Authors: Heather Gudenkauf
Chapter 88:
Meg
I
look at the text messages and
each
bang
on the screen drops with a thud into my
stomach. “I’m going to call him,” I declare. “I’ll be able to recognize Tim’s or
Travis’s voice, then we’ll know for sure.”
The three men look at one another. “Do it,” Samora says, and I
press the send button. The phone rings four times before there is silence.
Call ended
blinks back at me. A few seconds later my
phone beeps signaling a new text message.
I’m
waiting
, it reads.
Let
the kids go and i come in
, I type.
You
have 5 min.
W
ho
r u?
4
min.
“He’s still got kids in there,” I say, looking at Aaron, Swain
and the chief. “I’ve got to go.”
“No way,” Chief McKinney says. His normally well-groomed
mustache has drooped over his mouth, covering his lips.
“I’m going in,” I say sharply, standing. “I need a vest,” I
say, pointing to a bulletproof vest sitting in a corner of the RV.
“Now wait a minute,” Swain says, standing also. He is as wide
as he is tall and his bulk looms over me. He has a very calm, soothing voice
that must come in handy as a hostage negotiator. “The minute he shoots someone
in there, it’s all over for him. We’ll be inside in seconds. He must realize
that.”
“I don’t think we can take that chance,” I say, lifting the
vest and threading my arms through, the solid heft a comfort. “If it’s Tim—and
that’s a big if—I can talk him down. I’ll be able to get everyone out
safely.”
“There is absolutely no way I can authorize this,” Swain
says.
“What choice do we have?” I ask, looking him in the eye. “What
if I don’t go in there and someone gets killed? That isn’t an option.”
“Meg,” the chief says warningly. “Don’t even think about
it.”
We all look out the window at the same time, as a low rumbling
sound slowly gathers volume like a stampede of spooked cattle. We move to the
windows of the RV, framed by the mustard-yellow curtains, and watch with a mix
of relief and apprehension. A sea of children spill into the parking lot.
“Jesus,” Chief McKinney says as we all rush toward the RV’s
door.
This is my chance. While everyone is scrambling toward the mass
of kids fleeing the building, I move toward it. I hear Aaron holler after me,
but I ignore him. This is going to end, and end now.
Chapter 89:
Mrs. Oliver
M
rs. Oliver struggled to keep her eyes open. It wasn’t that she was tired, though that was true. She felt like she could lie down and sleep for a week straight and decided that was exactly what she was going to do once she got home. Her head ached so badly that the only relief she felt was when her eyes were shut, but she didn’t dare let the man out of her sight. He was nearly trembling with anticipation now, though Mrs. Oliver couldn’t determine if it was an eagerness filled with fear or excitement. Maybe both. According to the man, a police officer was on her way up to the classroom right this minute, but the confusing thing was that the man had
requested
her presence. It made absolutely no sense. The only female police officer she knew was Meg Barrett, Maria’s mother.
Mrs. Oliver tried to focus the eye that wasn’t nearly swollen shut on each of the children. They all appeared to be on the edge of losing it and her heart welled with affection. For Charlotte, who was now crying piteously into her hands, her one mistake was bending down to retrieve a scattering of jeweled beads that had been yanked from Mrs. Oliver’s jumper as she exited the classroom. And poor Ethan, because he was so small for his age, his short strides and the fact that his desk was located in the corner of the classroom farthest from the doorway, he, too, was still there. P.J., on the other hand, could have been one of the very first children out of the classroom, but for some reason he hung back and waited for Mrs. Oliver. Now both P.J. and his sister, Augie, were trapped in the classroom with the madman. She wondered what Will Thwaite was thinking right now. Most likely all of the other children who had raced out of the classroom were reunited with their families. She pictured Will standing outside in the sharp wind waiting for his grandchildren to emerge. She thought of Holly Thwaite, remembered her as a vivacious child, full of mischief, her body always vibrating in anticipation of the possibilities the world had to offer. Mrs. Oliver always knew that Holly would leave Broken Branch and she wondered if Holly, recovering in Arizona, had any knowledge of what was happening today to her own children in the town where she was born, in the classroom where she dreamed of a different life.
