“Still could be,” I say. “We’ve got to be ready. Mason couldn’t’ve been more arrogant. Like he knew exactly what to expect.”
Merrill nods. “If they were tipped off the Jeep could be a ruse.”
“Did y’all locate Evan Fowler?” I ask.
Kim shakes her head. “He’s absent today.”
“We need to keep an eye out for him,” Ace says. “He could be planning to show up a little later and start shooting.”
“We need to watch everyone and everything just like we planned,” I say. “Nothing has changed. If anything . . . it’s more dangerous now. We’re going to be at our most vulnerable during the play. I was hoping we’d catch him before it.”
“Should we cancel it?” Tyrese says.
“I still think we have everything covered,” I say. “We just can’t let up, can’t relax for even a moment.”
“If there’s going to be an attack it’s going to be during the play,” Merrill says.
“It’ll be fish in a fuckin’ barrel,” Ace says. “We better stop him before he starts.”
A bell sounds and students begin to pour into the commons from several different directions—the gym, the back door, the two hallways that lead up to the library and classrooms.
“Here come the fish,” Chip says.
“Okay, everybody,” I say, “spread out. Look at everybody. Watch our suspects closely, but look at everyone in case we’re wrong about who it is.”
“Good work everyone,” Glenn says. “Keep it up.”
Dad and Reggie walk up.
Dad looks at Glenn. “Don’t want to step on anybody’s toes, but I have to be here helping right now. We both do.”
Glenn graciously extends his hand. “Glad to have you, Sheriff. Both of you. Thanks for coming.”
“Thank you,” I say to them. “Okay let’s spread out.”
We disperse and disappear within the throng of caged teenagers.
As I’m making my way through the crowd toward the back of the stage, someone grabs my arm.
I turn to see DeShawn Holt and Sierra Baker standing there.
“Where is Miss LeAnn?” he asks.
“In here somewhere. Why?”
“There’s talk,” he says. “Lots of kids whispering about there being a big surprise at the end of the play.”
“Thought y’all weren’t coming today?” I ask.
“Had to be here to help if we could,” Sierra says.
“They say what kind of surprise?” I ask.
“Just a big one—something no one will ever forget.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say. “I’ll let Miss LeAnn know.”
When I reach the back of the stage, I look around, inspecting the actors and their props, then send a text to LeAnn, Kim, Tyrese, Ace, and Merrill to let them know what DeShawn and Sierra said.
Across the stage I see a Potter County deputy inspecting the gun props, ensuring they are all in fact props and have the small orange tips on the ends of the barrels. Denise and Tristan had argued to have the orange tips removed, claiming they take away from the power of their production, but received a hard no from Tyrese.
I nod to the deputy, take one more look around then walk back out front.
As I’m about halfway up the side, the curtains open and the play begins. To my surprise, within a few minutes most of the students have stopped talking and are actually watching the play.
I pause and look around from this vantage point closer to the rows of seated students.
The play proceeds. If possible it’s even worse than it was in rehearsal. Bad writing. Overacting. Poor staging. Heavy-handed. Idiotic and incomprehensible. Yet the student body watching it is transfixed.
Among the kids strutting and fretting their hour upon the stage are the Dupree twins, their every movement an exercise in overdramatic, insincere, exaggerated effeteness.
Not far from me on a small portable riser, Zach Griffith is videoing the play with the same enthusiasm he had at the baseball game.
Eventually, I turn and continue toward the back, my eyes scanning the crowd, the room, the hallway, the teachers’ lounge.
Joining Tyrese at the center back, I turn to take in the entire area.
There are undercover cops everywhere—at every door, on each side of the stage, along the aisles, mixed in within the seated students.
“I can still stop it if you think I need to,” Tyrese says.
“It looks like we’ve got nearly as many cops as we do students,” I say. “I think we’re okay. I guess it’s possible we missed something, but . . .”
“Okay,” he says.
As I continue to look around the large open room, he seems to turn his attention to the play for a moment.
“Took a creative writing class in college,” he says. “We studied all forms of fiction—novels, screenplays, stage plays, short stories. This play reminds me of something the professor said. She said story’s not the place for making an overt point. The truths revealed in story are far more subtle than that. Said if you have a message to share send a telegram.”
I smile. “Hopefully, if he continues to pursue writing, Tristan will have that same professor someday.”
“Ironically,” he says, “this is a ripoff of a bad community college play his older brother was in last year. This is unabashed stage plagiarism.”
LeAnn rushes up to us, Kim not far behind her.
“I just spoke with Evan’s mom,” LeAnn says. “She’s at their house. He’s not there. She said she thought he went to school today. Doesn’t know where else he could be.”
Kim nods. “Two different kids said they saw him here this morning,” she says. “But we’ve looked everywhere and can’t find him.”
“Okay,” I say. “Let everyone you can know to be looking for him, but remind them not to so focus on him that they miss someone else.”
Tyrese says, “Remember . . . Just because his mama doesn’t know where he is and we can’t find him doesn’t mean he’s the shooter.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Has anyone checked the baseball field?”
