"Drop the knife."
A moment's debate. The gun was steady; Pell sensed that whoever held it was ready to pull the trigger. His hissed a sigh. The knife clattered to the floor. He glanced at the man, a young Latino plainclothes officer, eyes on Pell, holding a radio.
"This's Juan Millar. Kathryn, you there?"
"Go ahead," the woman's voice clattered.
Kathryn . . .
"I'm eleven-nine-nine, immediate assistance, at the fire door, ground floor, just outside the lockup. I've got two guards down. Hurt bad. Nine-four-five, requesting ambulance. Repeat, I'm eleven-nine--"
At that moment the gas tank of the car nearest the door exploded; a flare of orange flame shot through the doorway.
The officer ducked.
Pell didn't. His beard flared, flames licked his cheek, but he stood his ground.
Hold fast . . .
Chapter 4
Kathryn Dance was calling on a Motorola, "Juan, where's Pell? . . . Juan, respond. What's going on down there?"
No answer.
An eleven-nine-nine was a Highway Patrol code--though one that all California law enforcers knew. It meant an officer needed immediate assistance.
And yet no response after his transmission.
The courthouse security chief, a grizzled, crew-cut retired cop, stuck his head into the office. "Who's running the search? Who's in charge?"
Sandoval glanced at Dance. "You're senior."
Dance had never encountered a situation like this--a firebomb and an escape by a killer like Daniel Pell--but, then, she didn't know of anybody on the Peninsula who had. She could coordinate efforts until somebody from MCSO or the Highway Patrol took over. It was vital to move fast and decisively.
"Okay," she said. And instructed the security chief to get other guards downstairs immediately and to the doors where people were exiting.
Screams outside. People running in the corridor. Radio messages flying back and forth.
"Look," TJ said, nodding toward the window, where black smoke obscured the view completely. "Oh, man."
Despite the fire, which might be raging inside now, Kathryn Dance decided to remain in Alonzo Sandoval's office. She wo
uldn't waste time by relocating or evacuating. If the building was engulfed they could jump out of the windows to the roofs of cars parked in the front lot, ten feet below. She tried Juan Millar again--there was no answer on his phone or radio--then said to the security chief, "We need a room-by-room search of the building."
"Yes, ma'am." He trotted off.
"And in case he gets out, I want roadblocks," Dance said to TJ. She pulled off her jacket, tossed it over a chair. Sweat stains were blossoming under the arms. "Here, here, here . . ." Her short nails tapped loudly on the laminated map of Salinas.
Gazing at the places she was indicating, TJ made calls to the Highway Patrol--California's state police--and the MCSO.
Sandoval, the prosecutor--grim and dazed--stared at the smoky parking lot too. Flashing lights reflected in the window. He said nothing. More reports came in. No sign of Pell in the building or outside.
None of Juan Millar either.
The courthouse security chief returned a few minutes later, his face smudged. He was coughing hard. "Fire's under control. Limited pretty much to outside." He added shakily, "But, Sandy . . . I've gotta tell you, Jim Baxter's dead. So's the Capitola guard. Stabbed. Pell got a knife somehow, looks like."
"No," Sandoval whispered. "Oh, no."