The Competition (36 page)

The fire department moved in and put out the fire. Now even more smoke poured out through the shattered windows. Dwight grabbed a rag, doused it with water, and covered his eyes. He wanted to move closer, but the heat coming from the car was still so intense it was hard to breathe.

When the air had cleared somewhat, Dwight moved in and peered into the driver’s seat through streaming eyes. The body was charred, burned, and now soaking wet—with odd bits of the black balaclava still clinging to the head—but it was Cutter.

Dwight ran back to his car and pulled out his cell phone. He called the captain and gave him the update. Then he called Bailey. It went to her voice mail, so he left a message. “Detective Keller, it’s Detective Dwight Rosenberg. If you’re on your way here, you can stand down. We got him. Cutter’s dead. It’s over. I’m heading over to the memorial right now. I should get there in about twenty minutes.”

Bailey and I
moved into the amphitheater behind a group of students. Their arms were draped over each other’s shoulders, heads tilted together. It had been sunny when Bailey picked me up at the Biltmore, but now clouds had gathered and the air smelled like rain. As we walked down the aisle on the right side of the amphitheater toward the front section, I noticed the governor and his wife, the chief of LAPD, and several councilmen. And, of course, Vanderputz, who was cozying up to the governor’s entourage, hoping to worm his way up to the man himself. There were no cameras, at the families’ request. But I’d seen reporters, both print and television, packed into the back seats, near the entrance. The police presence out front had been impressive.

The families of the victims were all around us, and grief hung damp and heavy over the theater. Some cried, others stared vacantly, unable to absorb the cataclysmic loss. Ushers moved through the theater with baskets of tissues. Surviving students walked with heads hung low and shoulders hunched. They embraced their dead friends’ parents awkwardly, eyes cast downward.

The floral arrangements were so massive they took up the entire back half of the stage and the lower part of the hill behind it. At either side of the stage there were open wings, and I could see Principal Campbell standing with the clergymen at stage left. From the crowd behind him, it looked like all denominations were represented.

As we took our seats, my cell phone buzzed. It was a voice mail from Graden, asking if we’d heard the news. He didn’t want to say what it was on the phone. I told Bailey. “Have you had any calls?”

“No.” She pulled out her cell. “Shit! The battery’s dead. Jesus H. Christ. I can’t believe it.”

I popped the battery out of my phone and gave it to her. Bailey took it and moved to an alcove across the aisle on our right. I watched volunteers dressed in black pants and long-sleeved shirts guide elderly family members to their seats. Other volunteers carried in armloads of still more flowers, some wobbling under the weight of the larger arrangements.

As the last of them placed a huge wreath on the stage, I noticed another volunteer on the hill behind the stage, wheeling out what looked like a small trash can. Bailey came back and spoke into my ear in an urgent whisper. “They got him! Evan’s dead! He parked in the student lot at Taft High School. Rigged it up with a bomb—”

I pulled back and looked at her with alarm. “Was anyone…?”

“No. No one was hurt.”

I exhaled, relieved. “And they’ve got Evan’s body?”

“Yeah. It’s in the car.”

It was over. I couldn’t believe it. I was glad. I was. Especially because no one else had been hurt. But I was angry too. He’d gotten his wish. I’d never get the satisfaction of seeing him cuffed and caged like the animal he was. “Should we get out there?” I asked.

“To do what? Dwight—he left me the message—said he’s on his way here. There’s nothing left for us to do. Except celebrate.” Bailey gave me a grim smile, but she didn’t look all that elated either.

“You wanted to bring him in too, didn’t you?” I asked.

Bailey nodded. “I didn’t think it mattered till now. But yeah, I guess I wanted to see him locked up. This way…”

“He kind of gets what he wanted.”

“Exactly.”

My eyes drifted back toward the hill. The volunteer had left the trash can in the middle of the hill and was now moving toward the wings at stage right. Were they planning some display up there? I started to ask Bailey, but Principal Campbell walked onto the stage, leading the procession of clergymen. When he got to the microphone set up in the center, he tapped it and cleared his throat.

“On this saddest of all days, I welcome our Fairmont High families.”

