Spencerville

over the pistol.
    Keith took a basketball out of the rear compartment, and, by the light of the mercury vapor lamps, he began shooting baskets, layups and jump shots, and the sound of the basketball echoed off the building in the quiet night air.
    He dribbled up to the net, faked a pass, then jumped and put the ball through the hoop.
    As he worked up a sweat, he reflected on the other game he’d come here to play, and it occurred to him that this was not a particularly smart move. He’d lost his temper and had thrown out a childish challenge. “Meet me behind the high school, punk.” Sounded good. But given the circumstances, this could turn out to be a fatal mistake. He knew he could handle the class bully with no problem, but Baxter might not come alone as instructed.
    Keith hadn’t brought his M-16 rifle or his bulletproof vest, wanting to be evenly matched with Baxter. But there was no way of knowing what Baxter would show up with. In truth, it was possible that a half dozen police cars with a dozen men would surround him, and if Baxter gave the order to fire, it wouldn’t matter what Keith was wearing or carrying. And Keith had no doubt that Chief Baxter would have a plausible legal scenario worked out for the death of Keith Landry.
    Keith took a short break and looked at his watch. It was seven forty-five P.M. He tried to make an informed guess as to Baxter’s response to the challenge. If it was true that the boy is father to the man, then Baxter would come, but not alone. However, the picture painted by the Porters was of an egotistical and conceited personality who might very well underestimate his enemy; the type of man who’d like to saunter into the station house with the news, “I just killed a bad guy out at the high school. Send a meat wagon.”
    He continued playing his solo game as the sky got darker. He decided that if Baxter did come alone, Baxter might never return to the station house. Keith had had a few homicidal rages in his professional career, and he was surprised at how badly he wanted to kill Cliff Baxter. No doubt this had been building in him a long time and had festered inside his soul.
    Keith glanced at his watch. It was eight P.M. He looked toward the school, then at the open playing fields and adjoining streets, but didn’t see any headlights or movement. He did a series of layup shots.
    It occurred to Keith that Baxter’s men knew, more or less, what the problem was between the chief and this guy Landry, and knew that Landry had said for Baxter to come alone. So what was Baxter going to tell his men? That Landry was bothering Mrs. Baxter, but he didn’t want to meet Landry alone? In the world of male macho, this was about as sissy a thing as a guy could do. Keith realized that consciously or unconsciously, he’d put Baxter in a situation where he couldn’t ask for help without looking like a total wimp, so he had to come alone, or not come at all and live with the consequences of his cowardice.
    At five after eight, Landry knew that, by the unwritten rules of this game, he could leave. But he stayed, shooting baskets, dribbling across the court, but never getting too far from where the Glock sat on the hood of the Blazer. At ten after eight, he was satisfied that he’d lived up to his end of the dare.
    As he walked toward his car, headlight beams appeared from around the side of the school, then a vehicle came around slowly and turned toward him, catching him in the beams.
    Keith bounced the basketball casually and continued toward the Blazer.
    The car, which he could now see was a police vehicle, stopped about fifty feet from him, the headlights still aimed directly at him.
    The passenger door of the car opened, and a figure stepped out. Keith couldn’t make him out in the glare, but he looked taller and leaner than Cliff Baxter. Keith put the basketball down, then took his shirt off the hood of the Blazer, and with it, the pistol. He wiped his sweaty face with his shirt and got his hand around the pistol grip and his finger on the trigger.
    The man took a few steps toward him, then called out, “Keith Landry?”
    Although Keith hadn’t heard Cliff Baxter’s voice in nearly three decades, he knew this was not him. He replied, “Who’s asking?”
    “Officer Schenley, Spencerville police.” The man continued on toward Keith.
    “Who else is in the car?”
    “My partner.”
    “Where’s Baxter?”
    “He couldn’t come.” Schenley was about ten feet away