“I’ll send someone now,” Tyrese says.
The tension in the commons is palpable. I can feel the high-strung energy of dread and expectation like an overtightened guitar string about to snap.
I scan the crowd again. Dad and Reggie are up near the front, one on each side, pretending to watch the play. Hugh Glenn has disappeared. He’s probably out in his vehicle or hiding somewhere else. DeShawn and Sierra in the back row on the left side give me a little wave as I look in their direction. Mason is glaring at me from where he sits on the opposite side toward the middle. When our eyes lock, he gives me a cold smile and forms a gun with his thumb and forefinger and pretends to shoot me.
Merrill walks up and shakes his head at Tyrese. “Look here, Cuz. I ain’t about tellin’ you how to do your damn job, but . . . this fuckin’ play man . . . They’s got to be a law against torturing kids with shit like this. It’s like you tryin’ to drive one of ’em to shoot up this bitch.”
As Merrill talks he continues to scan the commons.
Tyrese smiles. “It is bad,” he says. “But it could be worse.”
“How?” Merrill says. “If they’s in blackface?”
“I actually had to stop them from doing that,” he says. “No, it would be worse if they weren’t doing it at all. This shit’s givin’ marginalized kids a voice, a creative outlet. Might just change their lives. We can sit through an hour of almost anything for that.”
“Well, shit, Principal Joe Clark,” Merrill says, referring to the character Morgan Freeman played in Lean on Me, “my bad. Didn’t realize you’s changing lives up in here. Hats off.”
Tyrese shakes his head.
“Seriously,” Merrill says, his voice changing, softening, growing sincere, “that’s some of the most commendable shit I’ve heard in quite a while.”
“You think I’m gonna waste an opportunity like this?” Tyrese says. “First
black principal in this little backwoods town? I’m doin’ my best to Obama this shit. No other principal I know would let the kids put on a production like this.”
Merrill nods. “You right about that. I’m very proud of you little cuz. Very proud.”
“You just help me keep any of these kids from gettin’ killed,” he says. His words and tone are meant to sound dismissive but his voice is thick with appreciation and pride.
The K-9 sergeant from Potter Correctional Institution walks in from out front with the FDLE bomb detection K-9 officer and motions me over.
I walk over to meet them near the front office.
“We did a thorough search of the Cherokee,” he says. “It’s clean. I mean real clean.”
“Like someone-just-cleaned-it clean?” I ask.
“Exactly like that,” he says.
I nod and think about it.
“But,” the FDLE officer says, “it hasn’t always been. At some point it’s had explosive material in it.”
The sergeant holds up the keys, but I’m so lost in thought already it takes a moment for me to take them.
“Hope that helps,” he says.
They turn to walk back outside.
They turn again and reach for their guns as the explosions and gunfire starts.
282
I realize on some level that some of the semiautomatic guns my company manufactures will be used in school shootings, but am I responsible for that? Are beer brewers and automakers responsible for the people drunk drivers kill? How you gonna put that on us?
As I turn back toward the commons I can see that most of the other law enforcement officers in the room are responding in a similar manner—jumping up, spinning around, reaching for their weapons.
“Wait,” I say. “Don’t shoot.”
I say it to the two men behind me and into my radio at the same time.
“They’re just sound effects from the play,” I say. “No one is really shooting. Don’t fire. I repeat, don’t fire.”
On the stage, the teen gunman has started shooting his fellow classmates, each in turn confessing to his or her crime before falling to the floor dead—just like they had in rehearsal. Only now the sound effects are several decibels higher and sound even more authentic—an authenticity that’s going to get innocent kids shot and killed by the police there to protect them unless we’re very, very lucky.
I repeat what I said into the radio again. As soon as I’m finished I hear Tyrese and Kim yelling similar sentiments.
The teenage rampage killer on stage shoots himself in the head and falls dead not far from his victims, and I wonder why he didn’t make the suspect list.
For a few moments there is complete and utter silence.
If anyone is breathing it can’t be heard.
No movement. No sound. Nothing.
Then one by one the victims and eventually the gunman stand and walk to the front of the stage.
The first victim says, “We now invite you to join us and millions of other students around the world, including the survivors of the recent Parkland school shooting, to mark the nineteenth anniversary of the Columbine shooting, and walk out to protest the inaction of our leaders to protect us. All around the world right now students are participating in a walkout. Will you join us?”
She then steps off the stage and walks down the center aisle, followed by the other actors, then the crew.
“Whatta we do?” someone asks on the radio.
“Do we let them go?”another voice says.
“How do we proceed?” still another voice asks.
Tyrese says, “Let them go.”
I picture the students walking outside into an ambush—not unlike what Eric and Dylan planned to do.
“We need to look for shooters outside,” I say. “Everyone be alert. This isn’t over. If you’re guarding a door or a certain location stay in position. If you were sitting or standing near the student body go outside with them. Stay with them. Spotters, search the area for shooters, Check the roofs, the woods across the street, vehicles driving by. Everyone try to form a barrier around the kids.”
