Brandon licks his lips. “Any chance I can have one o’ those beers? I could use a hair of the dog.”
Jake sighs. “Sure. Whatever.”
FIFTY-TWO
“All I know,” Reggie Allgood snaps, “is that I was supposed to get relieved three hours ago. So you tell that boy if he ain’t in here in a half hour, he best not come in at all.” He slams the phone down. “Lazy-ass cracker,” he mutters. If he’d have known when he took the manager’s job at this motel that part of his duties would include working double shifts because some skeezy white opioid-popping motherfucker couldn’t be bothered to stir his ass out of bed in the morning to get to work, he’d have turned the job down. He realizes too late that his ultimatum may have doomed him to work yet another full shift to cover the idiot he just fired. He sighs and stretches, hands at the small of his back, feeling the creak and pop of his spine. “Damn it,” he mutters savagely. Then he notices the woman standing in the tiny lobby. He hadn’t seen her come in. “Help you?” he says, trying not to snarl.
The short woman in the dark-grey pantsuit smiles. “Rough day already?”
He musters a tired but, he hopes, professional smile in return. “No problem. What can I do for you, ma’am?”
She leans on her cane and looks up at him. “I’m supposed to meet a colleague here. Ted Wilson?”
Reggie frowns. “Mr. Wilson expecting you, ma’am?”
“Actually, no.” Her smile never wavers. “But he hasn’t checked in with me. I got concerned.”
Reggie inclines his head worried. “You his wife?” She looks way too old for Wilson, but you never can tell.
She chuckles. “Oh, heavens no. As I said, I’m a colleague. Can you see if Mr. Wilson’s still here?”
“Another one,” Reggie mutters, then immediately wants to kick himself. Exhaustion has made him careless. The woman isn’t, however; her eyes are sharp and inquisitive as she leans forward.
“Another one? Someone else has been looking for Mr. Wilson?”
“I said too much already,” Reggie says. “Sorry. I can’t release information about guests. Except to the police. Company policy.”
The woman nods. “A good policy. I expect some of your guests really appreciate it.”
He stiffens. “What you mean by that?”
“Nothing, nothing,” she says soothingly. “Look, let me set your mind at ease.” She reaches into her suit coat and pulls out a slim leather wallet. She approaches, flipping the wallet open. He leans forward, studying the credential she’s displaying. His eyes widen and he steps back. The woman never stops smiling. “Does that help?”
He nods, suddenly filled with dread. What’s coming down here? “What do you want to know, ma’am?”
“Well, first off, who else has been asking about Mr. Wilson?”
FIFTY-THREE
Keller drives blindly, taking random turns with no particular destination, fingers tapping a rapid staccato on the steering wheel.
That bastard shot at my family.
The thought keeps ricocheting around in his head, interrupting any rational thought trying to take root there.
“I should let the police handle…”
That bastard shot at my family.
“He’s just a punk kid…”
That bastard shot at my family.
Part of him realizes that family might be a stretch. He’s Francis’s father, but his relationship with Marie is, at best, up in the air. Ben, he thinks, hates and fears him. Still. The anger is real, and it’s tied to the unshakable feeling that bastard shot at my family.
Finally, his wanderings take him down a long dirt road that ends at the river. He stops, kills the engine and sits there, watching the sluggish black flow of water as it makes its slow progress to the sea. He thinks of the time not too long ago when he’d dumped a sheaf of papers into that river and watched it sink, a legacy of betrayal and vengeance slipping beneath the dark water. Keller thought he’d put his past behind him at that point, shed his history of anger and the addiction to adrenaline that had led him to ever more reckless and destructive acts, just so he could feel something.
He thought he’d left all that behind. But even now, Ben is suffering for the violence Keller had brought into his life. And Francis. The son he hadn’t know about for years. Now that innocent little boy is being targeted, and Keller has no illusions that it’s not because he faced that punk down…that bastard shot at my family.
He puts the truck in gear and turns it around.
FIFTY-FOUR
Ben sits on a stone bench against the wall of the school building and scans the courtyard. Brandon Ochs is nowhere to be found. Some of his clique are laughing and joking across the way, but he notices a couple of them aren’t looking very happy. His little butt-boy Jerrard, for one, is looking distinctly ill, and more than a little worried. Ben’s brows draw together in what he hopes is an intimidating scowl. He stands up, ready to advance across the common space and force Brandon Ochs’s bunch of gangster wannabes to cough up his location. At gunpoint if need be. He reaches down and traces the outline of the pistol grip beneath the nylon fabric of his backpack.
“Hello, Ben.”
He turns to face the voice, ready to snap at whoever’s interrupting his violent reverie.
It’s Alia Khoury, taking up a seat on the bench beside him and pulling a brown lunch bag out of her own backpack.
“Hi,” he says, his anger sidetracked for the moment by his awkwardness around such a beautiful girl.
She takes a bite of her sandwich and looks around the courtyard. “Have you seen Meadow?”
