One Breath Away (26 page)

Chapter 94:
Mrs. Oliver

M
rs. Oliver, as much as she has tried to, couldn’t see this unfortunate situation ending well. The man with the gun had a manic gleam in his eye and had been muttering to himself, every once in a while saying, “It’s almost over now.”

Her jaw was throbbing and two children were locked in the supply closet, and the three remaining children were terrified, so much so that Charlotte had vomited in the trash can. Mrs. Oliver had always been a woman of action. She had given birth to her first child while in teacher’s college, had three more children within a matter of six years, could change a flat tire, had once chased down a group of teenagers on skateboards that had knocked over old Mr. Figg outside the grocery store. She most certainly should have been able to handle this deranged interloper, but somehow couldn’t.
Don’t do it,
she could hear Cal whispering in her ear.
He has a gun, Evelyn. For once go with the flow.

Mrs. Oliver, most definitely, was not a flow-goer. By her calculations, she had one last chance to make things okay. She inched slowly toward her desk, the man being preoccupied with his cell phone once again, nervously tapping his foot and rubbing at his forehead.
Evelyn,
she heard Cal’s exasperated voice as her fingers reached for the stapler. It wasn’t the cheap plastic kind that cost $8.95 in the school supply catalog the teachers ordered from each year. This stapler was a heavy-duty MegaSnap industrial all-metal stapler circa 1972 that Mrs. Oliver had specially ordered. Her hand wrapped around the cool metal throat of the stapler, dithered for just a second before she heaved it at the man. She watched with self-satisfaction at the surprising strength of her sixty-five-year-old arm as it sailed through the air. If he had looked up a fraction of a second later, the man would have most certainly been felled by the stapler. Mrs. Oliver could almost hear her students twenty years later:
Yes, a stapler. She overtook the man with a stapler, can you imagine?
Well, they wouldn’t have to. The man did look up, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the stapler winging toward him and with no hesitation raised his gun and pulled the trigger three times, striking the wall closest to the closet door. Mrs. Oliver moaned at the sight of the damaged wall, terrified at the thought of how close the bullets came to hitting Lucy and Augie. The man glowered at Mrs. Oliver and with one swift punch struck her in the chest, knocking her to the ground.

“Don’t make me kill you,” the man growled, pointing the gun at her head.

Chapter 95:
Meg

I
hear the unmistakable sound of gunfire from above me. “Shit,” I mutter, and scramble up the steps. I thumb the mic at my collar. “We’ve got shots fired. Repeat, shots fired.”

There is a crackle of static and Chief McKinney’s voice is in my ear. “We’ll be right there as soon as we can. Stay put, backup is on the way. And, Meg,” the chief says in a rush, “it’s not Tim in there.”

I hesitate, my head is reeling. While I knew deep down that Tim couldn’t be the man, I can’t wrap my head around who could be summoning me to the classroom and needing a room full of hostages to get me there. I want to ask how he knows this, where Tim has been all this time, but there’s no time. “Ten-four,” I respond, knowing that I should stop and wait for reinforcements, but I continue upward. It must be my brother. Son of a bitch. All I can think of are those poor children and their teacher in that classroom. Despite the bitter cold outside, sweat trickles down my back and I wipe a bead of perspiration from my forehead. My breath comes in uneven hitches, and I focus on inhaling and exhaling in smooth, even streams. I move in long strides, peering in classroom windows as I pass.

This wing of the school seems deserted and I know Mrs. Oliver’s class is the last room on the left. I hear a child’s inconsolable crying as I move closer. It’s the sound of great fear, terror, but not of pain. This particular child, at least, isn’t hurt physically. I pause twenty yards from the classroom, press my back against the wall and look back in the direction I came from, sorely missing the comfort of backup. I should wait for the tac team, but press forward.

“I’m here!” I call out. My voice sounds too high, too unsure. “Is everything all right? I thought I heard gunfire.” There’s no response. “Is anyone hurt?”

“No,” bellows a male voice. I don’t recognize the speaker. I want to try and keep him talking, see if I can figure out who he is before I step into that room.

“I’m here, just like you asked. How many are in there with you?”

