Unable to see what people were reacting to, Sam raced to the stairs and started down, unzipping his duffel bag as he went. When he was about a third of the way down, he could finally get a glimpse of it, through the crowd—most of which was running in his direction, expressions mixed between terror and outright panic. One of the sheriff’s deputies was screaming instructions at the top of his lungs, but Sam couldn’t make out his words over the frightened shrieks of the shoppers.
They ran from an Indian man wearing an open shirt, cavalry pants, and a red headband. The right side of his face was mostly missing—Sam guessed he’d been shot in the back of the head, and the exit wound had taken out his upper jaw and cheekbone. In his hands he held a rifle, which he pointed into the crowd.
None of the other sheriff’s officers were in sight.
With people flooding up the stairs and Sam trying to push through them, he couldn’t get a shot at the Indian. From this vantage point, he could only see one clear shot—from ground level, almost right beside where he was now. But by the time he could salmon his way down the stairs against the flow, the Indian would be able to get several shots off.
Which left him with just one choice. It would hurt, but Dad had drilled them over and over again on how to fall and come up shooting. He reached into the bag and brought out the sawed-off, then tossed the bag over the side. It hit with a heavy clank. He followed it over.
He fell straight down, landing on his feet, but pitched forward, rolling, head and weapon tucked safely, then came up into a steady crouch and aimed by instinct. When he squeezed the trigger, the rock salt shell blasted toward the Indian (his own finger tightening on the rifle’s trigger, its barrel aimed into the throng on the staircase). The window of a dress shop beside the Indian exploded, spraying glass inside and dropping big shards onto the mall’s walkway. But the rock salt did the trick, and the Indian blinked away before he could make his shot.
Snatching up the bag, Sam ducked beneath the slanting bottom of the staircase, which was partially blocked by decorated Christmas trees in large wooden planters. He shoved the shotgun back into it and zipped the bag again. Surely people would have seen him, but he hoped the sight of the dead Indian would make more of an impression.
The sound of feedback from the P.A. system filled his ears, then Jim Beckett’s voice boomed from the speakers.
“Attention, everyone!” the sheriff called. “There’s been an incident near the east entrance to the mall, but it’s been dealt with. There is no risk to any of you except panic. Please, stop where you are, take a deep breath, and then look around you to see if any of your neighbors have fallen down or been hurt.”
From underneath the staircase, Sam couldn’t watch the crowd’s reaction. From the sound of it, though, Beckett’s announcement might have made things worse, at least in the short term. It sounded like some people obeyed and stopped in their tracks, causing those who were still in motion to run into them.
“Halt!” Beckett ordered, yelling into the microphone. “Everyone just stand still, please!”
This time the response sounded more orderly. Other sheriff’s officers picked up the cry and spread it through the crowd, and suddenly the place was almost still.
“There’s a little girl up here who’s been hurt, Sheriff!” someone shouted from upstairs.
“My mother got knocked down!” someone downstairs called. “Her cheek is bleeding!”
“We have paramedics right outside,” Beckett announced. “They’re coming in now. Show them anyone who’s hurt. The important thing is to keep your cool, don’t panic and run around, because that’s how people get injured. I’ll repeat, the situation has been dealt with, and there doesn’t seem to be any more immediate danger.”
“Doesn’t seem to be? That’s not very encouraging,” someone called.
Sam scooted out from beneath the stairs and worked his way into a clutch of people standing around watching the dais. Beckett was consulting with Mayor Milner and Carla Krug again. Probably, Sam guessed, debating the wisdom of evacuating the mall versus keeping everyone confined where at least the enemy could be watched for.
Enemy was the right word, because this had become a war, with casualties at critically high levels. Like all wars, the longer it went on, the more people would be hurt or killed.
I really hope Dean is at that witch’s cabin, he thought, because I could use some good news here.
A man in a ball cap and denim jacket grabbed his shoulder. “You the one shot that guy?” he asked. “I seen you shoot him.”
Sam tried to give a grunt instead of an answer, smiling all the while.
“What the hell was that? Some kind of Indian, it looked like.”
Paiute, I’d guess, Sam thought. But he really didn’t want to get snared in a conversation about it, so he shrugged and started to walk away.
“Hey, this here’s the guy shot that Indian!” the man shouted, pointing at Sam. “You got your gun in that bag, cowboy?”
