by A. J. Lape
Mr. Rafferty must’ve seen the horror on my face. He latched onto my hand whispering, “Numero trece, stay with me.” With a deep breath, I refused to grant my fear an audience. Somehow, I squeezed his hand back then both of us quickly checked Liam’s torso, running our hands up and down his jeans for a bloody wound of some kind...thankfully, there was nothing. Liam started to moan guttural sounds coming deep from his soul, like he was having a hard time shaking whatever atrocity had been done.
I bent down in his ear and whispered, “Shhh, I won’t let anyone else hurt you, but you need to keep quiet.”
Even though his gaze was fixed on mine, there was no acknowledgment he understood, but I hoped the message seeped in somewhere. Suddenly, I was jolted with the enormity of what I’d promised...had I just lied to him?
He gasped out, “Darcy.”
I looked in his brown eyes. “Who did this?” I whispered.
“I didn’t...think...it was…” Dang it, he zoned out again. I lightly shook him, and he sucked in a big gasp of air, sliding back into semi-consciousness.
“You okay?” I asked warily. I didn’t expect an answer, but he managed a weak nod anyway. His eyes said, What now? Heck if I knew, but my guess was he was relying on me to get a burst of creativity.
I rubbed Liam’s hands, trying to warm him because he felt ice cold. Amidst a wheezy voice, he moaned, “T-ttell her I’m—sorry.” No one had to tell me whom he was referring to—the ex-girlfriend—but to think of her when you were moments from whatever to come? That signaled regret...or unresolved feelings.
I nodded, overcome with the fact I wouldn’t tell anyone anything if I didn’t get to safety. It was best to keep moving...some place far away and fast...but I wasn’t about to leave him behind. He closed his eyes again, and a white-knuckled panic overtook me. He’s dead, I thought, until Mr. Rafferty whispered, “No, numero trece, he’s passed out again.”
I fought the urge to shake him awake, to ask again who’d done this, but I didn’t know if I was risking injuring him more. Plus, when he was awake he moaned. Moaning would give up our position if it hadn’t already.
Once Mr. Rafferty ensured no one else was hurt, we all lay face down as he decided what would be the best course of action. Policemen came to our school at the beginning of the year helping each room come up with a plan should anything heinous like a gunman ever enter the school. Someone was supposed to break out a window so you could jump; someone was to remind you of your next course which was to run for your lives then meet later at an agreed-upon place. In the past, students were advised to stay inside, hunker down, and hide—but after a few disasters where that theory proved fatal—now we were told to get out as soon as possible. But what were you supposed to do when the enemy was outdoors? When you wanted to get back inside?
Mr. Rafferty’s mind, I’m sure, was running through the same scenario as mine. Before us we had one injured, a teacher near retirement, eight girls, and two guys with the combined testosterone of a dozen prepubescent boys. No one was looking especially heroic in the group, and I knew he was thinking the same thing as me...we’re going to have to rely on our brains because brawn isn’t going to cut it.
I tried not to think that whoever was shooting was going to run into Dylan in a few minutes when seventh period started. Time was a blur. How long had we been out here? The emotions were choking me, but I willed away the sounds of terror trying to hear if baseballs were currently being hit. The only echo I heard was of my own beating heart. Had the shooter already killed the sixth period class?
…then I saw him.
Someone was ducked low about two hundred meters to my left, slowly creeping toward the creek behind us. This person wore a ski mask and was shouldering a semiautomatic rifle, wearing a black jacket and white pants so roomy they were whipping around in the wind. I nearly threw up in my mouth.
I jerked my head in their direction as Mr. Rafferty’s eyes lit up with an instant acknowledgment. We didn’t have a chance to do anything, say anything, plan anything, because next thing I knew, I heard a man scream, “Stop! Juan, is that you? Stop!”
Juan, I gasped. I should’ve known.
