This Is Not a Drill (12 page)

Stutts looks back at the windows, but I know he’s seeing Wimpy and Nahlah and Nahlah’s mom.

“The hell of it is, I still see that scene every time I lie down to sleep—that little girl in her bloody shirt screaming for her mother, dead because she lit a candle in the dark.

“Tucker never got over it. He felt like he’d killed Nahlah, too.”

Stutts turns to me suddenly with an abrupt change of tone.

“Yeah, they train us on our weapons, but there’s no training for killing a human being. And when you’ve taken away the life of a peaceful civilian who turns out to be unarmed, how do you get over that?”

Stutts’s voice drops so that I have to lean forward to hear.

“Soldiers make mistakes. Bad shit happens when you put high-powered weapons in the hands of eighteen-year-olds. Killing civilians is part of war. But how do you stop feeling like a murderer?

“Tucker turned to me one night when we were out on patrol, and he asked me what we were doing there—in Iraq.

“I said we came to protect the people from tyranny—and he said no.

“I said we came to honor our beliefs and protect our country—and he said no.

“I said we came to help some rich people get richer, ’cause Tucker was always sayin’ it was a rich man’s battle but a poor man’s fight.

“He said no.

“‘What we’re doing here,’ he said, ‘is just trying to stay alive. Our only goal is to make it home.’”

CHAPTER 22

JAKE

I CAN’T HEAR MOST OF THE STORY STUTTS IS TELLING EMERY,
but it seems like he really needs to talk it out, so I try to stay out of it. If anybody can get him to open up, it’s Emery. Whether it will help us or not, I just don’t know.

I definitely don’t like the way he gets so serious, and the way Emery is so caught up in what he’s saying. Just when I’ve had enough of it and I’m about ready to go up there to rescue Emery, Stutts stops talking and drops his head. He wipes his face with the sleeve of his shirt—like the kids do.

And then Emery reaches over and puts a hand on his shoulder. What is she thinking? I stand up and cross the room in three seconds flat.

Stutts looks up at me and says in a low voice, “I’ve seen the way you look at me, the two of you. You want to know if I’d hurt kids? There’s your answer. We’ve killed children. Both sides have killed children. I’m a baby killer.

“You know what?” He jabs his finger at Emery and I reach out to pull her away from him. “You just gotta learn to deal with it, when your ideals and principles get in the way of some little kid’s right to live. Grenades can’t always be aimed. Rockets miss their mark sometimes.”

He looks over at Patrick, then at the kids on the carpet. “That’s why they can’t trust you with your own kids anymore. That’s why Tucker’s only allowed to visit his kid with a social worker in the room. You believe that shit? A goddamn stranger has to watch him with his own kid. That’s what happens when you ask for help. A few weeks in the psych ward, and you’re an unfit parent for life. You tell ’em what you’re
really
thinking and they’ll take your whole family away from you. Forget trying to get help. You’ll wind up with nothing!”

He pauses, chest heaving, then looks over at the television. Suddenly, he’s yelling, “Turn it up, turn it up!” He jumps up and runs toward the TV, punching buttons in a panic. “How do you turn this thing up?”

I follow him across the room. On the screen there’s a man’s face I’ve never seen.

“Who is it?” I ask.

“I
said
turn it up!” Stutts yells.

A caption appears below the photo. It says
T
UCKER
B
RADEN
.

“His friend,” Emery says to me.

“. . . and we’re told that Braden was a friend of Brian Stutts, the gunman who is holding first grade students hostage at Lincoln Elementary. The two of them apparently served together in Iraq.”

Stutts’s face goes still. None of us missed the reporter’s use of past tense.

“Again, we’ve just received word that Tucker Braden was found dead minutes ago by his ex-wife, Julia Braden, in his car in front of her house, shortly after being questioned by police in conjunction with the taking of hostages at Lincoln Elementary by Brian Stutts, who served with Braden in Iraq. Braden, who was under psychiatric care since returning from Iraq, was apparently a victim of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. Police are investigating his suicide and looking for any possible connection with events unfolding at . . .”

The rest is drowned out by the awful sound that Stutts makes. It’s like the howl of a wounded animal, terrible to hear. “No, no, noooo,” he says, both hands covering his head like he’s fending off a blow. “Tucker, noooooo!”

