temptation for shoppers who would not be coming in.
Sixteen people of varying ages and both sexes sat on plastic chairs at plastic tables in the food court. Some held cups of coffee or soda. SWAT stood around the perimeter. I didn’t give them more than a quick glance; I looked around at the stores.
I immediately spotted them. Obviously bewildered, a middle-aged woman with a thick waist and short, curly brown hair, and a brown-haired teen girl, maybe fifteen-years-old, stood just inside a teen boutique. The girl had a chest wound which bled a lot before she died. A tacky red swath of browning blood ran from just inside the entrance out into the food court.
Mike talked to a SWAT guy. He nodded at the man and walked over to me. “We found his arsenal and mask where he dumped them.”
“He could still be out there.”
Mike looked at the tired-looking people at the tables. “If he is, we’ll find him, but he could be one of them. As a precaution, we frisked them, told them it’s standard procedure. It was cursory, but we would have found a weapon.”
He laid his hand on my shoulder. “Anything here you can use?”
I eyed the woman and girl. “Oh, yes.”
I walked over to them. Mike stayed where he was, letting me do my thing without interference.
They watched me coming and the way I looked right at them, and straightened up. The woman wore an expression of utter terror. The girl’s eyes were glazed, her mouth slightly open as if in a tiny pop. S he was already in shock when she died. Mother and daughter?
He shot the woman first. He pulled her away from her daughter, into the food court, pushed her to the ground and shot her in the back of the head. He went back in for the girl. She stood in the boutique with her mouth open, not believing what she saw. He shot her in the chest, and when she crumpled, dragged her out to die beside her mother. Both died just outside the store, but their shades could evidently go back inside if they wanted to. The killer wore a ski-mask, and his thin mouth smiled through the slit as he slaughtered two innocent people. I closed my eyes and sucked in several deep breaths before I could continue.
I stopped just inside the entrance, standing clear of the blood trail and shielded from outside view by a display of Prom dresses.
“ Can you see us?” the woman asked.
I nodded. They needed time to ask their questions and adjust to the fact I could see them.
The teen still clutched a pair of bloodstained, embroidered jeans with a price tag. I’ve always found it interesting how the dead keep what they held when they died, like my friend Brenda Lithgow, who stands in downtown Clarion with her loaded shopping cart.
With fingers clenched in the material, the girl hugged the jeans to her chest. “We thought they were ignoring us, but they’re not, are they.”
I shook my head.
The mother’s voice was almost a wail. “We can’t get out!”
“ You’ll get out, but not for a while.”
As if she didn’t hear me, she went on, “We tried, but we can’t leave the food court!”
The girl looked at the court. “I keep telling her we’re dead. She won’t listen.”
I stuck my hands in my pants pockets and explained everything to them, but although the teen had already come to terms with what happened to her and her mom, the woman couldn’t accept the truth. So I stepped up to them and did the one thing which always convinces the dead: I stroked my hand through the woman’s shoulder. Then I did the same to the teen.
They moved closer together. They wanted to cry, but they no longer possessed the ability. They wanted to hold each other, but it was no longer an option. For the umpteenth time, I wished I could say something to make it all better, but I couldn’t. They were dead.
They looked at my hand dumbly. I looked back at Mike over my shoulder. He made a discrete hurry-up motion with one hand.
I spoke to the teen: “What’s your name?”
“ Amy.”
“ And you?” I
Sixteen people of varying ages and both sexes sat on plastic chairs at plastic tables in the food court. Some held cups of coffee or soda. SWAT stood around the perimeter. I didn’t give them more than a quick glance; I looked around at the stores.
I immediately spotted them. Obviously bewildered, a middle-aged woman with a thick waist and short, curly brown hair, and a brown-haired teen girl, maybe fifteen-years-old, stood just inside a teen boutique. The girl had a chest wound which bled a lot before she died. A tacky red swath of browning blood ran from just inside the entrance out into the food court.
Mike talked to a SWAT guy. He nodded at the man and walked over to me. “We found his arsenal and mask where he dumped them.”
“He could still be out there.”
Mike looked at the tired-looking people at the tables. “If he is, we’ll find him, but he could be one of them. As a precaution, we frisked them, told them it’s standard procedure. It was cursory, but we would have found a weapon.”
He laid his hand on my shoulder. “Anything here you can use?”
I eyed the woman and girl. “Oh, yes.”
I walked over to them. Mike stayed where he was, letting me do my thing without interference.
They watched me coming and the way I looked right at them, and straightened up. The woman wore an expression of utter terror. The girl’s eyes were glazed, her mouth slightly open as if in a tiny pop. S he was already in shock when she died. Mother and daughter?
He shot the woman first. He pulled her away from her daughter, into the food court, pushed her to the ground and shot her in the back of the head. He went back in for the girl. She stood in the boutique with her mouth open, not believing what she saw. He shot her in the chest, and when she crumpled, dragged her out to die beside her mother. Both died just outside the store, but their shades could evidently go back inside if they wanted to. The killer wore a ski-mask, and his thin mouth smiled through the slit as he slaughtered two innocent people. I closed my eyes and sucked in several deep breaths before I could continue.
I stopped just inside the entrance, standing clear of the blood trail and shielded from outside view by a display of Prom dresses.
“ Can you see us?” the woman asked.
I nodded. They needed time to ask their questions and adjust to the fact I could see them.
The teen still clutched a pair of bloodstained, embroidered jeans with a price tag. I’ve always found it interesting how the dead keep what they held when they died, like my friend Brenda Lithgow, who stands in downtown Clarion with her loaded shopping cart.
With fingers clenched in the material, the girl hugged the jeans to her chest. “We thought they were ignoring us, but they’re not, are they.”
I shook my head.
The mother’s voice was almost a wail. “We can’t get out!”
“ You’ll get out, but not for a while.”
As if she didn’t hear me, she went on, “We tried, but we can’t leave the food court!”
The girl looked at the court. “I keep telling her we’re dead. She won’t listen.”
I stuck my hands in my pants pockets and explained everything to them, but although the teen had already come to terms with what happened to her and her mom, the woman couldn’t accept the truth. So I stepped up to them and did the one thing which always convinces the dead: I stroked my hand through the woman’s shoulder. Then I did the same to the teen.
They moved closer together. They wanted to cry, but they no longer possessed the ability. They wanted to hold each other, but it was no longer an option. For the umpteenth time, I wished I could say something to make it all better, but I couldn’t. They were dead.
They looked at my hand dumbly. I looked back at Mike over my shoulder. He made a discrete hurry-up motion with one hand.
I spoke to the teen: “What’s your name?”
“ Amy.”
“ And you?” I
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