Holly’s daughter is eyeing the door, and Mrs. Oliver knew what she was thinking. She tried to tell Augie to hold still, but her mouth hurt too much and all that came out was a weak gurgling sound. Augie, a look of determination on her face, rushed the man and tried to swat the gun from his hand, but he raised his gun above his head and deftly stepped aside. As she stumbled, he grabbed Augie by the scruff of her neck and began to drag her across the room.
“Hey!” Augie protested as P.J. tried to pull his sister from the man’s grip. Impatiently the man pushed P.J. to the ground and pulled Augie toward the closet.
Mrs. Oliver limped toward the man, figuring that this was it, he would surely kill her now, but she couldn’t stand by and watch him manhandle these children. “Stay there,” he ordered, and something new in his voice caused Mrs. Oliver to freeze and watch helplessly, while for the second time that day he shoved a child into the closet and then locked the door.
Chapter 90:
Meg
I
gnoring Aaron and not daring to glance back, I dash across the snowy parking lot. The sky is bruised-looking and is getting darker. It has stopped snowing and the wind has died down as if it is holding its breath to see what will happen next. My heart is pounding as I make my way toward the school, stepping in the well-trod paths that the fleeing students created as they ran from the building and toward the gym entrance where I encountered Augie Baker earlier. Using my flashlight I smash the glass in the door in order to let myself in.
I think of Maria and what I would have done differently if she would have been in school today. Chief McKinney probably would have sent me home with the explanation that I was a victim, that I couldn’t be professional, objective, knowing that my daughter was being held by a gunman. I wonder if I would have followed his orders or would have refused. I say a silent prayer of thanks that Maria is miles away from here, safe and sound with Tim’s parents. I feel a wave of doubt wash over me and consider for a moment the possibility that Tim is upstairs in Maria’s classroom with a gun, holding children and a teacher hostage, demanding my presence for some unknown sin I’ve committed. Was it because I refused his invitation to spend spring break with Maria and him? I can’t believe that’s true. While Tim and I have had our moments, haven’t always liked each other, we’ve always loved each other in our way. I brush away the thought and mentally prepare for one of four scenarios. One, the man upstairs is someone I arrested in the past, someone with a grudge. Maybe I sent him to jail for drugs or domestic abuse, or driving while under the influence. Two, it’s my ex-con brother. Three, it’s Matthew Merritt, the rapist. The fourth and most unlikely scenario is it’s my ex-husband, the man I married, the man who is a wonderful father to my daughter, and in some deep spot in my heart someone with whom I believe I still might actually end up growing old.
I know that my four minutes to get up to the classroom have already come and gone so I try to move more quickly, my eyes and flashlight darting from left to right, each shadowy corner concealing something sinister. I approach the set of stairs that lead up to the classroom, a walk I’ve made several times with Maria, open-house night, parent-teacher conferences, the winter program. I can’t help thinking that I may step into that room and end up coming out on a stretcher.
An anxiety-filled whisper greets me as I begin my ascent. “Is it safe?”
I spin around, gun in hand, and instinctively raise it, then aim the beam of my flashlight at the source of the sound. It’s a young woman, her head poking out from a classroom door. “Police,” I order. “Don’t move.” She freezes, but relief floods her face. “Go back into the classroom,” I say, “and lock the door. Keep the lights off. This will all be over soon.”
“My name is Jessica Bliss, a first-grade teacher,” she says in a rush. “Please tell my husband I love him.”
“You’ll be able to tell him yourself,” I say gently, wondering if I will ever be able to say those words to anyone ever again.
Chapter 91:
Augie
I
t is pitch-black in the closet so I use the backlight from one of the cell phones I grabbed off the floor after they fell out of the man’s pocket to see. My hands are shaking as I try to remember my mother’s number. All I want to do is hear her voice. I want to tell her how sorry I am about the fire, how everything was my fault.
I manage to dial my mother’s cell phone number and the ring vibrates in my ear as I wait for her to answer her phone. “Hello?” Finally, I hear her voice, tired and small.
“Mom,” I say, gasping for air as if my lungs are still filled with the smoke.
