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girl glanced his way as he came into her line of sight, but she still kept the gun leveled at the boy. The muzzle was pointing down toward the boy's gut and as Jeffrey drew closer he could see that her hand was shaking. Thankfully, her finger was not yet tucked around the trigger.
    Jeffrey positioned himself so that he was parallel to the building. The girl's back was to the rink, the parking lot and highway in front of her. He hoped that Lena had the sense to make Brad come in from the side of the building. There was no telling what the girl would do if she felt crowded. One stupid mistake could end up killing a lot of people.
    When Jeffrey was about twenty feet from the scene, he said, "Hey," loudly enough to get everyone's attention.
    The girl startled, even though she had noticed his approach. Her finger slipped around the trigger. The weapon was a Beretta.32, a so-called mousegun, which was certainly not a man-stopper but could do plenty of damage up close. She had eight chances to kill somebody with that gun. If she was a good shot, and even a monkey would be at such close range, she was holding eight lives in the palm of her hand.
    "Y'all get back," Jeffrey told the young men standing around. There was some hesitation before this sunk in, and the group finally moved toward the front of the parking lot. The smell of pot was pungent even at this distance, and Jeffrey could tell from the way the intended victim was swaying that he had smoked a great deal before the girl had surprised him.
    "Go away," the girl ordered Jeffrey. She was dressed in black, the sleeves of her T-shirt pushed up past her elbows, probably to fight the heat. She was barely a teenager, and her voice was soft, but she managed to project it well.
    She repeated her order. "I said go away."
    Jeffrey stood his ground, and she turned her gaze back to the boy and said, "I'm gonna kill him."
    Jeffrey held his hands out, asking, "Why?"
    She seemed surprised by his question, which was why he had asked it. People with guns don't tend to do a lot of thinking when they're holding them. The nose of the gun tilted down slightly as she addressed Jeffrey.
    "To stop him," she said.
    "Stop him from what?"
    She seemed to mull this over in her mind. "That's nobody's business."
    "No?" Jeffrey asked, taking a step closer, then another. He stopped at around fifteen feet from the girl, close enough to see what was going on, but not enough to threaten her.
    "No, sir," the girl answered, and her good manners put him a little more at ease. Girls who said "sir" did not shoot people.
    "Listen," Jeffrey began, trying to think of something to say. "Do you know who I am?"
    "Yes, sir," she answered. "You're Chief Tolliver."
    "That's right," he told her. "What do I call you? What's your name?"
    She ignored the question, but the boy stirred, as if his pot-altered brain had just clicked in to what was going on. He said, "Jenny. It's Jenny."
    "Jenny?" Jeffrey asked her. "That's a pretty name."
    "Yeah, w-well," Jenny stammered, obviously taken aback. She recovered quickly, though, saying, "Please just be quiet. I don't want to talk to you."
    "Maybe you do," Jeffrey said. "Seems to me like you've got a lot on your mind here."
    She seemed to debate this, then raised the gun back to the boy's chest. Her hand still shook. "Go away or I'll kill him."
    "With that gun?" Jeffrey asked. "Do you know what it's like to kill someone with a gun? Do you know what that feels like?" He watched her digest this, knowing immediately that she did not have it in her.
    Jenny was a large girl, probably fifty pounds overweight. Dressed totally in black, she had the appearance of one of those girls who blends in with the scenery as a way of life. The boy she was aiming the gun at was a good-looking kid, probably the object of an unrequited crush. In Jeffrey's day, she would have left a nasty note in his locker. Today, she was pointing a gun.
    "Jenny," Jeffrey began, wondering if the gun was even loaded. "Let's