When I woke from my brief nap in the Media Center, I’d all but convinced myself Adam Neeley—the guy I witnessed get jumped-into Northside 12—was the murderer. Perhaps Northside, I thought, had the same initiation as AVO—which was murdering someone to enter the fold. Even if I couldn’t prove that, that seemed to be the way things happened in the movies. The real mastermind and/or killer was always the one that appeared halfway involved, a minor character. Then at the last moment—most usually a moment that cost the protagonist something dearly—it was revealed this person had more going on underneath the surface than originally expected. Even if he wasn’t the mastermind (at the moment, that initial thought sounded dumb), I’d decided to show up on his doorstep, feel him out, and appeal to his sense of mind that real friends didn’t beat the crap out of you. Now, it looked like Juan was who I’d always thought he was: homicidal and certifiably deranged.
I thought back on the day. Jinx was in class. Juan wasn’t, and Justin was no one I ever crossed paths with anyway. But those shots came from two different directions? West and north.
If this was Juan...who was the other???
Unable to talk myself out of it, I got up on all fours and gazed in the direction of the voice. It was like slow motion in an action-hero-movie-gone-bad. AP Unger came from the direction of the school, running an Olympic pace straight at who he thought was Juan Salas.
I jumped up and down, waving my arms over my head, shouting, “No! No! It’s real bullets!” but it was too late. AP Unger took a shot to the chest, going ashen and gasping for breath, as he still took three more running steps trying to apprehend Juan. Before Juan could squeeze off another shot, AP Unger fell to his knees then face-planted with a horrifying, loud thud.
I flinched. I flinched so hard I felt the tendons in my neck snap. Trouble was, as I yelled, “No!” I gave up my location. In doing so, I gave up the location of everyone else. Juan took one glance in my direction, but instead of blowing me to kingdom come, he slung the rifle around his back and kept walking a straight line toward the creek. That didn’t make sense. I’d provoked him—he should want my head on a stick—but I took that as opportunity to break for AP Unger.
Mr. Rafferty felt my plans, latching hard onto my leg. “Numero trece,” he pleaded, desperately. “Stay down.”
It wasn’t in me to stay down. “There are two shooters,” I told him. “Look for the other. If he follows Juan, then go back to school, but he’s out there. Whoever he is, he’s coming.”
Logic said I was dead; faith said I should give it a try. Amidst his protests, I twisted away then kicked off my shoes, giving a hunched-over run toward AP Unger. With each step, my feet were painfully scraped and scratched what felt like down to the bone.
Sneakers would’ve been a plus...Chuck Taylor preferred.
When I made it to his side, blood was pooling around him, close to a foot from his body. I didn’t know how many pints he’d lost, but the anemic color of his skin said it was already too much. Dropping down beside him, relief enwrapped me when his brown eyes fluttered open.
He was lying in a prone position, on his stomach. He was wheezy with a sucking chest wound, and there was a good possibility one of his lungs had collapsed. There was no exit wound on his back, and when he moved his arms and legs a little, I knew he probably didn’t have any spinal cord injuries. The bleeding was like a broken dam, and I had nothing plastic to plug the hole. My options were to watch him bleed out or try something else. Even if wrong, I made the quick decision to attempt to keep his airways open—if he couldn’t breathe, he was a goner.
I asked which side of his chest hurt, and when he mumbled, “Right,” I tucked his right arm under his body and propped him up a few inches to keep the stronger, left lung unimpeded. He sucked air through gritted teeth, trying his best to not make any unnecessary noise.
When I moved him just a fraction, my eyes fixed on a gunshot wound to his left femur. Juan must’ve squeezed off another round. I was out of my league here, but that leg was going to be the death of him if it nicked his femoral artery.
Loosening his tie, I pulled it from his neck, placing a tourniquet high on his groin. “Run, Walker,” he begged. “It’s...too late—”
“Shhh,” I comforted him, securing the tie. “I need your phone.”
He understood my request, responding, “Belt loop.” Unclipping his BlackBerry, I glanced to his hand and saw the gold wedding band on his ring finger. As stupid and unproductive as it was, I pointed out the doughnut stain on his tie as I secured it even further.
“Your wife must love you for your personality because it’s not for your stellar manners or sense of style. Jelly on your tie, major turn-off.”
Just the mention of her made his chin tremble and quake. “My wife. T-tell her—”
I cut him off, not wanting to get lost in the grief. His dying thoughts were as Liam’s, and I didn’t want to think they’d both placed their hearts in my hands. I had to stay alive, if only to carry out their last wishes.