No answer.

“Listen,” I say, trying to keep the impatience out of my voice. “I want to talk to you, but I need to know you aren’t going to shoot me the second I come in.”

Again silence. Then a child’s voice. “There are three kids and a teacher in the room. And the man. No one is shot. It was an accident.”

I radio Chief McKinney. “False alarm, stand by.” And then to the man in the classroom, I say, “Okay, I’m going to walk in the room now. I’m alone and unarmed,” I lie as I slide my firearm into the shoulder holster hidden beneath my jacket and glance over my shoulder at the dark, empty hallway. Thinking of Maria and wishing I had the opportunity to talk to her one more time today, I take a deep breath, square my shoulders and step confidently into the doorway.

Chapter 96:
Will

W
ill was still examining the picture of the man in the newspaper, the man Natalie insisted was the gunman, when once again his phone buzzed.

“Yeah,” he said absentmindedly, trying to recall where he had seen the man before. The name beneath the photo didn’t ring a bell.

“Will.” Marlys’s frantic voice assaulted his ears.

“Marlys? What is it? Is Holly okay?” Will asked.

“What’s going on there? Holly talked to Augie, said there were gunshots.” Will had to concentrate to understand his wife. He couldn’t make sense of her words. Holly, Augie, gunshots? “She’s hysterical,” Marlys said, not too far from hysteria herself. “The doctors had to sedate her. Will, what’s happening?”

Will didn’t know what to say. He looked up and saw Officer Braun also talking on the phone. Their eyes met; Braun looked at Will with a mixture of pity and resignation and began walking toward him. In that instance Will knew that what Marlys was telling him was the truth. “I’ll find out what’s happening and call you back,” Will told his wife weakly, and then disconnected.

“Stay here, girls,” he told Beth and Natalie. “Your grandma will be here soon.” He moved across the sticky floor and met Officer Braun in the center of the restaurant, unclenched his fingers from the newspaper and tried to smooth away the creases as he showed it to the officer.

“This is the man,” Will said hoarsely, pointing to the crumpled photograph.

“Who is he?” Braun asked, furrowing his brow.

“I have no idea,” Will answered. “But I’m going to find out.”

Chapter 97:
Holly

I
try to pull myself from the fog of morphine that a nurse has injected into my IV. “Shhh, now,” I hear her say. “Calm down, Holly, if you’re not careful you’ll tear your skin grafts. You don’t want to go through all that again, do you? You’ve come so far.”

I slap weakly at her hands, trying to push her away from me, trying to get out of the bed, to get to my children. I should never have let them go so far away from me. I want to grab Augie and shake her and tell her that accidents happen, that I didn’t blame her for the fire, for my injuries, that I’m only grateful that she and P.J. were not hurt. My head feels light and my mother’s face comes into my field of vision. “Mama,” I say, something I haven’t called her since I was five.

“I know,” she says, chin trembling. “I know.”

Chapter 98:
Augie

A
fter we hear the shots, the little girl in the closet with me pounds on the door with her fists and then slams herself up against it, trying to get it open. “Shhh,” I tell her. “It’s going to be okay.” But I know it won’t be. She is crying so hard she’s having trouble breathing.

“Shhh, I’m supposed to call 9-1-1,” I tell her. “My mom said to call 9-1-1.” I’m shaking so hard that my teeth knock together. I dial the three numbers and a man answers but I can barely hear him because of the little girls’ cries. Finally I just blurt out, “I’m in the school, in Mrs. Oliver’s room, and he’s shooting. I’m in the closet with another girl. Please send help, please.” Then I hang up hoping that he at least got a little information that is useful.

Finally, the little girl’s cries become quieter and she curls up in the corner. I shine the light from the phone next to my face so she can see me. “I’m Augie.” I sit down next to her and shine the phone light so I can see her better. Her face is blotched white and red and she is making soft hiccuping noises and sucking her thumb.

She pulls her thumb out and says, “I’m Lucy,” before she stuffs it back in her mouth.

I can hear someone crying on the other side of the door but it’s not P.J.’s crying. “P.J.,” I yell through the door. “P.J., are you okay?”