Chapter 92:
Holly
I
’m in that lovely space between consciousness and sleep. I feel no pain thanks to the morphine pump and I can almost believe that the muscles, tendons and skin of my left arm have knitted themselves back together, leaving my skin smooth and pale. My curly brown hair once again falls softly down my back, my favorite earrings dangle from my ears and I can lift both sides of my mouth in a wide smile without much pain at the thought of my children. Yes, drugs are a wonderful thing. But the problem is that while the carefully prescribed and doled-out narcotics by the nurses wonderfully dull the edges of this nightmare, I know that soon enough this woozy, pleasant feeling will fall away and all that I will be left with is pain and the knowledge that Augie and P.J. are thousands of miles away from me. Sent away to the place where I grew up, the town I swore I would never return to, the house I swore I would never again step into, to the man I never wanted them to meet.
The tinny melody of the ringtone that Augie, my thirteen-year-old daughter, programmed into my cell phone is pulling me from my sleep. I open one eye, the one that isn’t covered with a thick ointment and crusted shut, and call out for my mother, who must have stepped out of the room. I reach for the phone that is sitting on the tray table at the side of my bed and the nerve endings in my bandaged left arm scream in protest at the movement. I carefully shift my body to pick up the phone with my good hand and press the phone to my remaining ear.
“Hello.” The word comes out half-formed, breathless and scratchy, as if my lungs were still filled with smoke.
“Mom?” Augie’s voice is quavery, unsure. Not sounding like my daughter at all. Augie is confident, smart, a
take-charge, no one is ever going to walk all over me
kind of girl.
“Augie? What’s the matter?” I try to blink the fuzziness of the morphine away; my tongue is dry and sticks to the roof of my mouth. I want to take a sip of water from the glass sitting on my tray, but my one working hand holds the phone. The other lies useless at my side. “Are you okay? Where are you?”
There are a few seconds of quiet and then Augie continues. “I love you, Mom,” she says in a whisper that ends in quiet sobs.
I sit up straight in my bed, wide awake now. Pain shoots through my bandaged arm and up the side of my neck and face. “Augie, what’s the matter?”
“I’m at the school.” She is crying in that way she has when she is doing her damnedest not to. I can picture her, head down, her long brown hair falling around her face, her eyes squeezed shut in determination to keep the tears from falling, her breath filling my ear with short, shallow puffs. “He has a gun. He has P.J. and he has a gun.”
“Who has P.J.?” Terror clutches at my chest. “Tell me, Augie, where are you? Who has a gun?”
“I’m in a closet. He put me in a closet.”
My mind is spinning. Who could be doing this? Who would do this to my children? “Hang up,” I tell her. “Hang up and call 9-1-1 right now, Augie. Then call me back. Can you do that?” I hear her sniffles. “Augie,” I say again, more sharply. “Can you do that?”
“Yeah,” she finally says. “I love you, Mom,” she says softly.
“I love you, too.” My eyes fill with tears and I can feel the moisture pool beneath the bandages that cover my injured eye.
I wait for Augie to disconnect when I hear three quick shots, followed by two more and Augie’s piercing screams.
I feel the bandages that cover the left side of my face peel away, my own screams loosening the adhesive holding them in place; I feel the fragile, newly grafted skin begin to unravel. I am scarcely aware of the nurses and my mother rushing to my side, prying the phone from my grasp.
Chapter 93:
Will
A
fter the highway patrol, the wrecker and the EMTs left, Will was free to go. He couldn’t stand the thought of returning to his own home, not until his grandchildren were safely by his side, so he drove his pickup back to Lonnie’s. The snow had stopped and the roads were much better, but when he arrived Verna was nowhere to be found and the officer stationed at the café told him that he didn’t know if she had been notified about her son-in-law’s suicide. Though it will probably be little consolation to her, Will imagined that Verna and her family would prefer this outcome to Ray being the perpetrator in the school. Now he found himself once again sitting at a scarred, sticky table, drinking coffee, trying to pass the time. Shaken from the day’s events, he stared at the newspaper opened in front of him but he wasn’t able to concentrate.
There was the rumble of tires and all eyes snapped to the window. Another school bus was pulling up in front of the café. “There are more kids!” someone shouted, and there was the familiar rush to the door to greet the children. He was pushing back his chair to join the group when his phone vibrated. It was Marlys. He knew he should answer it, but he wanted to see if Augie and P.J. were on this bus. He wanted more than anything to give Marlys the joyous news of her grandchildren’s safe return. His phone stilled and he joined the crowd at the window. His heart leaped when he saw Beth and Natalie Cragg step out of the bus and he searched each face for P.J. and Augie, but they were not among the children. In frustration, he elbowed his way toward Beth and Natalie in hopes of getting some information. He also didn’t want them to hear about the death of their father from anyone but Darlene or Verna.
