ACOUSTIC SHADOWS

BY PATRICK KENDRICK

an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

Killer Reads

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015

Copyright © Patrick Kendrick 2015

Patrick Kendrick asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2015

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

Ebook Edition © JUNE 2015 ISBN: 9780008139681

Version 2015-07-01

For Bill – I’ll see you on the ocean again, one day.

~PK

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter ONE

Chapter TWO

Chapter THREE

Chapter FOUR

Chapter FIVE

Chapter SIX

Chapter SEVEN

Chapter EIGHT

Chapter NINE

Chapter TEN

Chapter ELEVEN

Chapter TWELVE

Chapter THIRTEEN

Chapter FOURTEEN

Chapter FIFTEEN

Chapter SIXTEEN

Chapter SEVENTEEN

Chapter EIGHTEEN

Chapter NINETEEN

Chapter TWENTY

Chapter TWENTY-ONE

Chapter TWENTY-TWO

Chapter TWENTY-THREE

Chapter TWENTY-FOUR

Chapter TWENTY-FIVE

Chapter TWENTY-SIX

Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN

Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT

Chapter TWENTY-NINE

Chapter THIRTY

Chapter THIRTY-ONE

Chapter THIRTY-TWO

Chapter THIRTY-THREE

Chapter THIRTY-FOUR

Chapter THIRTY-FIVE

Chapter THIRTY-SIX

Chapter THIRTY-SEVEN

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by By Patrick Kendrick

About the Publisher

ONE

Erica Weisz strode up the sidewalk to the Travis Hanks Elementary School in the tiny town of Frosthaven, Florida, a bounce in her step. It was a sunny autumn morning, and Erica loved the weather and this rural area she’d moved to only six weeks ago.

Frosthaven was a rural town of less than 3,000 full-time citizens, surrounded by freshwater lakes and a diminishing citrus business that was losing ground to imported fruit. The groves stretched out over small hills that rolled on for as far as the locals wanted to see. The scent of orange blossom wafted in the air as Erica squinted at the surrounding citrus groves. From far away they looked green and lush. But, like the ‘FOR LEASE’ signs on the downtown buildings, the diminishing groves echoed the slow decline of a dying place. Most people living here were firmly ensconced in the federal poverty level. The only exceptions were the remaining citrus and cattle processing plants and fertilizer manufacturers, who employed nine-tenths of the town’s population.

Though Erica was not completely comfortable with her new job, she enjoyed working with the children at the town’s solitary elementary school. She felt she’d gone back in a time machine to an era when people were simple and friendly and communications not so obscure. She had been working per diem as a substitute for the past three weeks, coming in last minute when they’d call her in the morning. Then, just yesterday morning, Dr Linda Montessi, the principal, pulled her aside in the hallway.

‘Good morning, Erica,’ she said, her tone professional, as was her appearance; blunt cut hair that brushed her shoulders and framed an oval face that showed kindness weathered with caution. ‘Got a minute?’

‘Uh, sure, Dr Montessi,’ said Erica, her mind on other, more personal matters, as usual.

‘I recently got a budget item approved, one that allows me to hire a permanent substitute. I was hoping you might take the job?’

‘I…well…are you sure? I mean, I’d love to but…’

‘And we’d love to have you. So, you’ll accept the offer?’

‘Well, to be honest, I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying in Frosthaven.’

‘Oh?’ replied Dr Montessi, her eyebrows arching, as if searching for an explanation.

Dodging the unspoken enquiry, Erica said, ‘Gosh, I’m sorry. May I think about it and let you know tomorrow?’

Dr Montessi smiled warmly. ‘Yes, of course. That’s fine. Sleep on it, and let me know.’ She walked away and back to her hectic schedule.

Erica thought about the offer now, as she neared the school gates. She knew she should consider accepting it. The school was a nice place to work, and the best part was that it was within walking distance to her boxy, hibiscus pink, cinder-block home on Barney Avenue. It might be a poor community, but the people seemed genuine and welcoming, and this offer was just another example of that. For the first time in a long time, she had begun to feel comfortable with where she was. But, there was a persistent, creeping worry that loomed over every decision she made. If she stayed longer, her background check would come up clean, but how long could she keep her secrets from these people?

Dr Montessi was a warm, motivated educator who often dressed up in funny costumes to amuse the students, whilst making significant learning points. For Halloween, she had dressed up as a witch and shared the cautionary tale of the unfortunate Salem Witch Trials. She turned the story into a parable about people bullying others who held beliefs different from their own. The children adored her. She and Erica had hit it off right away. They both had backgrounds in science, and enjoyed similar pastimes such as cycling and CrossFit. Erica decided she wouldn’t allow her usual dark thoughts to trouble her this day. She would focus on the positive offer instead.

Like all schools in Florida, Travis Hanks Elementary had experienced budgetary problems. The facilities definitely showed years of use, but everyone worked together to keep it clean and tidy. Colourful banners were hung promoting positive affirmations and anti-bullying campaigns.

Striding through the main office, Erica said hello to the school nurse, Nora, who cared for children with sniffles or scraped knees or tummy aches. And to Sally Ravich, the front office lady with the purple, horn-rimmed glasses, who commented on Erica’s blue, flowered dress and matching, oversized purse.

‘That blue matches your eyes,’ she said in her lyrical, southern drawl. Then, noting Erica’s running shoes, added, ‘I saw some nice flats that would match your purse at Payless yesterday.’

‘Thanks, Sally,’ said Erica. ‘I’ll stick to my running shoes.’

When Sally asked what she kept in a purse that big, Erica replied with wide, exaggerated eyes, ‘Everything.’