“I’m okay, just a misfire,” I hear him holler back, and I slump to the floor in relief.
Just a misfire,
I think to myself,
only P.J.

“The police are coming,” I tell Lucy, hoping that it is true.

Lucy starts sniffling. “What if he starts shooting again?” she wonders out loud.

“Just hang on, we’ll be out of here in a few minutes,” I promise her. I look down at the cell phone and see that the battery is running low. I quickly enter my mother’s number but after four rings it goes to voice mail. “Mom,” I say. “It’s Augie. P.J. is okay. I’ll call you back in a little bit.” I stop, wanting to tell her more but not sure what to tell her. “I’m sorry,” I finally whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

From the classroom comes another voice. A woman. “It’s you?” she says loudly, like she doesn’t quite believe it. “Why?”

Chapter 99:
Will

T
he snow has started falling again, but more softly, as if all the bluster has gone out of the storm, like a child in its last throes of a fit, Will thought. When Holly was little she had the worst temper tantrums. Will often found himself laughing, despite his frustration, at the way Holly would open her mouth as wide as she could and wail, just like a newly born calf bellowing for its mother. His laughter would only fuel Holly’s rage and she would hold her breath until her back arched and her face turned a frightful shade of blue. Marlys would swoop her into her arms, begging her to breathe. “Ignore her,” Will would chastise. “The more attention you give her, the more she’ll do this.” Will wondered now if that is truth. Maybe if he had carefully lifted Holly onto his lap and held her close to his chest, softly singing a half-learned lullaby from his own childhood while gently rocking her to and fro, things would have turned out differently between the two of them.

“Jesus,” Will lamented to the sterling-silver-and-garnet Seven Sorrows rosary draped over the rearview mirror, its beads lightly clicking against one another. The same rosary that his mother had pressed into his hand just before he left for basic training. He remembered singing to the newborn calves in distress, their mothers suffering from uterine torsion or prolapse. Couldn’t he have afforded his own daughter the same courtesy? He drove recklessly through the snow-driven streets, dark and deserted, back to the school. He didn’t care if he had to drive through the blockades or break into the school; he was going to bring his grandchildren home. Bring them home to his daughter.

Chapter 100:
Mrs. Oliver

M
rs. Oliver feigned death, sprawled out on the floor after the man had shoved her and pointed the gun at her head. She tried to still her breathing, tried to let her muscles go slack.
Evelyn,
she heard Cal chide her.
What were you thinking?

I don’t know,
she mentally answered her husband.
For once, I really don’t know.
She remembered sitting in front of the television with Cal, watching news coverage of a natural disaster somewhere far away, but still she sat there with tears rolling down her cheeks.
Evie, don’t cry,
Cal had told her.
We’re always one breath away from something, living or dying, sometimes it just can’t be helped.
She wondered what her children would say at her funeral. Would they be bitter of all the hours she spent with other people’s children, resentful of the restless nights she spent worrying over some other eight-year-old’s neglectful father, abusive mother, reading disability, social ineptness? Would they linger over the class photographs hung with care on the walls of their childhood home, counting and comparing the number of pictures where their mother was posing with strange children versus the ones with her own flesh and blood?

A woman’s voice punctured Charlotte’s crying and the poor girl is instantly quiet. “It’s you?” the woman asked incredulously. Mrs. Oliver dared to unscrew one eye to see what was happening. The man had turned away from her, the gun still held tightly in his hand, but now he was pointing it at P. J. Thwaite’s temple, his elbow crooked around the boy’s neck. Mrs. Oliver painfully raised her head, trying to get a better look at the new arrival. Officer Barrett, Mrs. Oliver realized, Maria’s mother. Was this the person that the man had been waiting for? It didn’t make sense, though, nothing about this terrible day had.

Charlotte and Ethan looked expectantly at their teacher, waiting for her to do something. Mrs. Oliver wanted to shrug her shoulders as if to say
I’ve got nothing,
but her body hurt too much. But their eyes did not veer from hers, their gazes did not waver. They were waiting for her, waiting for their teacher to do something, anything.