At that moment, a booming explosion shook the theater. On the hill behind the stage, a fireball burst into the sky. Hot orange flames leaped into the trees. Jagged metal pieces of the trash can shot out through the air, sharp and deadly. Principal Campbell dropped, face-first, onto the stage, and a flower of red spread across the back of his head. Deadly metallic shrapnel rained onto the stage and the front rows of the audience. The clergymen fell to the floor. Fire crackled on the hill, and sparks flew into the floral arrangements at the back of the stage.

Screams of terror filled the amphitheater. The audience jumped to their feet and tried to head for the exit, climbing over one another in a blind panic.

Damn, I knew it! “Bailey, that was Evan! That volunteer on the hill was Evan!” And I knew exactly where he was headed. The wings led into the building that wrapped around the back of the theater and out to the open terrace that overlooked the only point of exit or entry into the theater. He’d be able to fire straight down into the fleeing crowd. Like shooting fish in a barrel.

With the audience clogging the entrance, the police would be stuck outside for precious seconds. We were the only ones who could get to him in time. I grabbed Bailey’s arm and pointed to the wings at stage left. “Go that way! He’s got to be heading for the terrace over the exit!” Bailey took off running. I snatched my gun out of my purse, put it into my coat pocket, and ran toward the wings at stage right.

The fire roared all around me; trees crackled and splintered as they burned. The heat from the flames was so intense I could feel it blistering my face and hands. But it hadn’t spread onto the stage yet. The earth was slippery with mud from the recent rains, and I kept sliding back down the hill. I managed to grab the low branches of a scrub oak and pull myself up the muddy incline. As I pushed my way up the hill, the branches of the shorter trees stabbed at my eyes and scraped my face and neck. Finally, covered in mud, eyes stinging with sweat and the blood that had trickled down from my scalp and forehead, I reached the ledge. I put my hands on it, jumped, and levered myself up onto the stage. Ahead was the enclosed hallway that would lead me to the open terrace.

Where I was sure Evan was now headed.

The hallway was dark. As I stepped inside, the abrupt shift from daylight to darkness blinded me. I forced myself to move slowly at first to let my eyes adjust, and tried not to imagine that Evan was drawing a bead on my forehead. After a few seconds, I was able to see well enough to run. I took out my gun and stayed close to the wall.

Knowing that Evan might be just steps in front of me, my heart thudded hard against my rib cage, but I kept running. I found the door to the stairway that would lead me to the rooftop. He might be waiting for me behind that door. But there was no other way. I had to risk it.

I crouched down and twisted the knob as slowly and quietly as I could. Then, using all my strength, I threw the door open and held my gun out in front of me. The door banged into the wall and bounced back so fast it almost knocked me down. I pushed it open and flew up the stairs to the roof. Like the one on the floor below, this was an enclosed hallway and it was pitch-black, but I pounded down the corridor, heart beating like a trip-hammer, lungs on fire.

I stopped at the curve just before it opened onto the terrace. And there he was, the monster we’d been chasing since this nightmare began. Evan Cutter stood just a hundred feet away. He’d shaved his head and was wearing dark-tinted aviator glasses. He was slamming a magazine into a forty-caliber Smith and Wesson as he watched the fleeing audience. His lips were twisted in a sick, gleeful smile. I knew that gun held eleven rounds, and I saw another seven clips on the wall in front of him. Even if that was the only gun he had, he’d be able to take out dozens.

He took aim and began to fire at the crowd below. The shots echoed loudly in the hallway, mingling with shrieks of terror. Without thinking, I ran straight at him, gun in hand. Desperate to stop him, and afraid I might miss at this distance, I screamed as loud as I could, “Evan! Stop!”

His head jerked around. He turned and fired. But at the same moment I dropped down to a crouch. The shot zinged over my head and ricocheted off the wall to my right. I raised my gun and aimed for his torso—the biggest mass, as my father had taught me—and pulled the trigger. Once, twice, three times. The first two shots missed, but the third hit him square in the gut. He staggered backward and looked down at his stomach, where a neat, black hole began to fill with blood.

I straightened up and prepared to shoot again. But in that moment, Cutter suddenly raised his gun and lunged toward me. I dived again, catching a brief glimpse of muzzle fire as gunshots exploded above me. Just before I hit the ground, I felt a searing heat slice through my body. I landed hard on my back and my head slammed onto the concrete floor.