Lynn LaForge, the assistant principal, another excellent educator, who doubled as soccer mom and cheerleader coach for her daughter’s middle school team, also greeted Erica.

‘You have Mrs Miller’s class again, today, Erica,’ said Lynn. ‘Still has the flu. Did you perm your hair?’

‘No,’ said Erica, absently putting her hand in her shimmering, black hair. ‘I left the house with it damp, and it curls if I don’t blow it out.’

‘Is that your natural colour?’ asked the inquisitive administrator.

Erica’s cheeks turned red. Her hair was as dark as a coal bucket and though she was a brunette, with natural sun-kissed highlights, she dyed her hair the lustrous black it was now. When she was a child, she’d been hit in the head by a swing and had to get sutures. It healed fine, but the hair over the scar turned white. Such an anomaly was too distinct, too memorable, and she couldn’t risk standing out.

Lynn smiled. ‘I’m sorry, hon. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. You look great,’ she said, then cautiously added, ‘Still haven’t met any locals?’

Erica turned the corners of her mouth down. ‘If you mean men…no. But, I can’t say I’ve really been looking.’

‘I’ve got a brother-in-law…’

Erica smiled benignly and shook her head. ‘I’ll let you know.’ Changing the subject, she asked, ‘Do you know if Mrs Miller left me any new lesson plans?’

‘Sure,’ said Lynn. ‘She emailed them to me, and I ran off a hard copy for you.’

‘Thanks,’ said Erica.

‘I think she’ll be out the rest of the week,’ Lynn added. ‘She’s pretty sick.’

‘Oh, okay,’ said Erica, sorting through the plans Mrs Miller had sent her. ‘Thank you, Miss LaForge.’ First names were fine at this school, but Erica did not need, or want, people to know her that well, so maintained a friendly, but slightly aloof manner.

The janitor, Mr Swan, was ambling down the hall, his gait slightly hitched from the prosthetic leg he’d earned in Vietnam. He was carrying some fluorescent replacement bulbs, wearing a worn leather tool belt around his waist, as he dodged children running for their classes.

‘Slow down,’ he admonished, ‘or someone’s gonna get hurt.’

‘Hey, Mr Swan,’ said Erica. ‘How are you today?’

‘Oh, hi, Erica,’ replied the old handyman, beaming. ‘Couldn’t be better. And how are you?’

‘I’m very well,’ she said.

‘Good, good, good. Well, have a great day, young lady,’ he said, grinning, a tooth missing from his smile.

Erica continued to class. She had about eight minutes to prepare for the day – not nearly enough time – before the children started pouring in. Many of them were children of Guatemalan field workers, or welfare kids, their tattered second-hand clothes hanging from their thin frames like battle flags. She welcomed the third graders, and told them Mrs Miller was still sick. They were going to make jack-o’-lanterns today, with construction paper and paste. But, first, there was a reading lesson they needed to finish: The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

‘You’ll like it,’ Erica promised. ‘It’s scary.’

After a few moans and groans and shuffling of papers and books, pencils being sharpened and whispers hushed, the children fell silent and began reading to themselves.

Erica was in the back of the room, looking for the orange construction paper that was supposed to be in the closet, when she heard the first popping sounds. Firecrackers? Inside the school, or from the nearby woods? It was 8:20 a.m.

One of the little boys in the class asked, ‘is that fireworks?’

More popping sounds.

Erica knew, now, they weren’t firecrackers. Acoustic shadows, she thought. That’s what he had called them. She went to the window near her desk and looked out through the blinds, sweat breaking out on her neck. The school was in the shape of a giant ‘U’, so the view from any window yielded a view of the other side of the building. She caught a glimpse of a man dressed in black, suited up like a SWAT team member, carrying an assault rifle, bands of ammo wrapped around his torso, pistols on his belt. A late model van was parked in the pick-up lane in the parking lot, its doors left open, puffs of oily smoke coming from the tailpipe.

‘No,’ Erica said to no one, her heart now in her throat. ‘Not again.’

‘What do you see, Ms. Weisz?’ asked Rachel, a little girl with an almost comical mop of blonde curls.

Suddenly, there was a sound of shattering glass, more popping sounds getting louder. And screams. Erica froze, considering her options; her training had never taught her how to protect anyone other than herself. Now, she wasn’t sure she could even do that.

The PA system came on. The class stared at the old box speaker on the wall as it brought them terrifying noises. There was a humming, then the sounds of things banging and shuffling. A rough voice, indistinguishable, then Dr Montessi’s voice, pleading. ‘Please don’t hurt the children.’

‘We’re not going to hurt them,’ declared a high-pitched, male voice that ended with hysterical laughter. ‘We’re going to kill them!’

‘Just kill them,’ said another voice, calmer, in control, and the shooting resumed. Rapid and, loud, blam, blam, blam. The firecracker sounds replaced by unmistakable, up close, booming gun blasts.

Then silence. A groan. The meaty sound of a body hitting the floor, hard. And the gun blasts started again. A door slammed. Steps growing fainter. Silence.

They’re coming here, Erica thought, fear briefly immobilizing her. Inside her chest, her heart beat so fast she thought it might burst. The children stared at her, quietly expecting something, but Erica’s eyes locked on Rachel’s. The little girl’s lips began to quiver, and a tear sneaked down her cheek. More kids began to sob. ‘I’m scared,’ said one of them. One little girl urinated as she sat at her desk, crying silently, a puddle forming at her feet. None of the other children noticed.

Gunshots echoed in the hall. Pa-tow, tow, tow. Pa-tow-tow-tow. ‘You sons of…’ came Mr Swan’s voice, then more gunshots, louder and closer.

