Shooting Starr by Kathleen Creighton Page A

country, and that betting on how long the holdout would continue was more popular than playing the lottery.
    C.J. had taken to avoiding television sets the way certain celebrities and mob bosses avoided cameras.
    That particular afternoon, though, he was a captive audience. He was in a truck stop in Virginia, having his usual truck-stop lunch—a club sandwich on white bread with potato salad and sweet tea—and no matter which way he turned there was a wall-mounted TV set looking down at him. Normally they’d be tuned to the Weather Channel or some sporting event or other, but today for some reason they all seemed to be set on CNN. And sure enough, there was the same reporter standing in front of the same damn red brick courthouse he’d been looking at for months, no doubt saying the same damn thing. At least the sound was turned off, and he didn’t have to read the closed-captioning if he didn’t want to. Stubbornly he pulled his eyes from the screen and scanned the dining room instead.
    When he noticed every set of eyes in the room except his was riveted on those television sets, a chill ran down his spine. It reminded him of another bright and beautiful September morning not so long ago. The bite of club sandwich he’d just swallowed made a lump in his throat as he forced his eyes back to the television screen, dreading what he was about to see, preparing himself for unthinkable disaster.
    The familiar white-on-black letters of the closed captioning darted across the bottom third of the picture:
    â€œâ€¦the scene earlier today, as Caitlyn Brown and Mary Kelly Vasily left the courthouse to return to their jail cells under heavy police guard. It was the same scenario that has played out so many times before during the last months,only this time something went terribly, terribly wrong. As the two women, flanked by police officers, made their way down the courthouse steps, shots rang out….”
    The words ticked on across the screen, but C.J. wasn’t watching them now. His eyes were riveted instead on the pictures behind them, jerky and incoherent pictures of unexpected violence captured live on videotape. Pictures of pushing and shoving and falling bodies, of horror-stricken faces, of arms waving and fingers pointing and mouths opened in silent shouts. The chill in his spine ran into his very bones. Around him the clatter of dining room sounds retreated to a humming silence.
    The melee on the screen gave way to the reporter’s face, mouthing words. C.J. jerked his eyes back to the closed captioning.
    â€œâ€¦on the exact number or condition of the injured at this time. We do have information that at least four people have been taken to a local hospital, but that has not been officially confirmed. Police and hospital personnel have refused to comment on reports from eyewitnesses. Repeat, these are unconfirmed reports, that at least one of the prisoners—one of the women—has been killed in this brutal attack.”
    â€œDo police have any idea who might be responsible for the attack, Vicky?”
    â€œAs you can imagine, things are still pretty chaotic here, Tim. It does appear the shots were fired from the bell tower of a church across the street from the courthouse—that’s about half a block down from the police station—but as far as we know no traces of the gunman or a weapon have been found.”
    â€œAny indication as to whether this was a random shooting? Or if it was deliberate, who the intended target might have been?”
    â€œNo, Tim, and police are refusing to speculate—”
    â€œâ€™Scuse me, hon’, were you needin’ your check?”
    â€œWhat?” C.J. looked down at the waitress, frowning in confusion; he didn’t know when or how he’d come to be standing up. He blinked what was left of his club sandwich into focus and mumbled, “Yeah, that’d be great…thanks.”
    His skin felt clammy.