One Breath Away (21 page)

Chapter 64:
Augie

I
decide not to take a chance by telling the primary teachers that the man with the gun is upstairs. Who knows if he is still in there or if there’s another crazy person running around the school. I would die if someone got hurt because I said it was safe for them to leave the school.

I take a deep breath and begin my climb up the steps, and because I left my soggy shoes in the gym, the cold floor tiles prickle at my feet. I have no idea what I’m going to do when I get up there. It’s not like I can knock on the door and politely ask to be let in. I don’t particularly want to get shot.

I’ve only taken a few steps upward when I hear a door open and a soft voice rasping out to me, “Hey, what are you doing?” I trip forward and bang my knee on the step in front of me. I twist my body so that I’m sitting and rub at my kneecap. It’s one of the second-grade teachers, peeping her head around the classroom door. I put a finger to my lips and glance over my shoulder to see if anyone above has heard us. “Is it safe?” she asks. She is young and hugely pregnant. She looks exhausted and is leaning on to the door frame like it’s the only thing holding her up. I shake my head no and she bites at her lip like she’s trying not to burst into tears. “Does he have a gun?” she asks. I nod. Her eyes grow wide with terror and she looks up and down the hallway. “Do you know where he is?” I point upward, still not saying a word. “Get down here, come in here with us,” the teacher says through clenched teeth. “Hurry, he might come this way.”

I shake my head and push myself up from where I’m sitting. I don’t rush because I’m not afraid that she is going to come after me. I can easily outrun her and her basketball-size belly. “Come back,” she says more loudly than she means to because she claps a hand over her mouth and then whispers, “Please.” I shake my head no one more time, and turn my back on her. Slowly, quietly, I make my way back up the steps toward P.J.’s classroom, not quite knowing what I’m going to do once I get there.

The last time I had to save P.J. was the night of the fire. I was in my room, texting my friend Taylor, making plans to go to a movie later that night, when the smell of garlic crept underneath my bedroom door making my stomach growl. Mom was making dinner and sautéing vegetables in olive oil on the stove and P.J. was at the kitchen table, working on his science project, painting Styrofoam balls to look like the different planets.

“Hungry, Aug?” my mother asked as she dumped a bowl of chopped zucchini into the pan.

“As usual,” P.J. said in a snotty voice.

“What’s your problem?” I shot back. He ignored me, but I didn’t let it go. “Look who’s talking. At least my belly isn’t hanging over my pants.”

“Shut up,” P.J. mumbled.

“Hey,” our mother said. “Both of you, knock it off. Augie, will you get me a hot pad out of the drawer?”

“Why don’t you ask lardo over there?” I asked. “He’s the one who could use the exercise.”

“Ha, ha.” P.J. glared at me as he got up and opened the refrigerator, pulled out a gallon of milk and smacked it down on the counter next to where our mother was stirring the zucchini. “At least I don’t have a zit-covered face that causes people to vomit.”

I think about what I did next every single day. It was only a Styrofoam ball; I knew it wouldn’t hurt him, even if it hit him in the face. “Shut up, loser,” I hollered as I threw the ball in his direction. I didn’t even throw it hard, just tossed it.

“Aha!” P.J. raised his hands in victory as the ball missed him. Instead, it hit the open bottle of olive oil that my mother instinctively tried to catch before it fell to the ground. I could see the thick, yellow oil spill from the bottle and onto my mother’s hands, shirt, even onto her hair. P.J. was still laughing at me when my mother slipped on the oil that had dripped to the floor and tried to balance herself by grabbing onto the kitchen counter, knocking the pan of zucchini onto the ground and covering herself with more oil. It happened so quickly. Her sleeve barely touched the burner, but when it did, instant flames crawled up her arms like a scurrying bug. I can still see my mother’s face the second before the fire jumped to her hair; her mouth was frozen in surprise, a perfect round Cheerio, but it was her eyes I will never forget. The shock, the
this can’t be happening to me
look.

The fire ignited everything that had been touched by the spilled olive oil, like a strange game of dominos, a stack of newspapers and magazines left on the counter, the corner of the curtains, the kitchen cabinets. By instinct, my mom went to the sink and began trying to put out the fire by running water over her hands, splashing it onto her face, but my one year of Girl Scouts came back to me. Oil and water don’t mix. Flour. I grabbed the rooster-shaped canister that my mom found last year at the Phoenix swap meet, pried off the lid and threw the flour all over her. The white powder covered her face, putting out the flames that had eaten up the hair on the left side of her head and leaving her left ear a charred mess. I gagged at the smell of burned hair and skin, but tried to scatter the remaining flour from the rooster over her arm, which was still on fire.