Erica couldn’t breathe as she listened, adrenaline sharpening her senses.

Silence again. The giant clock above the teacher’s desk clicked as it turned to ‘8:23’.

Footsteps coming down the hall; now closer.

More screams. More gunshots.

Finally, Erica found the courage to move. She ran to the door and locked it.

‘Quick, class. Everyone to the back of the room. Now!’ she ordered.

The children scurried to the back like bait fish fleeing a predator. Erica heard a thud and glanced at the window in the door to the hall. Suddenly, Lynn LaForge appeared in the frame, her face a mask of horror. She peered in the window for an instant, her eyes wide and wet with terror. Her hand rattled the door urgently. She opened her mouth when a bullet ripped through her face, blood spattering the window, and she was gone. That fast. Alive one second, gone the next.

‘Inside the closet,’ Erica ordered, trying to calm her voice.

The kids began pushing and shoving to get inside the small space. It would not hold them all. Erica packed in as many as she could and closed the door, her mind racing, her breath ragged. She sprinted to the front of the class again, grabbed her purse, then hurried back. She began frantically piling desks into a barricade.

The doorknob rattled, then violently shook. A masked face appeared in the bloodied window. The gunman banged his rifle butt against the door handle, once, twice. Erica turned to the kids who couldn’t fit into the closet; they were huddled behind the overturned desks, whimpering, fear transforming their faces. She put a finger to her mouth to shush them. She clutched her purse and tried to squeeze in with them behind the makeshift barricade, but couldn’t quite conceal herself.

An abrupt burst of gunfire sent parts of the door flying, glass spraying. The smell of sulphur crept into the room as the barrel of a rifle came into view where the door had been, slowly revealing a black, gloved hand on its grip. Then, the man was in the room. A ski mask covered his face but his eyes were wide and wild through the openings. The weapon he wielded was an Armalite AR-15, semi-automatic. With a thirty-round clip, it weighed only 8.8 lb. It was light, manoeuvrable. Deadly.

Erica could see his eyes hone in on the pile of desks where she and the children were hiding, and realized her leg was sticking out.

‘C’mon outta there,’ he commanded. She reached for her purse, her heart now in her mouth. She stuck her head up.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘I…I sent the kids out to the playground…’

‘SHUT THE FUCK UP!’ he screamed, wincing, as if he were in pain. He stared at her and pulled his mask up, sweat running down his face, his breathing hard, laboured. He was in his forties maybe, with a blunted, street-worn face: twisted nose, cauliflower ears, scarred brows. He squinted at Erica. ‘What’s your name?’ he hissed, sweat dripping off his nose.

She stared back at him over the top of the overturned desks ‘Wh…what?’ she asked.

A whimper issued from the closet, followed by some rustling. The door began to creep open. The gunman swung the rifle in the direction of the noises, aimed high, and pulled the trigger. Flames spat out the barrel as bullets sprayed across the room, splintering wood from the closet door and bursting the windows, sending glass flying through the air like thrown diamonds. The noise was deafening. Now hysterical, the kids screamed.

Erica stood up. ‘It’s Mil…Millie,’ she said, realizing now with a paralyzing fear, he isn’t here for the students. ‘Please,’ she added, ‘don’t shoot the children.’

The gunman nodded his grisly head as he removed the empty clip, plucked a new one off his belt, and shoved it into the rifle.

Rachel stepped out of the closet, her face pale, blood pouring down her arm, her mouth hanging slack.

Erica ran to the bleeding girl. A bullet had nicked her upper arm. Only a flesh wound, but she was in shock: her colour blanched; her skin cold and sweaty. Erica’s emotions morphed from paralyzing fear to unequivocal rage.

The gunman grinned after reloading the bullet clip and looked up at Erica, whose back was to him.

‘Turn around,’ he said, pulling the bolt back on the rifle, chambering a round.

‘She’s bleeding,’ she said, her voice trembling with rage. ‘Let me help her. I just want to stop the bleeding. I…have a scarf in my purse.’

The gunman coughed and spat on the floor.

Erica retrieved her purse and came back to Rachel. She pulled out her scarf, tied it around the wound, and brought her over to the pile of desks.

‘Stay down,’ she whispered to the little girl. Their eyes locked and Rachel robotically obeyed the command.

Erica reached into her purse again, her hands shaking. This time she came up with a small, almost toyish-looking Bersa Thunder .380 automatic pistol, with matt nickel finish. She had taken a deep breath and now let it ease out, exhaling slowly, her hands locked together, steadying them as she stood and swivelled back to the gunman – who stood transfixed – and squeezed the trigger.

There was a bang, amplified in the small room, and a red vapour puffed out the back of the gunman’s head. A small, dark hole appeared in his forehead, then blood began to flow from the hole and poured over his still open eyes. He blinked once and fell to the ground as if he was a marionette and someone had cut the strings.

Erica sat down with the children, her legs shaking, trying to swallow, but her throat was too dry. She settled for a deep breath and closed her eyes, her ears ringing from the gun blasts.

The children behind the desks stared at her with their mouths open. One by one, the other kids began to slip from the closet. No one said anything. Some began to sniffle, some cried, some were ominously silent. Several of them came over and hugged her.

She took another deep breath, trying to calm herself.

‘Everyone, please…sit down,’ she pleaded.

She stood, extricating herself from the swarm of children. Holding her gun pointed at the fallen man, she approached cautiously. She noticed he was still breathing, just as she heard more gunshots coming from down the hall. Then more screams. She looked back at the children.

‘Get in the closet,’ she whispered, harshly. ‘There’s another one out there.’