The cast and crew walk through the commons, down the hallway next to the main office, and out the front door.
Many of the students from the audience join them, but more than I expect remain behind.
Merrill and Tyrese run up to me.
Merrill says, “We just lost all control of this situation. If there’s a shooter waiting on them outside, the casualties will be catastrophic.”
“Come on,” I say.
We run outside ahead of the students, searching for shooters.
I can feel the tension in my body as I expect to be shot at any moment.
Now in addition to the spotter, two other cops have binoculars and are scanning the parking lot and area around the school.
“Anything?” I ask the original spotter.
He’s the closest to us. The others are out in the parking lot.
“Nothing so far,” he says, continuing to look.
The rigid students are resigned and sincere, seeming to sense the import of both the moment and the movement they’re joining.
“Who has eyes on our suspects?” I ask.
“I’m right behind Mason and Dakota,” Kim says. “They’re just walking out like everyone else.”
“Tristan and Denise are still backstage,” LeAnn says. “I’m going to see why. I figured they’d be leading the procession.”
“Still no sign of Evan,” Chip says, “but Zach is videoing the walkout.”
“Chase has just stepped out the front door,” Ace says.
I turn and look back down the corridor.
I can see Ace Bowman standing next to the front door, watching the students closely as they exit the building.
About five feet in front of him, heading this way, I see Chase Dailey, a guitar case strapped to his back, his long, thick, curly hair bouncing a bit as he tries to maneuver around the other students moving more slowly than he’d prefer.
I rush toward him, scenes from El Mariachi and Desperado flickering on the movie screen of my mind as I do.
“Hey Chase,” I say. “Step over here with me for a minute.”
I can tell he’s trying to figure out where he knows me from, but he complies and joins me next to the narrow flower bed beside the walkway.
“What kind of guitar do you have today?” I ask.
“Same as always,” he says. “I only have one.”
“Can I take a look at it?”
“Now?” he asks, his voice rising in surprise as he glances at all the activity around us. “Sure, I guess,” he says.
He removed the strap from over his shoulder and carefully sets the case on the ground. Kneeling next to it, he slowly begins to unhasp the holders, his hands trembling as he does.
Just before he opens it, he hesitates.
“There some reason you don’t want to open it?” I ask.
“Just don’t want anything to happen to it,” he says. “It’s all I got.”
He slowly lifts the lid of the case but only enough to give me the slightest view of the instrument.
“Take it out and let me see it better,” I say.
“Really? Here? Like this? Why?”
“Hurry,” I say.
He does as he’s told.
It’s just an acoustic guitar and there’s nothing else in the case.
“Thank you,” I say, and rush off to the rejoin the other cops out where the students are congregating.
“We got nothing,” the spotter says. “No glint from the woods or on the roof. No movement. No nothing.”
“Always nothin’ until there’s somethin’,” Merrill says.
“Unless . . .” the spotter says, “there’s just more nothin’.”
Which is all we have—both while the students are outside and once they re-enter the school and return to class.
Nothing during lunch. Nothing in the afternoon. And after the last bus d
elivers its last student safely home for the day still nothing. Just more nothing.
283
We are ALL impacted by gun violence. You’re never too young to make your voice heard! #NationalSchoolWalkout #NeverAgain
“How could we have been that wrong?” Kim asks.
Kim, LeAnn, Merrill, and I are at a table in The Oasis.
Once The Sports Oasis, Pottersville’s premiere drinkery had devolved from a sports bar into a dive since the last time I had been inside. Now just The Oasis, the large, second-story bar is dim and dingy and in disrepair.
Of the three worn and warped pool tables in need of re-felting and restoration, only one is lit by the light hanging above it. Of the four dart machines, only one is plugged in and illuminated—but there doesn’t seem to be even a single set of matching darts.
“It’s sweet of you to say we,” I say, “but the question is how could I have been so wrong?”
On the jukebox, Little Big Town’s “Better Man” is ending, “Drunk Girl” by Chris Janson beginning.
Though there’s not much in the way of country music I seek out, I’m constantly surrounded by it. It’s the soundtrack of small Southern town life. I’ve heard both songs before, and though I appreciate the sentiment behind both, I believe that “Drunk Girl” had the potential to be a great song, but needed more work before it was released.
“I was so sure it was going to happen today,” LeAnn says.
“We all were,” Kim says, looking at me and adding, “You weren’t any more wrong than the rest of us.”
On the small, round table between us are three empty Bud Lights and a nearly full glass of flat fountain Diet Coke.
“It’s my round,” LeAnn says. “John, you want something else besides that disgusting Diet Coke? Janna keeps O’Doul’s in stock for a friend of mine. Want one of those?”
I nod. “Sure. Thanks.”
Beside me Merrill tenses ever so slightly. It’s only the hint of a physical reaction really but the energy emanating from it is palpable. I ignore it.
LeAnn steps over to the bar and buys another round from Janna Todd, the new art teacher at the high school who works here part time.
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