“Beth, Natalie,” he called out to them, and their eyes brightened upon seeing a familiar face.
“Mr. Thwaite,” Beth cried, running toward him clutching her little sister’s hand. “Have you seen my mom or dad?”
Will shook his head, not wanting to lie, but not wanting to reveal too much. “Your grandma was here earlier. You stay here with me and we’ll wait until she comes back. She knows this is where the kids are being dropped off.” Will guided them back to his table. “Have you seen P.J. and Augie?” Will asked, not able to hold the question in any longer.
Beth and Natalie both nodded. “He still has them. In the classroom.” Beth can’t look at Will and began to cry. Natalie wrapped her arms around her sister and buried her face into her stomach.
The room tilted precariously and Will grabbed a chair to steady himself. “Are they okay?” he asked, feeling the blood rush from his face.
“I don’t know.” Beth shook her head and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “He let everyone go but a few kids. He said something about waiting for someone to come to him, then he would let them go.”
“He hit Mrs. Oliver,” Natalie said tremulously. “He made Lucy go into a closet.”
Will looked around in hopes of catching Officer Braun’s attention. Another child was animatedly talking to him and Will realized it could take a while before he got to interviewing the Cragg children. “Sit down and we’ll get you something to eat.” Will raised a finger and a waitress came over. “Order whatever you want, and I’ll try and call your grandma.” Will stepped away from the table and found a somewhat quiet corner of the café where he could make his call while still keep an eye on the kids. Verna’s cell phone went right to voice mail and Will left a brief message. “Verna, it’s Will Thwaite. Beth and Natalie are at Lonnie’s. They are safe. They don’t know anything about what has happened at their father’s home. Call me back.”
Will weaved unsteadily in and out between those families who had been reunited and those who still anxiously awaited news of their children, and sat down next to the Cragg girls. The waitress had brought the girls cups of hot chocolate and Natalie was blowing away the curling steam that rose above the mug. Beth slouched in her chair, staring sightlessly out the window. “You doing okay?” Will asked as he sat down. The girls nodded silently. “Did you know the man who came into the classroom? Have you seen him before? Can you describe him?” he said, leaning in so close to Natalie that he could count the freckles on her nose. Natalie cringed and Beth narrowed her eyes, placing a protective arm around her sister. Will pulled back, seeing how his barrage of questions had overwhelmed them. “I’m sorry,” he said apologetically. “I’m just so worried about Augie and P.J.”
They sat in silence for a while. Natalie took tiny sips of her hot chocolate; Beth nibbled at the French fries Lonnie brought over to the table. “He was tall,” Beth finally said. “With brownish hair. I’ve never seen him before.” She swallowed hard and glanced at her sister. “I was just so happy it wasn’t my dad that I didn’t take a good look at him.” Will busied himself with stirring a packet of sugar into his already cold coffee. He couldn’t bear to look at them. In a matter of hours, maybe minutes, they would learn that their father didn’t have the strength or the foresight or whatever one might call it to stay in this world for them.
“He had on brown pants,” Natalie remembered, “and nice shoes.”
“Well, when Officer Braun has a minute, you can tell him all of this. I know it will be very helpful.” Will wanted to leave. He wanted to drive over to the school, crash through the barriers that had been set up to keep traffic away and pound on the RV where Chief McKinney was sitting and waiting. Waiting for what? he wondered. For someone to get shot? He couldn’t leave the Cragg girls, though, not until Verna or Darlene got here. He looked around for Lonnie in hopes that he could replace his tepid coffee for a fresh cup, when he saw Natalie staring down at the newspaper that had been tossed carelessly aside when the bus arrived.
“What is it?” Will asked. “What’s the matter?”
“That’s him,” Natalie said in excitement. “That’s the man.” Will followed the path of her small, slender finger tipped with bright blue nail polish to the newspaper and the black-and-white photo of a smartly dressed man with intense eyes and a hint of a smile.
“Are you sure?” he whispered.
“Uh-huh.” She nodded solemnly. “I’m sure.