The Second Coming by John Dalmas

It was there they encountered a metal detector. Corkery’s guts knotted, the breath locking in his chest. If need be, he was prepared to draw and make his try then, first at Ngunda, then at shooting his way out. But they went through the detector without anything happening. Apparently it was turned off. He was relieved, but not surprised, with so many armed guards around the guru.

They entered a tunnel, well-lit and painted white. To Corkery’s now hypersensitive senses, their shoes sounded harsh on the concrete. They passed doors and side corridors, then emerged into evening again. Being early June, the sun had not yet set. The sky was cloudless, the playing field vividly green. Beyond the outfield fence were high ridges dark with pine forest. There was a murmur of crowd voices, swelling as people became aware of Ngunda’s entrance. Scattered cheers spread, becoming general but not rowdy. The stands were brightly mottled with the red, blue, yellow and green of jackets, for out of the sun, the evening was cool.

Corkery saw and heard it all, but dismissed it. It was meaningless to his mission.

They’d entered from the third base side, bypassing the diamond itself. The grass was thick and yielding beneath Corkery’s sturdy black oxfords. Not far behind second base, they climbed the steps to the temporary speakers’ platform. There, with uniformed police standing by, they were met by ushers wearing blazers, who led each guest to a designated folding chair, then left the stand.

The guests and bodyguards sat in a single crescent facing the lectern. Not a straight line. That was deliberate, he was sure, for bodyguards sat at the ends, from where they could see all those on the platform. And on the grass, at each of the platform’s front corners, stood a policeman, armed and watchful.

The time is at hand, Corkery told himself, and felt the focused calm that normally settled on him with the moment of truth imminent.

He was next to the bodyguard on the crescent’s left end, not ten feet from the target. A squeeze of the trigger, then shove the barrel into the bodyguard’s waist for the second round, and—possibly, if he was very fast and very lucky— Don’t think about that, he told himself. Hope of survival weakens a man. Leave it in the hands of God.

The mayor was first at the lectern. Corkery had wondered how the introductions would be handled. Would everyone on the stand be introduced? And the men whose money had sent him—were they watching from Montreal, Toronto, New York? Might they see him stand, recognize him and feel a rush of fulfillment?

It was the briefest of thoughts, then Corkery’s attention was on the mayor again, taking the microphone from its stand. “Ladies and gentleman,” the mayor said, “please stand while Bruce Chilgren sings the national anthem.”

Corkery’s eyes gleamed. This was the time he’d planned for since that first ballgame, when the crowd had stood for the anthem. He watched the mayor turn and hand the microphone to the husky young man who’d stepped forward.

Then Chilgren turned full around to face left center field, where the flag would be raised. All the others on the stand followed his example, eyes toward the flagpole. Now the crescent was inverted, himself at one tail, a bit behind Ngunda to the guru’s right. Corkery took a deep breath, let it out.

Most of the men in the stands, and all of them on the platform, had their right hand on their chest. Corkery’s slipped inside his jacket, unsnapping the holster’s safety strap. His eyes were on Ngunda, not directly but obliquely. His fingers closed on the pistol butt, his index finger entered the trigger guard, his thumb found the safety. The organist played the opening chords, and Chilgren started to sing. Corkery began his draw.

* * *

Wearing his security uniform, Luther Koskela lay in the crawl space on a narrow foam mat, peering through the panel. He’d been there since just before the gates had opened to the public.

Most of the outfield was rich with sunlight, and people continued to flow up the aisles to upper seats, the only seats left. The shadow of the grandstand roof was invading the speakers’ platform.

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