Within seconds a mob had gathered around Sam, people calling out questions at him like he was a celebrity on a street corner. He was trapped, hemmed in on every side.
Sheriff Beckett saved him.
“Sam, you want to step over here?” he said into the microphone.
Sam looked over the heads of the crowd—not hard to do at his height—and saw Beckett gesturing him to the dais. “Excuse me,” he said to the people immediately around him. “Sheriff needs me.”
The crowd parted for him, and he walked through a tunnel, some people quietly complimenting him on his act while others continued to ask questions all the way. Finally, he climbed the steps to the dais.
“People,” Sheriff Beckett said, “I know you all have a lot of questions about this, and I’m sorry such a great day in Cedar Wells got spoiled by this. Just keep shopping and having a good time, and we’ll answer your questions as quick as we can.”
When Sam neared him, he clicked the microphone off and set it back in its stand. The mayor and Carla joined them. “That was quick work, son,” Beckett said. “Thank you.”
Sam shrugged again. “Didn’t look like anyone else had a shot at it.”
“My people didn’t. If you hadn’t done what you did, I don’t know what. It would have been a lot worse.”
“I’m not sure private citizens should be walking around my mall with firearms,” Carla said.
“I’ll second that,” Milner said. “It’s a recipe for disaster.”
“Unless you’ve got guards and metal detectors at every entrance,” Beckett pointed out, “you’re going to have people coming in with firearms from time to time. In this instance, Sam might have saved several lives.”
“I suppose,” Carla said. “But—”
“Look, you’ve got much bigger problems than whether or not I’m armed,” Sam interrupted. “This crowd is still on the verge of all-out panic. And there are more of those—those killers out there. One has already come inside, past whatever security perimeter you set up around this place. More might follow. If they do, this place is going to go crazy.”
“He’s right,” Beckett said. “I have to recommend that we evacuate in an orderly fashion while we still can.”
“Hold on,” Carla said. “Lots of people are already leaving—have you seen the parking lot in the last few minutes? There are still cars coming in, but not nearly as many as are going out. For the sake of my merchants we have to stay open as long as possible.”
“Besides,” Milner added, “where are the people going to go if we do evacuate? They can’t leave town, can they? We’ll just end up with traffic jams on the roads, and they’ll be just as vulnerable, but harder to protect.”
“That’s a good point,” Beckett said, tugging on his ear. People had gathered around the dais, trying to listen in, so the four spoke in ever lower tones. “Maybe it’s time to separate them into smaller groups and—”
“You want to imprison them in different areas of the mall?” Carla asked. “That’s as good as shutting us down, except maybe for the food court.”
“We already had this discussion once, Carla,” Beckett said. “Far as I’m concerned, this is my mall now, and I make the rules.”
She nodded. Her hair had come out of its neat arrangement and her face looked drawn, her eyes tired. She probably hadn’t had much sleep, and now the stress of disaster on opening day was showing. “I know,” she said. “I won’t argue. You can do whatever you need to. I just want it known that it’s under protest.”
“It’s known,” Beckett said. “You got any complaints, Donald?”
“I just want everybody out of here alive,” Milner said. “And for this whole damn nightmare to be over.”
“My brother’s working on that,” Sam told him.
“Why aren’t you, Jim?” Milner asked.
“I don’t have anyone to spare, Donald. My people are either here or out on the roads already, with a few responding to emergency calls.”
“It’s okay,” Sam said. “Dean has all the help he needs. He’s the best there is at this kind of thing.”
“I’d ask just what this kind of thing is,” Milner said, “except I don’t think I really want to know.”
“I don’t think you do, either.”
Carla put her hand to her ear, and Sam realized she had an earpiece and was no doubt keeping in touch with her security team. Her mouth dropped open and her face went white. “Oh,” she said into a mike clipped on the collar of her blouse. “All right.”
She looked up again. “There’s a situation outside, in West parking,” she said. “It sounds like a bad one.”
“How bad?” Beckett asked.
“Eight or nine of them,” she said. “They said it was hard to count.”
Beckett immediately thumbed his own microphone. “Anyone in the west lot? How come I haven’t had any reports?”
“That’s the thing, Jim,” Carla said, her voice strained. “They shot your officer first.”