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newspapers, the … You know what I mean.”
    â€œI know,” said Lieberman.
    The humming was definite now and coming closer.
    â€œWill I see you for dinner?”
    â€œI’ll try.”
    â€œI’ve got a building committee meeting tonight. We’ll have to eat early.”
    Bess had recently been elected president of Temple Mir Shavot, a position Abraham Lieberman had adroitly avoided. With the temple about to move into the newly renovated facility that had recently been the Fourth Federal Bank of Skokie on Dempster Street, Bess was almost always at a meeting.
    â€œIf I can be home, I’ll be home. If I can be home early, I’ll be home early.”
    He had seldom talked to Bess about his work, but he had an urge, almost a need, to tell her about his dream, about Frankie Kraylaw.
    â€œBess, you remember …”
    â€œWhat’s that noise?” she asked.
    Lieberman looked up.
    â€œA helicopter.”
    Bernie Shepard sat, his back against the sleeping bag, his rifle on his lap, his eyes closed. The dog looked up toward the lake.
    â€œI hear it,” said Shepard without opening his eyes.
    Slowly, crouching low, Shepard turned and leveled his rifle toward the rising sun, propping it on the top of his concrete-block barrier. The helicopter moved toward him slowly as Shepard turned on his radio and adjusted it till he could hear a voice from the helicopter saying, “No sign of him. Looks as if he’s behind some concrete blocks under the water tower. No sign of any explosives, but they could be behind the blocks. We’re moving in for a good look and a clean shot. When we’ve got him pinned down, we’ll move in and launch the gas. If we can get close enough, I’ll put it behind those blocks.”
    Shepard raised his rifle, looked through the sight, and fired. The shot smashed through the window of the copter. Almost immediately return fire shot out of the open door of the copter.
    â€œFire from the roof,” came the voice from the helicopter. “Am returning fire and moving …”
    Before the pilot could finish, Shepard fired again.
    â€œCan’t get any closer,” came the voice on the radio. “We’re launching now.”
    A gas grenade soared out of the open door of the helicopter, hit the roof a few yards from the concrete barricade, and rolled forward. Shepard fired again as the copter rose suddenly.
    As it rose, Shepard leaped over the barricade, grabbed the grenade and threw it over the side of the building.
    Inside the apartment of Jason Belding, DDS, Chief of Police Hartz, Alton Brooks, and Alan Kearney stood at the window, watching the helicopter and listening to the radio Brooks held in his hand.
    â€œSon of a … We’re getting out of here before he gets lucky and hits us.”
    â€œIf he wanted to hit them, he would have hit them,” said Kearney.
    Brooks turned to the chief.
    â€œI can tell them to make another run.”
    â€œAnd maybe lose two men and a million-dollar helicopter,” sighed Hartz. “Turn that off.”
    Brooks switched off the radio.
    â€œWe knew he had a radio,” said Hartz, turning from the window. “Radio silence …”
    â€œHe could hear the copter two miles away,” said Brooks. “The man’s not deaf.”
    Hartz’s face was red. He turned, punched one of Dr. Jason Belding’s best tables with his fist, and looked at Kearney as if he were somehow responsible for the situation.
    â€œI’ve got to see the mayor in less than an hour and give him a report on this. Kearney, this operation is yours. Get him off that damned roof.”
    Hartz motioned to Brooks to join him and moved across the room. They almost collided with Lieberman as they went out and closed the door.
    Through the window, Kearney watched as Hartz and Brooks carefully made their way to the side of the building and disappeared toward the back.
    â€œEverybody