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Authors: Lawrence Block
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with armed Panthers. Result—instant bloodshed.”
“My God.”
“You’re probably right that there is a police conspiracy, but even in the absence of one—”
“I never thought of it that way.” Wide blue eyes. “Oh, Miles, that’s scary!”
“It’s the sort of thing that could happen.”
“And I thought I was paranoid before. I don’t know about this summer, I really don’t. My father wants me to go home to Connecticut. I could hang around here. There are always empty beds in the dormitories during summer session. I can’t even concentrate on the choices because of everything that keeps happening. I think about leaving the country. That’s what we all talk about. Just getting out of here. This country is on a death trip and I just want to get off.”
The speakers’ platform was 80 yards from the window of the chemistry lab. There was no wind to speak of. The lab was on the third floor of the building, the top floor, and the slight downward angle was easily allowed for .
There was not much in the way of security. A half-dozen state troopers with high-powered rifles. A handful of obvious plain-clothesmen. Enough for his purposes .
(“ The White Hope. A lot of people say that someone like that does more harm than good .”)
When it was time, he moved quickly. He propped the inert Burton Weldon on a chair in front of the window. He had previously opened the window a foot and a half. Now he drew the shade. He crouched behind Weldon, leaned the boy forward a little, put his arms around the slender body, and settled the barrel of the deer rifle on the window ledge .
(“… . and so the third night he goes to bed in the White House and when he wakes up in the morning he’s not J. Lowell Drury anymore, he’s Hubert Humphrey.”)
A four-power scope. Sighting easily, the cross hairs finding their target .
(“I like Drury. I see him on television and I like him.”) Rugged New England features seen through the scope. Face animated, beaming, self-confident .
(“But you wonder if the country would be any worse off without him?” “Right. And I can’t see how it would.”)
He gave the trigger an easy squeeze, popped Drury’s skull half an inch above the bridge of his nose. He fired off the rest of the clip, his fingers agile through the sheer gloves, working the bolt between shots, aiming over the crowd, hitting no one. The clip was empty before anyone began returning his fire. He fastened Weldon’s hands on the gun, leaned him further forward, and scurried back toward the door. The gunfire began before he was out of the room and was still going on when he cleared the last flight of stairs .
In the bus terminal in Albany a man wanted to talk about Drury. Veins showed on his cheekbones. He wore green work-clothes and carried a glossy black lunch bucket .
“About time someone got that sonofabitch. For my money he was asking for it. He was a Commie, you know.” “I didn’t know that.”
“It wasn’t generally known. But I take an interest in these things, see. I’m at the Vets’ Post and we get speakers who give you the inside story. Card carrying Commie. Take my word for it.”
“We were talking about Drury again last night, Miles. It’s just fantastic the way the same people who said the worst things about him are turning him into a saint.”
“You can’t be a saint without martyrdom.”
“Is that all it is? I think there’s more to it than that. Martin Luther King was a saint even before he was shot.”
“More people knew it afterward.”
“But look at Kennedy. Either Kennedy. I remember when I heard about Dallas. What I was doing, everything. I remember it so completely.”
“Everybody does.”
“I was like eleven years old. My father hated Kennedy. He had all those jokes about Jackie being a nymphomaniac and the Pope moving into the White House. But after Dallas it was as if he’d never had an unkind thought about the man. He even bought this terrible oil painting of
“My God.”
“You’re probably right that there is a police conspiracy, but even in the absence of one—”
“I never thought of it that way.” Wide blue eyes. “Oh, Miles, that’s scary!”
“It’s the sort of thing that could happen.”
“And I thought I was paranoid before. I don’t know about this summer, I really don’t. My father wants me to go home to Connecticut. I could hang around here. There are always empty beds in the dormitories during summer session. I can’t even concentrate on the choices because of everything that keeps happening. I think about leaving the country. That’s what we all talk about. Just getting out of here. This country is on a death trip and I just want to get off.”
The speakers’ platform was 80 yards from the window of the chemistry lab. There was no wind to speak of. The lab was on the third floor of the building, the top floor, and the slight downward angle was easily allowed for .
There was not much in the way of security. A half-dozen state troopers with high-powered rifles. A handful of obvious plain-clothesmen. Enough for his purposes .
(“ The White Hope. A lot of people say that someone like that does more harm than good .”)
When it was time, he moved quickly. He propped the inert Burton Weldon on a chair in front of the window. He had previously opened the window a foot and a half. Now he drew the shade. He crouched behind Weldon, leaned the boy forward a little, put his arms around the slender body, and settled the barrel of the deer rifle on the window ledge .
(“… . and so the third night he goes to bed in the White House and when he wakes up in the morning he’s not J. Lowell Drury anymore, he’s Hubert Humphrey.”)
A four-power scope. Sighting easily, the cross hairs finding their target .
(“I like Drury. I see him on television and I like him.”) Rugged New England features seen through the scope. Face animated, beaming, self-confident .
(“But you wonder if the country would be any worse off without him?” “Right. And I can’t see how it would.”)
He gave the trigger an easy squeeze, popped Drury’s skull half an inch above the bridge of his nose. He fired off the rest of the clip, his fingers agile through the sheer gloves, working the bolt between shots, aiming over the crowd, hitting no one. The clip was empty before anyone began returning his fire. He fastened Weldon’s hands on the gun, leaned him further forward, and scurried back toward the door. The gunfire began before he was out of the room and was still going on when he cleared the last flight of stairs .
In the bus terminal in Albany a man wanted to talk about Drury. Veins showed on his cheekbones. He wore green work-clothes and carried a glossy black lunch bucket .
“About time someone got that sonofabitch. For my money he was asking for it. He was a Commie, you know.” “I didn’t know that.”
“It wasn’t generally known. But I take an interest in these things, see. I’m at the Vets’ Post and we get speakers who give you the inside story. Card carrying Commie. Take my word for it.”
“We were talking about Drury again last night, Miles. It’s just fantastic the way the same people who said the worst things about him are turning him into a saint.”
“You can’t be a saint without martyrdom.”
“Is that all it is? I think there’s more to it than that. Martin Luther King was a saint even before he was shot.”
“More people knew it afterward.”
“But look at Kennedy. Either Kennedy. I remember when I heard about Dallas. What I was doing, everything. I remember it so completely.”
“Everybody does.”
“I was like eleven years old. My father hated Kennedy. He had all those jokes about Jackie being a nymphomaniac and the Pope moving into the White House. But after Dallas it was as if he’d never had an unkind thought about the man. He even bought this terrible oil painting of
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