I needed to laugh. I needed to laugh, or I wasn’t going to make it through this. I choked out, “I’ll tell her your dying words were of your mistress, Bambi, and how she made you feel eighteen years old again.”
He gargled a laugh, blood oozing through his chest. “God...help us,” he mumbled. No dispute from me there, especially when he whispered what I recognized as the Lord’s Prayer. I think I prayed with him, I wasn’t sure, but seeing him like this reminded me of my father—and what my father stood for. Murphy’s a Christian. He prayed at every meal, before bedtime, and daily mumbled to the sky. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in it. It’s just that I prayed a few prayers so fervently as a child for them to be answered, “No.” That hurt me so deeply if I took the time to think about it, I always wound up in tears. No one wanted to be ignored by the Big Guy Upstairs. It made me feel second-rate and maybe even third. But for some reason, I didn’t care about Heaven’s pecking order, if it even had one. Murphy swore there was none—that you were accepted warts and all—even the wartiest of people, he laughed. So maybe, just maybe, this once it would be on my side.
I wasn’t sure what I was doing or if I was even doing it right, but I closed my eyes until he drifted off after an, “Amen.”
Dialing 911, I wiped my nose and willed my breathing to slow. I heard, “Hello? Hello? Talk to me,” they said frantically. “Hello? Are you at Valley High?”
I was so transfixed I’d forgotten I’d dialed. “Y-yes,” I said. “I’m surprised I got a signal.”
“What’s going on?” she asked. “We’re getting dropped calls and can’t get through to the school switchboard.”
“The phones have been down all day, and we’re in a dead zone. I’m in the sixth period Drawing and Painting Class, and we’re in a field behind the school. There’s ten students—er, eleven, one wounded—and Mr. Rafferty. We were shot at twice. Once from the west, once from the north. A third and fourth shot took down our Assistant Principal who’s not looking so good at the moment. He can’t talk, so I don’t know if he merely happened upon us, or if anyone else is aware we’re even out here.”
“What’s your name, honey?”
I didn’t know what to do. If I told her I was Darcy Walker, even the dumbest of detectives would deduce I was Jester once they spoke with Harold King. I surprised myself when I mumbled, “I’m Jester. Just Jester.” She started to speak, but I cut her off. “I might not have much time, but I want you to know the shooter who hit AP Unger is a member of the Northside 12 gang. His face was behind a black ski mask, but AP Unger called him Juan Salas. The other shooter has to be either Justin Starsong, Jinx King, or Adam Neeley.”
“You’re sure?”
“A strong conviction.”
I looked up to the sky, and it struck me funny how beautiful the day was. Seventy-six degrees, bright blue sky, very few clouds with the promise of a warm day tomorrow. But tomorrow wouldn’t be warm, would it? Who wouldn’t wake up, whose dreams would be shattered, and whose funerals would we be planning?
It wasn’t in my nature to stay put. Maybe that was stupid, maybe that would be on my tombstone, but I figured someone had to try to stop whatever it was Juan had planned even if it meant I would die trying. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do next until I heard someone Darth Vadering me.
31 MANHUNT
IF THAT DIDN’T send a chill up your spine then you needed to have your pulse checked. “Come and get me, Darcy,” they taunted.
Biiiiig problem.
Darth Vader was here...and this was all about me.
Some sort of morbid fascination compelled me to run after them. It was stupid, reckless, and unbelievably illogical; still, I couldn’t fight the urge to follow and find the answers I’d so desperately been after. I took a deep breath, realizing what I’d planned might be the end of me. I could stay put, but if I got killed in the process, who was going to make sure Oscar was set free? I told myself repeatedly I was Darcy Walker, and Darcy Walker had had worse things happen to her than a gunman at school. Plus, if I made myself the target then everyone else had a chance at going free.
The dispatcher must’ve heard me sprinting. “What are you doing?”
Good question. Probably being scarred for life.
“I’m following...Juan Salas,” I told her, feet hitting the dirt. “He wants me to play...and I guess,” I huffed, “I am.”