When I opened my eyes, he was standing over me. “Perfect,” he said. I stared into the muzzle of his gun. Dizzy and disoriented, I raised a hand to push the gun away and tried to roll out of range.

Another shot split the air. And then, all was quiet. My head hurt. Badly. I put my hand to my forehead, where Cutter’s gun had been aimed. No blood. How could that be? I managed to raise up just enough to see Evan Cutter lying at my feet. He was on his side, facing me, eyes vacant. Dead. My head began to swim, and bile rose in my throat. I sank back onto the floor and swallowed to keep from throwing up.

“Knight? You okay?” I looked up and saw Bailey running toward me, her gun at her side.

I realized that the last shots I’d heard were Bailey’s. She took my pulse and leaned over me. I smiled up at her worried face.

“I don’t need CPR, Keller,” I croaked through a dry throat. “So don’t be using this as an excuse to pound on me.”

“Shut up.” Bailey opened my coat and lifted the hem of my sweater.

I knew I’d been shot. “Is it…?”

“I don’t think it hit anything major.” She pulled off her scarf and wrapped it tightly around my body.

I remembered the image of Evan Cutter firing down into the crowd. My heart thumped, and I struggled to sit up. “Was anyone…?” I asked.

Bailey put a restraining hand on my shoulder. “I don’t know yet. Now stop talking and lie down or I’ll knock you out, I swear.”

I wanted to argue, but my eyes wouldn’t focus, and the queasy feeling in my stomach told me that if I tried to sit up again, I’d regret it. I heard the sound of sirens wailing in the distance. I closed my eyes and listened as they got louder and louder.

The next time
I opened my eyes, we were surrounded by police. An officer with sergeant’s stripes gestured toward Evan’s body. “That him?”

Bailey nodded. Only then did I notice the smell of smoke. “The fire—”

“It’s out,” the sergeant said. “Fire country up here. They keep plenty of fire extinguishers on hand. They got it before it could reach the audience. Scorched the back of the stage pretty bad, though.”

Bailey gestured to me. “Paramedics coming? She got hit.”

He nodded. “Should be here in a few seconds.”

One more second, actually. The paramedics arrived carrying two gurneys. I pointed to Evan Cutter’s body. “You only need one. I’ll be okay. Just give me a few minutes.”

The younger paramedic shook his head. My theory—that God made paramedics good-looking so you got to see something beautiful before you died—was once again proven true. He was a dead ringer for Brad Pitt. Blue eyes and all. He knelt down, checked my right side, then swapped out Bailey’s scarf for a big gauze pad and an Ace bandage, which he began to wrap around my torso.

“See, just the fact that you said something that ridiculous shows you’ve got a nasty concussion,” he said. He shined a light into my eyes, checked my pulse, and with the help of another paramedic, lifted me up onto a gurney. He was about to wheel me away when the sergeant who’d spoken to Bailey walked over. “How’re you feeling?”

“I’m okay.” I gestured to the paramedic. “Pay no attention to Brad Pitt.”

The officer smiled and shook his head. “We’ll take your statement at the hospital. After another ‘know-nothing’ like Brad says you’re able. But I want to be the first to say that you and your partner over there are heroes. You saved a lot of lives today.”

I tried to raise myself up again, but Brad Pitt gently pushed me back down. “Did he get anyone?” I asked.

The sergeant looked at me sadly. “I heard five got hit.”

I closed my eyes. “God, no.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But so far it looks like two, maybe three are going to make it.” He leaned down and spoke with intensity. “Listen, it’s bad. But it would’ve been a helluva lot worse if it hadn’t been for you and that detective.”

I guess I should’ve been consoled, but I wasn’t. At least two more had died at the hands of this monster. As Brad Pitt rolled me away, a hot ball of anger burned in my gut. I’d been determined to see Evan Cutter brought to court in chains and made to live out a life of miserable anonymity behind prison walls. But he’d managed to go out in a hail of bullets—in a bloody shoot-out with a cop and a prosecutor, no less. It may not have been exactly the ending he’d fantasized about, but it was close.

Bailey insisted on accompanying me to the hospital. It turned out she was right: the wound was through-and-through, no vital organs involved. I’d heal cleanly. But I did have a concussion, which meant I’d have to spend the night there. I hate hospitals. Too many sick people. “You can let me go home,” I said. “Bailey will stay with me.” I looked at her. “Won’t you?”