The shit has hit the fan now.

“Tucker! Oh God, no!” he yells, bending over and gripping his gut like he’s been punched.

For the first time, his grip on the gun is loosened. I step toward it, but Emery reaches out to stop me and I realize it’s too dangerous with him in this state.

“I didn’t answer,” Stutts moans, sinking into a chair, his face all twisted. “I didn’t answer the phone.”

“You can’t blame yourself,” Emery says. “I’m sure—”

“Then who should I blame?” he screams at her in a rage. “Whose fault is it if it’s not mine? That’s what’s wrong with this country. Everybody always blames somebody else!”

Emery moves toward Patrick, who’s awake and crying, terrified.

“I didn’t do shit for him! No! By God, I’m owning this!
I’m
the one who turned my back on him. Tucker was my friend and I walked away.”

And before anyone can move to stop him, he lifts his arm in one swift motion—and points the gun at his own head.

With every ounce of power I can muster, I dive for Stutts and the gun, my head filled with the picture of Patrick watching his dad blow his brains out in front of his eyes. I can’t let that happen.

I charge into Stutts full bore, using all my weight to tackle him, my arm reaching up to try to knock his hand away. His chair flies backward with the force of my attack, and I land on top of him. Both of us are rolling on the floor.

I’ve got to get to the gun. Keep it pointed away from Emery. From the kids. Stop him from pulling the trigger.

He tries to push me off with his left arm, but I cling to his right biceps, pulling myself upward, fighting to grab the gun as he holds it out of my reach. He locks his arm around my neck, but I hang on with everything I’ve got.

I’m vaguely conscious of Emery moving closer to us, reaching toward Stutts, and I shout at her to get back.

I fight to stay attached, stretching my arms toward Stutts’s hand. I get both hands around his wrist and hang on. I twist it so that the nose of the pistol points at the ceiling.

And then, miraculously, I feel my fingertips touch it. Both of us grapple for the weapon. My hand closes around his fist, and I can feel him losing ground as I pull it toward me.

And then he elbows me in the chest, hard, with his free arm, and I feel the air leave my lungs. I make one last lunge for the gun and pull his hand down hard toward me. The last thing I see is the nose pointed downward. I’m looking down the barrel of Stutts’s gun. Then the world explodes, and a white-hot pain sears my chest.

CHAPTER 23

EMERY

It all happens so fast.

Stutts’s howling wakes up Patrick and I go to comfort him. Before I can reach him, I watch in terror as Stutts points the gun at his own head.

Then Jake lunges at Stutts, knocking his chair to the ground. Jake rolls on the floor with Stutts, reaching for the gun. In slow motion I watch, helpless, as the gun turns toward Jake. Time stops, and then . . . and then I feel the blast with my whole being as Jake is knocked backward and falls limp to the floor. I scream, unable to move.
No, oh Jake, no! Please, God, no, not Jake!

What happens in the next second is a blur.

There is a sudden flash of movement below me.

Something streaks past me on the floor.

Mr. Worley.

The tiny animal darts out into the hall, and before I can stop him, Patrick jumps up from his seat and dives into the hallway after the hamster.

A shot rings out, and I watch in horror as Patrick, little Patrick, collapses in a small heap on the hallway floor, motionless.

“Paaatriiick!” Stutts screams. He lunges into the hall, propelled through the air by terror and grief, gun still in hand. Another shot echoes through the stunned silence, reverberating through the building. I watch as Stutts’s body twists sideways, suspended in the air. Then he falls beside his son.

CHAPTER 24

JAKE

I FLOAT THROUGH THE VELVET DARKNESS,
peaceful and warm. I hear distant voices, but I can’t make out their words; I don’t feel connected to them.

And then the lightness of being is gone and my body feels massive. I’m tired. So very tired . . .

I feel someone rocking me and at first I think it’s my mother.

And then I think it’s Emery.

And then both of them are holding me and their tears wet my face.

CHAPTER 25

EMERY

Patrick is down and Stutts is down
and Jake is bleeding in my arms. Then the police and paramedics rush in and strap Jake to a stretcher and I can’t see him. I can’t see if he’s okay. I sit crumpled on the floor until they lift me up and walk me out to an ambulance. They drive through the crowds of parents and reporters and policemen to the hospital, and I want to see Jake, but they tell me they have to check me out. And then my mom is there, and she tells me Patrick is okay and Jake is in surgery.