Chapter 101:
Meg

“S
tuart?” I say in disbelief, staring at the man. “What are you doing? Put that gun down. Are you crazy?”

“Crazy?” The man gives a mirthless laugh. “I guess you could say that? Partially in thanks to you, Meg.”

“What do you mean? I don’t understand.” The sight of Stuart standing in this classroom, holding a gun to a little boy’s head, takes my breath away.

“You haven’t heard? Haven’t got a chance to read the newspaper today yet, huh?” Stuart asks lightly as if we were having this conversation over appetizers and beers.

“No, I haven’t heard. Why don’t you fill me in? I’m more than a little confused.” Without taking my eyes off of Stuart, I try to assess the situation. Mrs. Oliver, injured on the floor. One male, one female child standing off to my left, apparently uninjured, one male child being held hostage.

“In a matter of a few months I’ve lost my wife, my children and my job and I owe it all to you, Meg.” Stuart grasps the boy’s neck a little tighter, the barrel of the gun grinding into his temple.

“Stuart,” I say as calmly as I can, “let the kids go and you can tell me all about it. Please, they don’t have anything to do with this.”

“I had you going there for a bit, didn’t I?” Stuart flashed an angry smile. “Made you think that your ex-husband was the man in here, didn’t I?”

“No,” I answer. “Never for a minute did I think Tim would do this. Why did you tell me that he was a suspect?”

“He was. For about five minutes. My source—” He sees the doubt on my face. “Yes, I do have a source from the sheriff’s office and he told me your mother-in-law called and said he disappeared suddenly. My source was the one who suggested Tim could be the gunman. I thought it was kind of funny.”

“Tim would never do this,” I say again, and then add, “And I never thought you could do something like this, either.”

“My wife threw me out. Because she found out about our affair,” Stuart continues as if I hadn’t spoken. I want to amend his statement. I want to say,
You had an affair, Stuart. Not me. I didn’t know you were married and had three kids, remember?
But I don’t say anything. My job is to keep him calm and keep him talking until the tac team can get into position or until I can get to my gun and fire a shot.

“I didn’t tell your wife about us, I promise you that, Stuart. I didn’t say a word.”

Stuart makes a snorting sound and gives a half chuckle. “No one else knew, Meg. It had to be you. Twenty-two years of marriage and she threw me out.”

Duh,
I want to say, but instead I hold up my hands in surrender. “I’m so sorry, Stuart, but I never initiated any contact with your wife. She came to me.”

“My kids won’t talk to me, I’m living in a shitty hotel. My wife had a lawyer who was more than willing to cut off my balls in order to get her the settlement she wanted.”

Something about the way Stuart was talking about his wife in the past tense sends a shiver of dread through me. “Stuart,” I ask, afraid of the answer. “What did you do? What do you mean your wife had a lawyer? Did she drop the divorce?” Stuart just smiles condescendingly at me and raises his hands in a
could be
gesture.

“Then, when I went into the newspaper yesterday, the editor in chief was waiting for me. Apparently someone has been doing some investigations of their own.”

“Stuart, I have no—”

“Shut the fuck up, Meg,” he shouts, causing the boy in his grasp to whimper. “Someone has been making calls and asking questions about my work. They’ve decided that I embellished the truth in my article on the girl who was raped and now they think I made up the whole story about the time in Afghanistan.”

All the while Stuart and I have been talking, the hostage, a boy I recognize from Maria’s school winter concert, has kept his eyes on my face. His glasses have been knocked askew and his shaggy hair is standing on end but his gaze has been unwavering. “Stuart, why don’t you let P.J. go,” I say, taking a stab that this little boy is Will Thwaite’s grandson. “You know his mom is real sick, don’t you? Was burned badly in a fire. Come on, he’s been through enough. Let the kids go. I’m here, isn’t that what you wanted? You think I’m the one who made those calls and got you fired.” As I’m trying to reason with Stuart, I see P.J.’s eyes slide to the floor where his teacher is crumpled. She is slowly, inch by inch, trying to pull herself toward Stuart. Jesus, I think to myself, I hope she doesn’t do anything stupid.