Early Tuesday morning, Casey is back behind the wheel of the van, heading north and admiring the winter sunrise—-the first actual glimpse of the sun in days—-visible through the passenger’s side window. Ordinarily on this journey, the speakers would be blasting “Sunday, Bloody Sunday.” But today the radio is on, tuned to 1010 WINS, New York City’s all--news station. Politics, sports scores, and even the traffic report hold little interest, but this morning, there are two reasons to listen.
The first is the weather forecast. When your livelihood depends—-quite literally—-on which way the wind is blowing, you pay close attention. The storm brewing out West is threatening to turn into a full--fledged blizzard. Naturally, the tri--state meteorologists are orgasmic at the idea that it might pick up steam and hit here by the weekend. Casey has been keeping tabs on the potential storm on television and online as well. But the day’s most compelling news involves the latest updates on the West Side homicide victim. She has yet to be identified, but there are reports that she fits a missing persons report filed last night.
Looks like pretty soon, I won’t be the only one who knows her name.
But that’s okay, Casey decides, leaving the highway at the familiar exit and heading west. Last night was an unexpectedly busy night. It may not have been a Sunday, but it was sufficiently bloody. Perhaps the experience wasn’t quite as gratifying as Julia had been—-or nearly as thrilling as Rowan will be—-but it was satisfying in its own way.
Now Casey has a new secret, and the intoxicating afterglow lingers like the faint streaks of red in the patch of eastern sky visible in the rearview mirror.
The ache lessened a bit after last night, though it has yet to subside completely.
How much longer can you hold out?
Not as long as you thought.
The storm might force a game change.
Up ahead, the bare branches, rooftops and steeples of Mundy’s Landing are bathed in golden light.
The streets are stirring to life as Casey drives into the village proper. A -couple of delivery trucks are parked along Market Street, unloading stacks of the Mundy’s Landing Tribune at the deli and paper--wrapped loaves of fresh bread at the café. A few blocks away at the elementary school, a green truck is just pulling into the parking lot, past the row of yellow buses that won’t embark on their daily routes for at least another hour.
Casey drives on past the school, parks the van around the corner in the empty bank parking lot, and darts on foot through the woods that border the back of the school playground. From that spot, there’s a clear view of the green truck parked alongside the back door of the school. The Wholesome & Hearty deliveryman is propping it open so he can roll in a hand truck bearing food ser-vice supplies.
Casey has witnessed this routine enough mornings to know that the delivery will demand four or five trips, and that each trip from the truck into the school and back again will take sixty to ninety seconds. That leaves a golden opportunity during the thirty--second safety window while the deliveryman is busy stacking cartons in the cafeteria kitchen.
Casey waits for the man to embark on the second delivery. The moment he disappears inside, Casey races from the playground toward the door, counting down the seconds.
Thirty . . . twenty--nine . . . twenty--eight . . .
The interior corridor is deserted and dark other than the pool of light spilling from the lunchroom. Water is running there, and the deliveryman’s voice mingles with that of a woman, probably a cafeteria worker. Beyond the lunchroom, another hallway branches off into the main part of the school.
Twenty . . . nineteen . . . eighteen . . .
Casey swiftly tries the handles of several doors that line the ser-vice hallway. All are locked.
Dammit! . . . eleven . . . ten . . . Dammit!
Trapped in a dead end, Casey has two choices: either head back outside, or scoot past the cafeteria doorway and risk being seen.
Sometimes, you have to take the risk.
Seven . . . six . . . five . . .
Casey strides quickly down the hallway. Inside the cafeteria, the water is still running but the voices have ceased. Just as Casey reaches the doorway, the deliveryman steps through it and out into the hall, pushing the hand truck.
They make eye contact.