“No, no, no,” she warned, but it fell on deaf ears.
Most girls wanted to play dress-up; I wanted to play Manhunt with the guys. You know, go outside and pretend you’re soldiers then drag whoever you catch back to your camp. Who would’ve thought I’d be playing the real-life version?
Running was difficult. I tried to ignore my aching feet and the beating they were taking. I should’ve worn my Chuck Taylor’s; heck, I should’ve done a lot of things. In a few more steps, it wouldn’t matter. I’d be back at the clearing and could put my head together with Mr. Rafferty, get everyone to safety, and then...well, I guess I’d follow Juan.
When I passed the clearing, though, no one was there! There were absolutely no signs of life. No movement, no grass rustling, nothing. My breath caught in my throat. Had something just happened? If so, where had they gone? Did they drag Liam with them? The only answer that made sense was when I triaged AP Unger, Juan double-backed around and took them to the creek.
I looked in all four directions then jumped up and down but got nothing but weed after weed. “They’re not here!” I told her hysterically.
“The others have gotten to safety?”
One could hope, but I feared the worst. When I told her what I suspected, once again she begged me to run to the school. But how could I? Under ideal circumstances Juan and whoever-else-this-is would’ve taken me and been done with it, but why take a teacher and ten other students as hostage/witnesses? They were scot-free! For that matter why come for me here? Shouldn’t they have nabbed me at work? Half the time it was Rudi and me and an inebriated boss. Why willingly place yourself in a situation where you could possibly be identified and overpowered?
My legs felt like lead as I pumped them faster. I made it to the edge of the property, slid down a muddy, grassy bank then skidded to a stop at the edge of the water hiding behind a cluster of trees. Standing in the middle of the creek with a gun to his temple was Mr. Rafferty. My heart seized in my chest. He’d taken some sort of beating because his nose had dribbled blood onto his white shirt. The other students were face down on the opposite bank with their fingers laced behind their heads. Another gunman was corralling them, babbling incoherently, pacing around like a dog on rabies watch. Without warning, he pounded himself in the head as though he were punishing himself...my God, it was definitely Juan. He’d done the same thing when he was caught in Dylan’s home. If it were Juan, then who in the heck had the gun at Mr. Rafferty’s
temple? My guess was Justin. Jinx was short; Adam was shorter. This person was taller than Mr. Rafferty who was around the same size as me.
I took a moment to center myself; to remember why I’d even found myself here. The goal? Set Oscar free. If I didn’t make it out alive, I at least needed to fill in the rest of the blanks. I whispered, “We’re at the creek behind the school. There are two shooters. Justin Starsong, I think, has a gun on Mr. Rafferty and Juan Salas is holding the students on the other side of the creek. They’re guilty of killing Alfonso Juarez over the copper business in town. All of Northside 12 is. They framed Oscar Small, but I think someone is going to have to torture them into fingering the exact one. Annie Hughes?” I added, “I’m not sure how she’s connected. Just tell the prosecutor she has the wrong person and that Annie, and maybe even the male killed downtown, are on their list of offenses.”
My foot hit a twig, snapping it in two.
All eyes shot up the hill where I’d just stripped my covert status. An icy chill ran over my whole body. “Busted,” I mumbled into the phone then promptly dropped it and watched it tumble down the bank, splashing into the creek.
Grade A stupid.
My heart sank. Suddenly this felt like a royally stupid idea because I had no plan that didn’t include begging for my life. They weren’t the begging-for-your-life type. My only line of defense right now was to do what I did best...talk and bargain. I counted back from ten, heard the director yell, “Lights, camera, action…” and it was game-ON.
Straightening my spine, I directed my questions to the one I definitely knew was Juan. “What is it you want, Juan?”
First to speak was Mr. Rafferty. “Numero trece,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Honey, it’s—” Before he could finish, he was struck on his temple with the butt of the handgun. Mr. Rafferty’s head jerked like he’d been punched by a heavyweight. He fell forward but caught himself by bracing his hands on his knees. I wanted to close my eyes, will myself to some place other than here. Some place peaceful and tropical. But I was afraid to even blink; afraid what giving Juan and Justin one split second of not being on my toes could mean.