They pushed inside, silently but quickly. Erica looked over at the kids behind the desk pile. ‘Close your eyes,’ she told them, calmly. ‘It’s going to be okay.’

She stood for a moment, her mind racing, but she could not arrive at a different conclusion. She aimed her gun at the gunman and put another bullet into his head. The shot took off a section of his skull and stopped the breathing.

One of the boys jumped up from behind the desk pile, trembling, his mouth an ‘O’.

She recognized the boy from another class and felt the need to try to reassure him.

‘I’ll be back, Ricky. Please stay down until then.’

The boy slumped as if deflated, his white, spiked hair giving him the appearance of having seen the devil himself.

Erica pushed past the remnants of the door and peered into the hall. It was dark and there were huge holes in the ceiling and walls; evidently, the other gunman had shot out the lights. Oily smoke hung in the air like pale spectres raised from the recently slain. She saw poor Mr Swan lying at one end of the hall, sprawled out, his prosthesis angled, blood spilling from his body. She wanted to go check for a pulse, but stopping the other gunman before he killed anyone else was her first priority. She stepped over Mrs LaForge, trying not to look at her face. Holding up her gun, she kept both hands on it, just as she’d seen actors do in police dramas, just as she practised between rounds at the gun range. She had just a killed a man for the first time in her life. There was no time to reflect on it. She could – no, would – do it again. There were no other choices.

She eased down the hall toward where she could still hear occasional pops of gunfire, staying close to the wall, making herself a smaller target.

She came to the part of the building that was the bottom of the ‘U’ shape and peeked around the corner. Another blast, this one a cavernous, exploding sound, and the other gunman emerged from one of the classrooms carrying a seven-round, Remington 870 Express, pump shotgun. He stopped and began pushing more shells into the gun. Like the first man, he had removed his mask. She could see he was younger than his accomplice, with long, curly, unnaturally red hair. His face was pale and covered with inflamed acne.

Erica stepped away from the wall. She was maybe fifty feet from the shooter in a wide-legged stance, one eye closed as she aimed the gun at him.

He was quick. He pulled the shotgun up and fired at her from hip level. The blast took a row of lockers off the wall, but some of the buckshot found her, striking her left hip and abdomen. She fired as she fell; the round hit his chest. He stumbled, surprised, and pulled open his shirt. Erica saw he was wearing a bullet proof vest and was unhurt. It slowed him temporarily, but he grabbed the Remington and pumped another round into the chamber.

Erica was lying on her back, her side on fire, blood soaking her blue-flowered dress as she craned her neck and again squinted one eye. When she tried to lift it, the pistol seemed to weigh as much as a sledgehammer. It wavered in the air. She wasn’t sure she had the strength to pull the trigger.

The gunman took a step closer, levelled the rifle, a crazed, loopy smile on his face.

Her breath was ragged, but she held it again as she aimed and fired the gun once more. This time, the round caught him in the neck and his head dropped to one side. The shotgun clattered to the floor as the ginger-haired gunman crumpled.

Erica lay still, listening, her ears ringing from the gun blasts, the usually noisy school utterly quiet. The eerie silence was almost as frightening as the gunfire. Her eyes drifted toward the ceiling and it began to spin, go out of focus. She tried to get up, and slipped in her own blood. She vomited as she tried to pull herself back to the room, back to the children. Make sure they were safe.

A whining siren echoed in the distance, growing slowly louder. A door opened. Sounds of children whispering, crying, their tiny feet hardly making any sounds as they came to her like cherubs from heaven.

TWO

The on-scene reporter was a bottled-blond man, with an actor’s angular jawline, and a steady, dramatic voice. He held the microphone to his mouth as the camera showed glimpses of the elementary school over his shoulder.

‘Details are still coming in,’ he advised, ‘but we are providing exclusive coverage right now of yet another school shooting; this one, in the small town of Frosthaven, Florida, where, once again, a close-knit community has been ravaged by gun violence. These people are friends, co-workers, and fellow worshippers at the nearby ’Tween Lakes Baptist Church.’

The camera panned over to show the church, which had become a makeshift command post, with policemen from several local agencies swarming around it like bees. Blue and red lights flashed harshly. Streets were crammed with cars parked at odd angles, doors left open, hysterical parents huddled together, screaming into cell phones, held back by yellow crime-scene tape, and reassuring, but guarded, troopers from the Florida Highway Patrol. Across the bottom of the televised broadcast from THN (Televised Headline News), a banner read: Initial reports: 10 dead. 4 wounded in Florida Elementary School.

The reporter continued. ‘These are humble people of modest income. Hard-working, simple people who, like the rest of us, are wondering, why did this happen here? When will these shootings stop? And, as authorities begin to bring out the wounded and the dead, we are left to question, who did this and why? How did Travis Hanks Elementary School fall in line with Columbine, Virginia Tech, Aurora, and Sandy Hook? What causes these human tornadoes, if you will, to visit these innocent communities, and disrupt and devastate them as we all watch in horror and disbelief? Gail, back to you.’

The camera lingered on the reporter, as the news anchor, Gail Summer, turned to her producer, and whispered, ‘Did you get that? The human tornado thing? That’s brilliant. I’m going to keep it going.’ The producer nodded enthusiastically.

‘Well, Dave, it’s clear that this tragedy is even tough for you to report, but I think you’ve made a significant analogy with your reference to human tornadoes. That’s very descriptive of exactly what these mass shootings are. They happen without warning, like a tornado, and literally tear apart the fabric of the community, not just figuratively, but physically and psychologically as well. No one can predict them or stop them, and they seem to be growing in number. And, speaking of numbers, we’re getting some additional numbers from the police spokesman right now…Can you and your crew catch that, Dave?’