There’s so much I want to say to him. And I don’t know if I’ll ever see him alive again.

I feel like I’m suffocating. There’s a hole in my chest, too. I can’t lose Jake. Not now.

Finally they come and they tell me Jake is all right, and I start crying and I can’t stop.

After what seems like hours, the doctor releases me and they let me go to Intensive Care to be with him. He’s pale and he’s unconscious, but he’s stable, they tell me.

I pull a chair close to his bed so that I can see the rise and fall of Jake’s chest. I feel my breathing fall into the same pattern, as if I’m breathing for him. It’s dark when he finally wakes up and sees me there beside him and squeezes my fingers.

Maybe Stutts was right. You can’t truly see what’s good in your life without a reminder of how easily you could lose it. And I’m not going to spend one more minute letting yesterday’s anger rob me of today’s happiness.

CHAPTER 26

JAKE

I OPEN MY EYES AND EMERY IS THERE.
She’s wrapped in a blanket in a chair beside me—leaning on my bed, holding my hand.

There’s a tube running out of my side. A shaft of fire shoots through my shoulder when I reach for it.

“That’s a chest tube,” she says. “They’ll take it out after a few days.”

Chest tube? What the hell?

“I know it’s uncomfortable, but try not to mess with it. They had to reinflate your lung.”

My lung?
Emery’s image blurs and I blink to clear the fog in my head.

“Are you hurting?” she asks. “How bad is it?”

Bad. Real bad. No one’s ever set me on fire before, but I’m pretty sure this is what they call a ten out of ten.

“Do you want me to get your dad?” she asks. “He just stepped out in the hall.”

I try to speak but all that comes out is a hoarse croak. I look over at the window; it’s dark outside.

“You’re at Hensonville Hospital. The doctors say you’re gonna be fine, Jake.”

Fine. I’m gonna be fine. There are tubes and wires and bags and machines. And I definitely don’t feel fine.

“Do you remember what happened today?” Emery asks.

I try to focus. And then it starts to come back. There was a gun. I was rolling on the floor with . . .

Stutts. Stutts! I remember.

“You were shot in the chest. The bullet just nicked a lung, and you’re in ICU.” Emery’s voice catches. I squeeze her hand. “You were in surgery for over an hour. But the doctors say you’ll make a full recovery. Oh, Jake, we were so lucky it missed your heart. And that it didn’t hit any of the kids.”

The kids!
I reach for the bed rail. Pain shoots through my body, and Emery grabs my arm.

“The kids are fine, Jake. All of them. They’re all with their parents. Mrs. Campbell’s good, too; she called earlier to check on you—and to say how proud she is of us. And Patrick’s gonna be okay. He’s here. His mom’s with him.”

“Patrick?” I whisper.

“Oh God, I’m sorry,” she says. “I forgot you didn’t know about Patrick.”

She brings her face close to mine and speaks slowly. “After you were shot, Mr. Worley ran out into the hall.”

Mr. Worley—the hamster.

“Patrick dove after him, and the police—it was a rookie cop, a young guy—fired at him.”

The cops shot Patrick?

“What happened was, the cops were moving in because they felt like they were running out of time. They heard the blast when you got shot—”

The gun—it was aimed at me.

“—and this young cop,” she says, “the new guy, panicked. When he saw someone streak out into the hall, he just fired.”

It’s all so fuzzy. Patrick got shot?

“Thank God the guy’s not a very good shot. The bullet just grazed Patrick’s head. He has a concussion, and they’re keeping him here overnight for observation.”

I can’t follow it all. I lie still for a few minutes, trying not to think about all the places I hurt, and I feel myself drifting off.

• • •

Then my dad is standing over me.

“Jake, thank God you’re okay!”

He lays his hand on my arm and touches my shoulder like he’s trying to make sure all the pieces of me are there. His eyes are red and his clothes are wrinkled and stained. Is that blood on his shirt?

“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you, too,” he says in a strangled voice.

Emery’s smiling at me. She hasn’t looked at me that way in a long time.

“Emery told us what happened,” he says. “You were so brave, Jake—too brave.”