“Stop, drop and roll!” I heard P.J. yelling, and my mother must have, too, because she fell to her knees and writhed around on the floor until the fire was out. The curtains and the kitchen cupboards were still burning and a thick smoke filled the room and my lungs. My mother staggered to her feet and yelled for P.J., who had suddenly disappeared. I promised to find him and pushed her toward the front door.

So here I am again, trying to find P.J. and pull him to safety. At least this time it’s not my fault.

Chapter 65:
Mrs. Oliver

M
rs. Oliver was glad, at least, that she had the opportunity to tell Cal she loved him but was ashamed that her actions could be the reason that her students would never be able to utter those same words to their own families. She expected the blast to be louder and she expected pain. Instead, all she heard was a sharp rap and felt nothing. So getting shot was blissfully pain free, she thought to herself. Mrs. Oliver dared to open her eyes, and in the space beneath the gunman’s arm, she saw the classroom door being opened. The pressure against her cheek fell away and a voice pierced the silence.

Chapter 66:
Meg

I
pull up adjacent to the lane that leads to the Cragg home and put the cruiser into Park and kill the lights. I want to make sure I can easily drive away if I need to. I notice that the snow that covers the lane looks recently disturbed, making me believe that someone has driven through here in the past hour. A truck lightly frosted with snow is parked in the driveway, but this doesn’t mean much; most farmers have several vehicles for their use and Cragg could have left earlier in the day. The truck could also belong to Ray’s father, who, against everybody’s better judgment, still drives.

There are no lights on in the Cragg house that I can see, but a shaggy golden retriever sits on the front steps of the house trembling. Great, a dog. He looks friendly enough, but I open my glove box and retrieve a few dog treats that I keep in there just for this purpose. The dog’s tail thumps the ground at my approach and I snap the dog biscuit and toss half to her. She swallows it in one bite and looks expectantly up at me for seconds.

“Hold on, girl,” I tell her as I join her on the steps. The Cragg house is a lovely two-story, painted white with black shutters. Below are window boxes that I imagine are filled with pansies and geraniums in the summer months, but now are filled to the brim with snow. I allow the dog a moment to sniff me and when I’m certain she’s not going to attack I press the doorbell. I listen for any sounds but hear nothing but the whine of the wind and the dog’s snuffling breaths. I open the screen door and pound on the thick oak front door with my fist. Nothing. “Where is he?” I ask the dog, as if she might be able to answer me. When I get none, I walk back down the steps and over to the front window. I stand on my tiptoes in order to peek through the window. The living room is dark; there are a few soda cans and beer bottles strewn around on a dusty coffee table. It’s not a disaster area, but is neglected enough for me to be able to tell a woman isn’t living here.

I walk to the side entrance of the house and see that while the screen door is shut, the inside door is ajar. “You stay,” I order the dog as I step into the kitchen. A reddish smear of some unknown substance is smattered along the floor. Drying blood is my first thought and I pull my Glock from my holster. I move to what appears to be a home office. There are the usual papers and clutter that fill a home office, but my eyes are drawn to a large gun safe in the corner of the room. I pull at the metal handle and it swings open easily. The safe is designed to hold several shotguns, all nestled in their correct green-velvet homes. One empty space glares conspicuously up at me. It isn’t large, just the right size for a handgun. “Jesus,” I mutter. “It
is
Ray Cragg.”

“I think you’re right,” comes a voice from behind me, and I whirl around, raising my firearm as I do so, my finger instinctually pressing against the trigger as I take aim.

Chapter 67:
Will

“D
on’t shoot!” Will called out as he saw Officer Barrett level her gun at him.

“Goddammit,” she barked, clutching at her chest with her empty hand. “That’s a damn good way to get killed.”

Will steadied himself against the desk, heart hammering in his chest, his fingers leaving imprints in the dust. “I’m sorry,” he gasped, hoping that he wouldn’t die of a heart attack after avoiding death by gunshot.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Officer Barrett asked venomously as she shakily returned her firearm to its holster.

“Verna Fraise was worried about her son-in-law. I knew you all were busy with the school so I came over to check things out,” Will explained, realizing as he heard the words said out loud what a stupid thing it was to come here. He took a shuddering breath and continued. “I found Theodore Cragg in there—” he gestured toward the bathroom “—bleeding. He said his son did it.”