The camera panned back as a police chief pushed through the crowd and took his place on a small dais. Coils of black electrical cables ran like snakes up to the makeshift podium to feed the dozens of cameras and microphones; to feed America’s insatiable interest in this obscene phenomenon.

The police chief was from a nearby municipality: Sebring, home of the 12-hour Grand Prix race. Frosthaven did not have its own law enforcement agency, but was covered by several surrounding city and county departments. The Calusa County Sheriff’s Office normally had jurisdiction, but the Sebring Police Chief was the first ranking officer on scene, so he was stuck with the command assignment. This included talking to the media; a job he did not like and for which he felt ill-equipped. He stood before the cluster of microphones, staring at them as if they were gun barrels pointed at him, sweat glistening on his pate.

‘I’m uh, Chief Dunham with the Sebring Police Department and…uh, want to assure everyone that, uh…the school grounds are now secure.’ He paused to brush sweat off his brow with his sleeve. ‘All of the children have been gathered at the Baptist Church, and their parents are collecting them now. Initial entry was made by some of Sebring’s PD and Calusa County Sheriff deputies at approximately 8:42 this morning, following an emergency alert made by a staff member at the school. I…we…have assessed the deceased and wounded, and the injured parties have been transported to nearby hospitals. There are, at this time…,’ he paused again to refer to his notes, ‘ten school employees that were killed, the names of whom we cannot release at this time, pending notification of their families. I also want to say, though one child is being treated for a minor wound, by some miracle, it appears none of the children were killed. Now, that is all the information I have at this time…’

Dave Gruber jumped in. ‘Chief Dunham, can you tell us if it’s true that one of the teachers had a gun and shot the intruders?’

Chief Dunham looked as if he was punched in the stomach. Wearily, he leaned back toward the bank of microphones. ‘I…I’d rather not…’ he began, but as he glanced around the crowd, many of whom were parents who had just picked up their children, he felt he had to say something. ‘It does appear that, possibly, one of the teachers was able to obtain a gun and was able to shoot the, uh…shooters.’

Questions were hurled like Frisbees at the Chief from the myriad of reporters who were still showing up by the dozens. They were in vans with giant telescoping antennae being manoeuvred and raised. There was a helicopter flying overhead. Chief Dunham felt dizzy.

‘Are you saying there was more than one shooter, Chief Dunham?’

‘It … appears, at this point, that, uh, there were two shooters.’

‘Can you tell us who they were?’ asked another reporter.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the Chief, ‘but this is still an ongoing investigation. The last thing I can tell you is that I will be working with local and state law enforcement agencies, and we will let the news media know more as soon as we know more. Now, I have to go.’

Gruber threw in one last long-shot question. ‘Can you confirm that one of the shooters survived?’

Chief Dunham looked back at the reporter, frowning. ‘No comment,’ he said, as he pulled himself away from the crowd and pushed his way back through to the command post, his cell phone ringing audibly.

Gruber whirled back to the camera dramatically. ‘There it is, Gail. Police Chief Dunham, from the Sebring Police Department, issuing a statement where, at this point at least, it appears there were two gunmen, one of whom may still be alive. And, more importantly, his statement confirms stories of some heroes arising out of this … maelstrom, if you will, particularly, this unknown teacher who, evidently, was able to wrestle a gun away from one of the shooters and stop them before they killed more today. Gail, back to you … ’

Gail Summer’s eyes were large and moist, pupils dilated, excited. This was a story that was just going to keep giving.

‘Well, okay, thank you,’ she said as the camera focused back to her. ‘Thanks to Dave Gruber, our reporter with local affiliate, KBFT, Channel 7, out of Orlando, who was first on the scene with coverage for us. We will keep you posted on this … tragedy, yet another school shooting in a tight-knit community located right in the middle of Florida, really, in what some people might call idyllic, small-town America, typical of where so many of these types of incidents are occurring. Once again, we must ask ourselves, why is this happening and where will the next human tornado vent its fury? We have to take a break right now, but stay tuned as our coverage of this tragedy continues.’

Governor Scott Croll watched the broadcast in his office as his private plane was being readied for his departure. He would be on the ground and at the school in less than an hour. Next to him was Commissioner Jim Bullock, the chief of the Florida Department of Law Enforcement – the FDLE – and one of his top investigators, Special Agent Justin Thiery.

Thiery was a broad-shouldered former quarterback for the University of Florida’s Gators, who maintained his upside-down triangle figure with a steady regimen of weights, running, and sparring. He’d originally been with the Capitol Police, the governor’s own dedicated police force, but as budgets shrank over the years – streamlined, as politicos called it – the CPs were ‘absorbed’ by the FDLE in the 1990s. Thiery was not happy about being absorbed, but what’s a guy going to do when he’s halfway to a pension? He stayed put, and kept his mouth shut, and did his job. He did it well.

Croll strode over to Thiery and, though the crown of his head barely reached the level of Thiery’s coat pocket, he stuck out his hand and shook Thiery’s with robust enthusiasm, his persuasive grip conveying a veiled challenge that belied his diminutive size.

‘Good to see you again, Agent Thiery. How’s the family?’ His wide-eyed gaze was engaging, yet unsettling.

Thiery had no idea what Croll was talking about. His wife had left him long ago and his two sons were grown and gone. ‘Everyone’s fine,’ he replied. ‘Thank you. And yours?’

Croll cocked his head. ‘Where does that accent come from, Agent Thiery? South Georgia?’

‘Close enough. I’m a Gainesville native, sir.’

