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Quit it! Hanson told himself. |
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Though he knew he was letting his imagination run wild, he snapped his head from side to side, eyes darting to the grandstand openings. Three on each side. Dark holes. Tunnels leading to the rear, to refreshment stands and restrooms, to exit gates in the fence. |
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Stop this. You're just spooking yourself. Maxwell's dead in the morgue, not . . . |
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Across the field, a figure emerged from the nearest passageway. |
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A white man in dark green coveralls. A grounds keeper? Hanson sighed. He felt as if all his strength had drained away. The effort of standing up straight made him tremble. |
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The guy raised an arm in greeting, then climbed over the rail and leaped down to the grass area on the far side of the track. He took all the impact with his left leg while he kept his right leg high. Then he was standing on both feet, and walking toward Hanson with a limp. 'Evening, officer,' he called. |
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Hanson nodded a greeting. |
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The top of the man's head gleamed in the stadium lights. The hair around his ears was gray. His lean face was weathered. He looked wiry and tough. Keys jangled at his side as he hobbled closer. |
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'Toby Barnes,' he said, and stuck out his hand. |
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Hanson shook it. 'Bob Hanson.' |
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'Just got here, Bob. I saw your car out front. Mind if I ask how you got in?' |
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'I had to come over the fence.' |
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