall.
It could be an undercover officer, but if so, he should have stepped into this room to conduct a thorough search. Through the crack, I watched the young man continuing down the hall, peering into some rooms, ignoring others, haphazardly searching. Not a cop but a junkie spooked by the police presence outside and looking for a safe, quiet hole to shoot up.