‘Ah. Don’t meet many of those.’ Croll nodded and pursed his lips as if trying to recall something. ‘My eldest daughter just made the USA tennis team. We’re very proud of her.’

‘Outstanding.’

‘Yes,’ said Croll. ‘Did Jim, er, the Commissioner go over our expectations?’

‘Yes, sir. I’m to take the lead in the school shooting investigation.’

‘That’s right. Jim says you’re the best man for it.’

Thiery glanced at Bullock, who simply raised his eyebrows.

‘I’ll do my best, sir. But, can I ask why you want our department to handle this?’

Croll looked at Thiery as if it was obvious. ‘We’re consolidating our efforts. Trying to increase our efficiency; something I’ve been asking all of our departments to do. Frankly, there are so many departments on scene down there now, they’re tripping over each other. You caught the police chief from Podunk, right?’

Thiery had seen the small town chief on the news, felt bad for him, but there was no way he was going to knock another cop just to cater to a politician. He asked, ‘What about ATF or the FBI? One of my associates in Lakeland said the young shooter, what’s his name? Coody? Said he’d heard the kid had his apartment booby-trapped.’

‘As a matter of fact, the FBI has sent an agent from their WMD office in Miami. A woman named Sara Logan. Know her?’

Thiery took a long breath, let it out slow. He knew her well, though it had been a few years since he’d seen her. He knew her personally. ‘We’ve worked together on some cases.’

‘Problems?’ asked Croll, noting Thiery’s sudden uneasiness.

‘No,’ he replied.

Croll stared at him now, his lidless eyes like a gecko’s. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to get out of this assignment, Agent Thiery.’ His smile was a painful grimace.

Thiery returned his stare. ‘Not at all, sir. I just don’t want to get knee deep, then have the case pulled from me by the Feds. Besides, they seem to have resources we don’t, anymore.’

Croll forced a laugh. ‘You believe this guy, Jim? I thought you’d be thrilled to take part. We need a hero to rise out of this, fellas, and frankly, the FDLE could use one, too.’

‘I’m flattered and very interested, sir. It’s just … it’s going to be a huge case. Complicated. If we’re going to follow the Feds’ lead, I’d rather it be up front and avoid a hostile takeover, or turf war. That’s all.’

Bullock spoke up. ‘I think that’s all he’s trying to say. Right, Justin?’

‘That’s all I did say,’ said Thiery.

Croll stopped smiling. ‘Well, okay. When you’re in the position to make those kinds of decisions, maybe you can go that way. For now, you’re the man, the SAS, the Special Agent Supervisor. Our man. Pull this thing together so Florida doesn’t continue to look like a bunch of morons who can’t even vote right. Do the job you’re supposed to be so good at, capiche?’

Thiery nodded, but said nothing.

Bullock’s face turned red. If he weren’t so close to retirement, he’d tell the governor to go fuck himself. He had no right talking to one of his men like that, especially Thiery, a solid cop who’d raised two boys by himself after his wife walked out on him ten years ago.

‘I’ll be in Washington,’ he said blandly.

Croll looked at him as if trying to remember if he’d given him permission to leave the state, his eyebrow arched.

‘For the National Police Commissioner’s meeting?’ Bullock asked.

‘Of course,’ said Croll, then turned back to Thiery. ‘You want to fly down with me, Agent Thiery?’ Like he was offering a gift.

‘I should probably drive down. If I’m taking lead, I’ll need my car to get around.’

‘Nonsense. Fly with me. I’ve got a limo picking me up. It’ll be the fastest way. If you need a car, you can check out a cruiser at your Orlando office, right?’

Thiery’s jaw muscles flexed. ‘Sure,’ he said.

In a penthouse suite at the Bellagio Hotel in Las Vegas, eighty-year-old Emilio Esperanza watched the live coverage of the shooting at the Florida elementary school on one of the three big screen TVs. Another TV was set to the stock market, the sound turned off; banners of numbers flowing across the bottom of the screen reflecting in Esperanza’s eyes. The last TV was showing an old black-and-white gangster film. Esperanza picked a speck of tobacco from an unfiltered cigarette off his lip with his bony, blue fingers, and flaked it to the floor, then reached over and turned up the oxygen that ran into his nostrils via a plastic nasal cannula.

‘You should have a nurse doing that for you, Papa,’ said his son Julio, himself over fifty years old. His thick hair looked like a coiffed chrome helmet on his head. Tanned skin. Teeth like polished porcelain chips. His collar button was open on his starched, maroon shirt, Rat Pack-style, under his tailored, bone-coloured, linen suit.

The old man’s eyes slid over to his son’s like those of a Komodo dragon eyeing its prey. He raised his wrinkled upper lip as if to spit.

‘That didn’t work out too well last time, did it?’

Julio cast his eyes to the ground. One way or the other, it would all be over soon. He wished he had the balls to strangle the old man himself, save them both a lot of trouble. But he didn’t.

‘Time for you to do something, Julio.’

‘Sure, Papa. Anything.’

‘Get that fucking marshal on the phone, numero uno. And, dos, get your little posse together and get down to Florida. This thing stops now.’

THREE

Erica Weisz lay in a private room in Lakeland Regional Hospital dreaming of fire. She saw only bright orange light and felt searing heat all around her, at once welcoming her and, conversely, pushing her back with its intensity. Then it was gone, as if sucked into a vacuum, taking her life with it, but leaving her body and an all-encompassing emptiness as cold as any Arctic region on earth.