Did my dad just call me brave?

“You should never have—” He stops and looks away. “He could have killed you. He almost did. But I know you did what you had to do, for the kids. I’m proud of you, son.” He pauses. “Your mother would be proud of you, too.”

My eyes are stinging and there’s a lump in my throat.

Dad pulls himself together. He’s back in mayor mode. “I’m sad for his family, of course, and for the family of the security guard. Their deaths are a great tragedy, but it could have been so much worse.”

I frown at Emery. Did he say Stutts is dead?

“Stutts didn’t make it,” she says.

“Did I . . . ?” I whisper.

“No, you didn’t shoot him, Jake. After the gun went off and you were shot, then Patrick was shot,” Emery says, spelling it out like she’s talking to a first grader, which I appreciate in my drug haze. “And when Stutts saw Patrick down, he ran out into the hall. He still had the gun in his hand, and they shot him. They felt like they had to take him down after—after they heard the shot he fired when you went down. They weren’t sure what he might do.

“The kids—they didn’t see what I saw, thank God,” she says, tears starting up again. “I don’t think he meant to shoot you. I’m not sure. I think the gun went off accidentally, but I just don’t know. It all—it all happened so fast,” she says. “It’s kind of a blur to me, too. We can talk about it later, when you’re not on pain meds.”

Pain meds. So foggy.

“You just have to take it slow for a while. No more heroics for a while, Biscuit.”

Heroics? Me?
My dad’s phone buzzes and he steps out of the room.

“Jake?” Emery reaches over and turns my face toward her.

She’s looking at me with those green eyes shining, like she can see way past this bed and this room.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

I’m confused, but it’s a good confusion.

“For what you did. For Patrick. For the kids. For me.”

I try to shrug and the pain is blinding. Must remember not to move.

“And for this,” she tells me.

I look at the paper she’s holding. It looks like my writing.

“It’s the letter you wrote me.”

Oh—that letter.

“I never got it, Jake. Until today.”

I frown, confused.

“I remembered you said something while we were there in the classroom about a letter, so when Tab called to check on me, I told her,” Emery says. “She admitted she had it. She took it off the windshield of my car the night you left it.”

What? Tab? I don’t get it.

“She says she knew how much you hurt me. And she knew I really liked you.” Her face turns pink—God, she’s so beautiful—and she drops her eyes. “She figured you were trying to make things right. She was afraid I’d go back to you, and she didn’t think I should.”

Tab! I hurt too much to be mad right now . . . but I’ve got a few choice words for that girl.

“I know. I’m really mad at her. I honestly don’t know if we can still be friends after this. But she thought she was doing the right thing. Tab’s like that. She thinks she knows what’s best for everybody.” She shrugs. “At least she didn’t open it.”

She smiles. Aw, man, that smile is killer.

“I found the pieces of the picture inside the envelope—the one you took of us in art class that day, the one I tore up at my locker. I can’t believe you picked them up and saved them.”

She looks happy—a good sign. I open my hand and close it again over hers.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispers. “A lot.”

The curtain opens and my dad comes in. He sees me holding Emery’s hand and clears his throat. “I, ah, just wanted to see if you need anything,” he says.

“We’re good.” Emery smiles at him. She doesn’t pull her hand away.

Suddenly, there’s a commotion to my left as the curtain is yanked aside and The Christine comes barreling into my little cubicle.

“They told me only two visitors, and I told that nurse I am his stepmother and I have a right to be here. She does not know who she’s dealing with.”

“Ma’am.” A young nurse is right behind her. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to . . .”

Emery’s fighting to keep a straight face.

“She can take my place,” Dad says. “Come on in, honey; I’ll wait in the hall for a bit.”

“No, no, I’m just leaving,” Emery says, standing up. “She can have my spot.”

“Don’t,” I whisper, reaching out to hold on to her.

She leans down to put a hand on my shoulder.

“I promised Mom I wouldn’t stay too long. She’s in a panic, as you might imagine. Doesn’t want to let me out of her sight. I’m supposed to call her to come pick me up, but I’ll be back tomorrow. You get some rest. After you visit with Th—Christine.”

She gives me an
oops
look after she almost says
The
. I wink at her, and she blows me a kiss and pulls aside the curtain to leave.