“I’m Sheriff Scott Tibbs. What’s so urgent?”
“I’m sorry to bother you. Is this the place where the photo album is located?”
Joe caught the hint of an Eastern European accent.
“I thought this was about our suspects?” Tibbs said.
Joe could hear them clearly through gaps in the bookshelves. He hoped their voices wouldn’t carry into the conference room and be picked up by the microphones.
Then there was a flurry of motion in front of the sheriff and a breathy “Oooof” as Schuster violently shoved Tibbs into the stack of books behind him. Joe caught a glimpse of the sheriff’s flailing arms.
Tibbs fell back heavily enough into the bookshelf that it rocked back. Books on the other side crashed to the floor. The unbalanced shelf tipped and started a chain reaction as it fell into the next shelf, causing it to tip over as well.
Joe could see what was coming, but he couldn’t prevent it or get out of the way in time. The second shelf crashed into the third and the third into the fourth and suddenly Joe was buried under the deadweight of hundreds of pounds of hardcover books and the shelves themselves. He went down to his knees as the books piled up on top of him and he knew what it must be like to be caught in an avalanche.
“Marybeth, look out!” he yelled.
He didn’t know if his voice carried from the mountain of books he was trapped under and he couldn’t see anything for a moment. The distinctive smell of musty pages filled his nose and throat.
Joe found himself thrashing, not sure which end was up. He could hear yelling, then a scream. Then Marybeth cursing, which was unusual in itself.
He made himself stop moving for a few seconds so he could get his bearings. He realized that his knees were solid on the floor, so at least he knew which direction up was.
Then he started swimming, in effect. He worked his arms free and windmilled his hands, using the mass of the books themselves for purchase. A few seconds later, he pushed his head free and gasped for air. He could feel the hot burn from a dozen abrasions all over his body, but he didn’t think he had broken bones or other serious injuries.
Before he could pull and kick the books aside so he could emerge, he saw Deputy Schuster run from the conference room. He could see him clearly because all of the shelves in that wing of the library had fallen over.
The deputy had the red-bound album under his arm and he was headed toward the back door. Marybeth and Griffith appeared on the other side of the glass in the conference room, gesturing frantically. Schuster had obviously snatched the book right in front of them. Joe was relieved they were both safe.
As the deputy reached for the door bar to exit, he was greeted by Bass, who entered with a What’s going on in here? expression on his face, which changed into a horrified grimace when he was shot point-blank in the chest by Schuster and he fell away. The shot was incredibly loud inside the closed environment of the library and it bounced down from the high ceilings.
Joe scrambled to get free. He pointed to Marybeth and Griffith and said, “Stay in there. Don’t move.” Then he keyed his handheld.
“This is Joe Pickett from inside the library. Watch for a Campbell County deputy either on foot or in a cruiser. He’s got the album.”
Joe ran around the ocean of books via the center aisle. As he reached the back door, he caught a glimpse of Sheriff Tibbs’s legs sticking out from under a large pile of books. Bass had fallen into the building and he writhed on the floor in a fetal position. Joe noted that Bass had been wearing body armor, and he hoped the bullet from Schuster’s weapon hadn’t penetrated it.
He drew his Glock and threw open the back door in time to see a Campbell County Sheriff’s Department SUV scream down the alley and exit onto the side street. The passenger door closed as the vehicle drove away, meaning Schuster had a driver waiting.
“There he goes!” Joe hollered into the radio. “We’ve got two officers down inside. Call an ambulance.”
“I’ve got him,” one of the town uniforms replied. “He’s going south on First.”
Toward downtown and the bank, Joe knew.
“We see him coming,” Chief Williamson cried out with undisguised glee. “We’ve got the son of a bitch.”
The MRAP!
* * *
—
Joe exited the library through the foyer, ignoring Deputy Steck’s pleas to stop and tell him what was happening. He ran across the lawn toward his pickup in the employee lot on the side of the building.
As he did, he could see the Gillette SUV racing away on First Street. Then the huge squared-off snout of the MRAP emerged from the alley behind the bank onto the street itself.