She woke up sweating, strands of hair stuck to her face, tears streaming down her cheeks. A feeling of post-operative nausea and dizziness enveloped her. She sat up with great difficulty and felt pain in her side and lower abdomen. The room spun to a stop, and she was able to see her surroundings in the late afternoon light that filtered through the window: an aseptic hospital room painted a vague green, an uncomfortable-looking vinyl chair for visitors, her chrome-railed bed with unwrinkled sheets as if laid over a corpse.

Her mouth was dry. A small folding table next to the bed held a yellow plastic pitcher of ice water, a clear cup, and a plastic straw. She peeled the paper off the straw, stuck it directly into the pitcher, and drank deeply. She looked at the IV in her arm and up to the bag that fed it. Lactated ringers in a one-litre bag, piggybacked with a half-litre of normal saline, a red tag on the bag that read Amoxicillin on its side. Both were dripping at KVO (‘keep vein open’) rate. She reached down with one hand and pinched the skin on the back of the other hand. It made a small fleshy tent that lingered for a few seconds before slowly laying back down. She was extremely dehydrated. She glanced up again and saw an empty plastic IV bag, its insides coated with blood. Must be pretty bad if they had to give her blood, too. She reached up and turned the drip rate up on the bag of ringers, and forced herself to drink more water.

She wondered if she’d said anything while under anaesthesia and wondered how long she’d been out. What happened to the red-haired man after I shot him? Was he dead? She recalled the urgent jerk of her body as the buckshot caught her in the side and spun her around. She remembered the look of surprise as she fired and caught him in the neck.

Fear crept through her as she thought there might have been other gunmen and that some of the children – those precious children – might now be dead. She hoped she had stopped them all in time. Before they could get to the kids. She remembered being consumed with that goal: stop these bastards before they hurt anyone else. She remembered waking up briefly in the recovery room, a doctor speaking to her and she back to him, but she couldn’t remember what the conversation was about. Probably previous medical history, current meds, etc. Standard medical questions. Had she revealed anything?

The plastic name band on her wrist read: Weisz, Erica. I didn’t tell them everything, she thought. It gave her relief, made her feel safe, at least for now. But that wouldn’t last long. She needed to make a plan; first, she needed to make a phone call.

The phone rang at Robert Moral’s home. Moral was in his office, on the computer, playing Slots Jungle Casino. Netbet.org had given it a ‘#6’ rating, so he dived right in. Let his wife answer the phone. He heard her banging around in the kitchen then shuffling over to pick it up.

‘If it’s those vultures from MasterCard,’ he hollered to her, ‘tell them I already sent a payment, and it is illegal – make sure you tell them it’s against the law – to call a debtor’s home and hassle them.’

‘But …’ she began.

Moral lost two hundred dollars on his opening bid at a double-down blackjack game. It infuriated him. If he hadn’t been distracted … ‘Just fucking tell them!’ he roared.

His wife padded to his office as quiet as a cat, her hand over the phone receiver.

‘It isn’t MasterCard,’ she said, trying to ease the bitterness she found in her own voice. ‘I think it’s that woman. I think she’s called before. I recognized the area code.’

She handed him the phone abruptly, glancing at the on-screen gambling site as if it were child pornography. She whirled and left the room; a woman with a heart of gold encased in a two-hundred-twenty-pound bag of cellulite that assured she would hold little regard for herself and forever put up with shit from her husband.

Moral licked his lips with a scotch-dried tongue. He tried to clear his throat, then helped himself to another gulp of booze: J & B’s. He winced. No more Johnny Walker Green Label. Hell, not even black or red label these days. These days. But he’d get back there. Right after the next big day at the track. Or the tables. The real tables. Not these virtual games that were probably rigged to begin with.

‘This is Deputy Moral,’ he said. Nothing. But, he could hear breathing. It was her. It had to be. And she knew. Guilt welled up in him like a longing for another hit at the table.

‘Mildred?’ He listened for a moment. ‘Are you okay?’ he tried. ‘Can you talk?’

Just the breathing.

‘Millie,’ he said, gathering his courage after another swig of cheap scotch, ‘I’m working on another plan. Don’t worry. Stay where you are, and go to safe haven ‘B’. We’re going to send in an extrication team. You’re safe. I’m coming down myself. Okay?’

There was a cough; someone clearing a throat. Then, a click on the other end of the line, a dial tone that seemed to grow louder with every beat of Moral’s heart. He felt an icy sweat form on the back of his neck and lower back. He realized, with growing trepidation, that the caller might not have been the woman. Oh fuck! he thought.

‘Honey?’ he pleaded. ‘Did you recognize the area code on that call?’

‘I think it was from Las Vegas, dear.’

But she wasn’t in Las Vegas anymore. His voice quivering, he said, ‘You better pack me a bag. I’m going to have to leave. It’s … uh, work.’

FOUR

‘We have breaking news,’ said Gail Summer, looking wearier than she had earlier in the day. ‘It has now been confirmed that one of the shooters, nineteen-year-old David Edward Coody, was critically wounded, but has survived. He is currently in a medically induced coma; a decision made by doctors that will allow him to recover if they can control the swelling in his brain. Evidently, a bullet, possibly fired by one of the teachers, hit him in the neck but travelled up and pierced part of his brain. If he does survive, this will be an unusual twist to this recent surge of school shootings where most of the gunmen end up dead, usually by their own hands.

‘Adding to this tragedy,’ she continued, ‘is the discovery of two more bodies, found at the home of Coody’s mother, Shelly Granger. It appears, at this time, before going to the school, Coody stopped at his mother’s home early this morning and shot her. Evidently, Coody did not live with his mother. He lived with his father, Ellis Coody, who divorced Shelley Granger seven years ago. A second body, thought to be Shelley Granger’s husband, Ernest Granger, was also found. Both of them had been shot multiple times.