She started to answer, but the doctor—a young Asian man with a ponytail—held up a hand to stop her. “I don’t care if Mother Teresa wants to stay with you. You’re not going anywhere. We need to monitor you for twenty-four hours.”

“Twenty-four hours?” I rolled my eyes.

“They tell me that’s only one day. One day to make sure you don’t die of a brain bleed. Is that so much to ask?” I started to say yes, but he glared at me, then turned to Bailey. “She always like this?”

Bailey shrugged. “Pretty much.”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like “wing nut,” then turned on his heel and walked out.

After the doctor left, I remembered the sight of Principal Campbell as he fell face-first onto the stage. I asked Bailey if she knew how he was.

“I’ll call around, see what I can find out.”

I must have fallen asleep, because when I opened my eyes, Bailey was across the room, curled up in an armchair, covered with a blanket. Graden was standing at the foot of my bed, whispering to my warden, the Asian doctor.

Graden smiled when he saw I was awake. “How many of me do you see?”

“Just two. But one of you has a ponytail.”

The doctor chuckled. “Not bad for a few hours after a concussion.” He gave me a stern look. “But you’re still not going home.”

I started to fold my arms across my chest, but it hurt, so I let them drop. “You’re a real buzz kill, you know that?”

“Yes.” He patted my foot and walked out.

Graden came over and kissed me on the forehead. “You’ll have to start giving your statement pretty soon.” He nodded toward Bailey. “She’s already given hers a few times.”

I knew we’d both be giving statements for days to come. No matter how obvious it was that shooting Evan Cutter was justified, there would be a full investigation. And that meant endless questioning.

But I had some questions of my own. “Have you been able to find out what kind of bomb he used at the amphitheater?” I asked. I told him about seeing Evan on the hill with the trash can.

“They’re pretty sure it was a propane bomb.” Graden saw my expression and nodded. “Same as Klebold and Harris.”

Klebold and Harris had put propane tanks with alarm-clock timers in the school cafeteria. The timers had been set to go off when the cafeteria was at its most crowded, but something went wrong. The bombs malfunctioned and never detonated.

“How’d he make it work?” I asked.

“I didn’t get all the details. But from what I heard, it can be done if the valve on the tank is jammed and unable to release pressure—for example, by putting the tank upside down in a trash can. Then, all he had to do was start a fire in the can. The pressure builds and…”

So Cutter had managed to “outdo” Klebold and Harris once again.

Graden’s phone buzzed. He looked at it and frowned, then looked away.

“What?” I asked.

He sighed and took my hand. “I don’t want to give you this news right now, but I don’t want you to get blindsided. There were two more casualties.”

A lead weight dropped into the pit of my stomach. “Who?”

“Officers. They were patrolling the hillside behind the stage. I don’t know if you know them. Craig Silvers and Dwight Rosenberg. Silvers is critical, but Rosenberg didn’t make it.”

Dwight. I couldn’t believe it. Hot tears pricked my eyelids. My voice was thick. “How?”

“We had security patrols set up around the entire amphitheater. But we only had a few on the sides of the hill because it was the least likely point of entry. Dwight came here straight from the Taft High scene and saw we were a little shorthanded there…” Graden paused and took a deep breath. “Silvers wasn’t able to say much, but it seems Evan was dressed like a volunteer. He rolled up with the trash can, and when Silvers asked to see some ID, Cutter shot him. Dwight came running when he heard the shot. Silvers passed out at that point, but based on what we saw, our guess is Evan Cutter got the drop on Dwight.”

I was so miserable I could barely move my lips to speak. I stared out the window. “And so that despicable piece of shit gets his damn blaze of glory, doesn’t he? They’ll write about how he got the jump on the police and managed to set off a bomb and got killed in a shoot-out with a prosecutor and a cop.”

“They were going to write about him no matter how it ended, Rachel. He bought himself a place in history with the very first shots he fired at Fairmont High.”

Fame is amoral. It was such a bitter, bitter pill to swallow. “And right now, there’s another monster out there, salivating over his chance to show the world how he can do it better.”

“There probably always will be. We can take them out when we find them, but we can’t stop them from being born.”