Officer Barrett pushed Will aside and entered the bathroom. Theodore Cragg was slumped against the wall, barely conscious, a bloody towel pressed against his forehead. “Your son did this?” Barrett asked Cragg, who nodded woozily. She turned back to Will. “Did you call an ambulance?”

Will shook his head. “I tried, several times. I couldn’t get through to 9-1-1. I figured the lines were tied up with families trying to get information. That or maybe the storm knocked out some telephone lines. I did get through to Herb Lawson just fine. He was going to try and get an ambulance over here.”

“Did you see any sign of Ray?”

“No, none. But I’ve only checked down here. I didn’t make it upstairs or to the outbuildings.”

“I’ll make a quick sweep of the upper level. Keep trying for an ambulance,” she ordered, and then disappeared.

Chapter 68:
Meg

A
fter I clear the upper level of the Cragg house and once the ambulance has arrived to take Theodore Cragg to the hospital, I head back outside. The golden retriever nudges her nose into my leg; I give her the other half of the dog biscuit and check her dog tag for her name. Twinkie. “What do you think, Twinkie?” I ask. “Where do we look next? The big scary barn on the right or the big scary barn on the left?” I run my gloved hand through the dog’s shaggy coat and make my way toward the smaller of the outbuildings. I check my watch; I only have five minutes before I need to call Randall back. I pick up the pace, grateful that I’m wearing my knee-high winter boots. Still, a sharp, cold wind pushes me toward the red, peeling structure and I begin to jog toward the barn door, Twinkie running ahead of me, stopping every few yards to make sure I am still following her. She reaches the barn well before I do and begins to whine and scratch at the red door. I try to run faster but the snow is deep, my legs are aching and my chest feels as if it’s going to burst.

Twinkie looks up at me with mournful eyes and a sense of foreboding comes over me. I slowly pull at the handle of the door and it opens a fraction of an inch and then is blocked by a pile of snow that has drifted around the base of the door. I kick the snow away with my boot and pull the door open wide enough for Twinkie to squirm through. Immediately she begins barking, a rapid desperate baying. I look at my watch again. Two minutes until Randall calls in the cavalry. “Police,” I call out. Nothing but the dog’s yapping. “Police,” I say again, this time more loudly but my words are still drowned out by the dog’s barking. “Quiet!” I shout, and Twinkie immediately quiets and squeezes back through the door to my side. “You sit,” I order, and she does. I clear away more snow so I’m able to open the barn door as wide as it will go. Gun at the ready, I peer around the corner into the barn. The musty smell of hay fills my nose and minuscule bits of dust hang in the air around my head.

I step inside, look around the dim interior and pause at what lies in front of me. I lower my Glock, pull out my cell phone and speed dial Randall.

Chapter 69:
Augie

I
just make it to the top of the steps when I see Beth standing in front of P.J.’s classroom door. Her long brown hair has come loose from her ponytail and it looks like she’s been crying. I try to get her attention by waving my arms at her, but she doesn’t notice me. She knocks twice on the glass window in the door as she twists the knob and steps into the room.

“Dad?” I hear her say. “Please don’t.”

Chapter 70:
Meg

“J
esus, Meg,” Randall says, relief in his voice. “I was just about to call the chief. He would have castrated me if someone had to leave the school to come looking for you.”

“Randall,” I try to interrupt.

“I can’t believe you put me through this. I’ve had enough stress for one—”

“Randall,” I say more forcefully. “Ray Cragg gave himself a 9 mm skylight. I need Fred.” Fred is our medical examiner investigator.

There is silence on the line.

“Randall?” Still no response.

“Randall,” I snap. “Stay with me here. I need the MEI at the Cragg farm.”

“I’ll call Fred, but you have to call the chief.”

“Fine.” I press the end button and look over to where a man sits—Ray Cragg, legs splayed, head lolled forward. I bend down to get a better look at what remains of his face, the lower half obliterated. His eyes, though lifeless, are opened wide as if surprised that he did this awful thing to himself. To his family. Splatters of blood and tissue cling to the bales of hay that he is resting against and I’m thankful that I’m the one who found him this way. At least that horror was spared from his family. I cringe at the thought of one of his daughters finding him in this state. I hear footsteps behind me and I whirl around, “Stay out!” I order.

The footfalls abruptly stop and I see Will Thwaite standing in the doorway, his hand on Twinkie’s collar. “Jesus,” he rasps, his gaze falling on the grotesque figure behind me.

“Go on outside, Mr. Thwaite,” I say gently. “I’ll be right there.”