‘We also now know, from several law enforcement agencies’ sources, that the second gunman was 41-year-old Franklin Michael Shadtz, a man David Coody recently befriended. Not much is known about Frank Shadtz who, apparently, up to six weeks ago, lived in the Chicago area. It is unknown how the two gunmen met, or exactly what their relationship was.

‘Agents from the ATF and FBI responded to David Coody’s house after some non-detonated explosives were found at the Granger home. They were met by an uncooperative Ellis Coody, the father of the shooter, who was arrested for interfering with a police investigation. Forensics teams have seized computers at the home, but reports have come back saying the hard drives may have been erased or destroyed.

‘And, in another breaking story from Florida,’ she went on to report, ‘a six-year-old boy shot and killed his four-year-old brother last night, after finding one of his father’s loaded guns in the bedroom. The father, a former firefighter, owned sixteen guns. Police say all were loaded, and none had trigger locks. The six-year-old is in the custody of Florida’s Department of Family and Children’s Services as of this morning. Police officials say the father has been arrested and may be charged with manslaughter …’

Bullock pulled Thiery off to the side while the governor briefed his press secretary.

‘Justin, I know you don’t care for the man, but you’re smart enough to know who butters your bread. I’m almost out the door, but if you handle this case as well as I know you can, they might look at you to replace me.’

Thiery frowned at him. ‘That’s supposed to be some kind of incentive?’

Bullock shrugged his shoulders, sweat beginning to bead on his shining black scalp as he cooked under the sun. There were bags under his bulging eyes, and his jowls hung like leather satchels on a big, beefy Harley-Davidson.

‘I can’t be a politician like you, Jim. I still like being a cop too much.’

‘Thanks, man. Why don’t you just kick me in the balls?’ Bullock said, allowing a slight smile. ‘Well, if you don’t want my job, try to keep cool so you don’t lose yours.’

‘I’m sorry, Jim. You were a good cop, too, but you know how it is; I can’t stand someone up my ass.’

‘You knew there were going to be increased responsibilities when you came to work with me. Don’t blow it now. You can last a few more years, can’t you?’

Thiery looked at the ground, his hands in his pockets. ‘Sometimes, I think I can’t last another five minutes when I get around this governor.’

‘Oh, c’mon. Hang in there. Show him what you can do. Hell, at the rate he’s going, he won’t be in office another term.’

‘We can only hope. Okay. Sure. You know I’ll do my best.’

‘You going to be able to work with Logan again?’ asked Bullock.

Thiery chewed the inside of his cheek. ‘Working with her was never the problem.’

‘I know,’ said Bullock, his tone consolatory. ‘You had a tough enough time raising the boys after Adrienne left. Then, the shit you got from your own department … ’

‘You mean when my co-workers started gossiping that maybe I’d done away with my wife? Shit. Why would that bother anyone?’

‘I know, I know. You got the crappy end of the stick, for sure. I was just saying, you didn’t need Logan doing you dirty, too.’

‘It takes two to tango. I should’a known better. She was married. Still is, I think. It was a mistake made by a stupid guy feeling sorry for himself. My bad.’

There was nothing else to say as Thiery allowed to guilt to envelope him. After a moment, Bullock broke the silence.

‘All right, then. When I get back, you come over to the house. I’ll get Helen to make some of her fried chicken and collard greens,’ he offered, then added, ‘or some other redneck favourite of yours; friggin’ hillbilly.’

Thiery laughed. Bullock making fun of his southern accent was a joke they’d shared for years. Grinning ridiculously, Bullock squeezed his shoulder.

‘That’s better. Now, I gotta get going, too. I’ll see you in a few days. Okay?’

‘You bet,’ said Thiery, just as the governor came back.

‘Ready to go?’ asked Croll.

‘Absolutely,’ replied Thiery, and he managed to give Bullock a wink, unseen by the governor. ‘See you, boss.’

Once on the plane, Thiery sat quietly as the governor pored over documents. After a half-hour, he looked up at Thiery, his face taking on a countenance of supreme knowledge. As if just remembering something, he reached into his tailored and severely pressed slacks and pulled out a silver dollar. He handed it to him.

‘My father gave that to me when I started my first business. Said he wanted to give me my first dollar earned.’ He paused like a preacher considering the next words of his sermon. ‘I’ve always believed in that: a man earning what he wants.’

Thiery nodded and looked out the small window of the private jet. He guessed where Croll was steering the conversation, but he wasn’t taking the bait.

‘I went on to earn over a half-billion of those,’ Croll bragged. ‘I’m not bragging. Just wanted to let you know where I came from. What’s important to me.’

‘I know where you’re coming from, Governor,’ said Thiery.

He leaned forward, a slight smile on his face. He held out his hand, palm up, the coin flashing in the light through the cabin window. Thiery waved his other hand over the coin, once, then again. The coin vanished after the second pass.

‘Well, I’ll be damned, Agent Thiery. I didn’t know you knew magic! You should do that for my grandson sometime.’

Thiery nodded and went back to looking outside. He could see Croll staring at him in the reflection of the plane’s window, wanting his dollar back. He saw him blinking nervously, his Adam’s apple moving up and down, like a snake swallowing something, trying to figure out a way to ask for his money back without seeming as if he needed it.

‘I, er … uh …’ Croll mumbled. ‘That coin has some sentimental value.’

‘It’s in your top pocket,’ said Thiery, calmly.

Croll reached in – too quickly – and found it there. He beamed, but Thiery noted the sweat on his forehead.

Thiery physically had to bite his tongue as the governor’s words echoed through his head: Now you know where I’m coming from.

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