The Guilty - Jason Pinter [116]
know--"
336
Jason Pinter
And that's when I heard a woman scream over the phone,
followed by a gunshot so loud it rattled my teeth. I recognized
that sound. I'd heard it this week. It was the sound of a Winchester rifle. William Henry Roberts was in Amanda's office.
"Amanda? Amanda! What's happening? "
"Oh God, Henry, there's someone here-- help us! "
The line went dead.
I leapt up, heart hammering. I had to get down there.
Everyone was piling out the door, going to the scene of the
crime.
And then it hit me, just what he'd done.
He called us. William Roberts.
You write about history. I am history.
55
At first Amanda thought that the sound of shattering glass
came from outside. A construction crew had been tearing
up the building across the street for what seemed like a
decade, and anything more than a dropped pen in their
office was cause for excitement. But then she recognized
Darcy's high-pitched voice as she screamed for help, and
Amanda knew that whatever was happening was happening terrifyingly close.
Then she heard the gunshot, a blast so loud it seemed to
shatter the air, and for a moment she heard nothing but ringing
in her ears. When her hearing returned, Amanda heard Henry
on the line.
"Amanda? Amanda, what's happening? "
She didn't know what she said next, or if she said anything
at all, but suddenly Amanda was scrambling away from her
desk, trying to bide her time while figuring out what the hell
was going on.
She crouched down, surveyed the office.
Their suite housed three shared offices and one large conference room, as well as a smaller waiting room by the elevator.
The waiting room door was made of glass. The others were
338
Jason Pinter
metal. She immediately knew that the breaking glass was the
sound of somebody crashing through the waiting room door.
She wondered how he'd gotten past the security guard
downstairs--waited until he'd gone on break? Or something
more horrible?
Oh God...
She heard another scream, someone yelled, "Get away
from me!" and then Amanda heard a loud thud like something
heavy had hit the floor.
She saw Phil the intern run past her muttering, "Sweet
Jesus, sweet Jesus," over and over again. Amanda still
couldn't see what was happening, but if praying to Jesus or
any other deity meant she'd make it out of the building alive
she'd happily renew her faith in the Lord.
Crawling on all fours, Amanda moved past her desk until
she was next to the door to the conference room. She peered
up, looked through the small window pane. She gasped when
she saw what was happening inside.
Violet Lawrence was lying on the floor, facedown.
Amanda recognized the purple sports jacket she'd complimented her on just that morning. She couldn't see anything
else, couldn't see Violet's face. But she heard a small moan,
and that meant at least she was alive.
Nobody else was running. The office had grown deathly
silent. The watercooler gurgled. Then she saw the man walk
into the room, and Amanda froze.
He was tall, maybe six one or two, lean with short blond
hair. He was wearing a suit, the sleeves rolled up, sweat
beading through the fabric. His face was tan, eyes wild yet
focused.
He was holding a gun. No, not a gun, a cannon. And immediately she remembered their meeting with Agnes Trimble,
The Guilty
339
the image her professor showed them. The one Henry was
captivated by.
The Winchester rifle.
That's what he was holding. The man in their office had
killed four people. Killed his family, all in cold blood. What
the hell was he doing here?
Another woman ran past, screaming. The boy--William,
the papers had called him--grabbed her by the ponytail. She
let out a shriek. He spun her toward him. Amanda could see
the veins and muscles in his forearms. The woman was crying,
blubbering, tears streaking her mascara. Then he suddenly let
her go, pushed her toward the doorway. She disappeared and
Amanda heard the familiar chime of the elevator call button.
He let her go.
The man was standing in the middle of the room. He was
holding the