He shakes his head, then says, “Well, yeah. Earlier.”
Something in his tone makes Alia turn her head to look at him curiously. “Is everything all right?”
Something in her wide, innocent dark eyes makes it impossible to lie. “No.” He tells her about the visit Brandon Ochs paid to his house last night He tells her about the fear, the helplessness, the rage that’s consumed him all day. He can’t look at her as he speaks, but when he’s done, he sneaks a glance. He’s amazed to see her nodding as if she understands. She looks again around the courtyard, her gaze more focused this time. “He’s not here. He’s hiding out, I think.”
“Where?” Ben doesn’t want to involve her in this, but her calm calculation steadies him.
She takes another bite of her sandwich, chews it thoughtfully. “We could go over there. Ask his group,” her lips twist around the word, “where he is. But I don’t think they’ll tell us.”
“I think I have something that might persuade them,” Ben says, and reaches down for the backpack.
Alia stops him with a hand on his. “Ben. Do you have a gun in there?”
“No,” he blurts out, “I’m just really happy to see you.”
She blinks in confusion. “Well, I’m, um…”
He can feel himself blushing scarlet. “Sorry. It’s a reference.”
“Ah. Remember, I don’t always get those. But…do you? Have a gun, I mean.”
He nods. “I’m looking for Brandon.”
She nods back. “But he’s not here.”
He looks across the courtyard at Brandon’s cohorts. “I bet they know where he is.”
“Perhaps. But if you pull out that gun here, you’ll be stopped. You may never find out the answer you need.”
He ponders that for a moment. “You’re right,” he says grudgingly. “So how do we find out?”
Alia finishes her sandwich. “We need to get Meadow’s advice. Meadow is the smartest person I know.”
“Hey,” Ben says, “I’m right here.”
Alia smiles at him, then her teasing grin turns to a look of concern as she looks over his shoulder. Ben looks around to see his mother’s SRO partner, Rogers, headed his way. Ben’s never had any problem with Rogers, who doesn’t go out of his way to be either hard or easy on Ben because of his mother’s associations. But the co
ld and impersonal look on the SRO’s face doesn’t bode well.
“Ben,” he says, “you need to come with me. And bring your backpack.”
Ben tries his best to look innocent. “Why? What have I—”
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be, son,” Rogers says.
Ben feels a rising sense of panic, and with the fear, as always, comes an equally increasing anger. “Don’t call me son,” he snaps. He reaches down and begins to unzip the pack. If he can just get a hand on the gun…
“Ben, no,” he hears. He looks over and sees Meadow standing a few feet away. Her hand is over her mouth and her eyes are wide, almost panicked. He realizes why Rogers is there.
“You bitch,” he snarls, close to losing control. “You fucking ratted me out.”
“Ben!” Alia’s voice, usually so calm and soothing, is harsh, stronger than Ben can remember hearing. He turns to her in shock, and Rogers takes the opportunity to grab his right wrist in a grip so hard it makes Ben gasp. With the other hand, Rogers grabs a strap on the backpack and moves it behind him, out of reach. “What were you reaching for, Ben?” he says softly. “Were you really going to do it?”
Ben can’t answer. He just looks down at the brick of the courtyard. Rogers stands up, drawing Ben with him. “Come on, kid. Let’s not do this here.” As the SRO leads him away, Ben can hear the hubbub rising behind him and he feels the burning heat of embarrassment on his face as he realizes it’s all about him. He can also hear the sound of a woman sobbing. He doesn’t know if it’s Meadow or Alia.
FIFTY-FIVE
Alia looks around at the crowd in the brick courtyard. Meadow is standing a few feet away, weeping as if her heart is breaking. Most of the crowd is staring and talking among themselves. A couple of Brandon’s friends, however, are smiling with even more than their usual maliciousness. She makes a snap decision. “Come on,” she says to Meadow, standing up and slinging her own backpack on one shoulder. “We need to go.”
Meadow looks up, misery written all over her face. “Wh-what?”
Alia grasps her gently by one arm and bends down to look her in the eye. “This place isn’t safe. We need to leave. Now.”
“But…Ben…”
“We can’t help Ben now. Come with me.”
FIFTY-SIX
Still sniffling, Meadow allows herself to be guided through the swinging doors into the hallway. They’re a good way down the hall when she hears the doors to the courtyard bang open. She looks back to see Brandon’s girlfriend Amber with a couple of her own female followers coming in, followed by the boys they’d seen earlier from Brandon’s posse. They all look pissed off in a way that makes Meadow’s heart clench in her chest. Whatever trouble Brandon’s in, Meadow realizes, these people are going to take it out on her and Alia. The freaks. The outsiders. The people throughout history who’ve always been the first to take the punishment when things go wrong.
Alia’s been tapping at her cell phone when she hears the sound behind her. She turns to Meadow. “Run. For the front doors.”
“They’ll catch us,” Meadow says.
“I called Jack.” The name seems to give her confidence. She picks up her stride.
“Officer Jones’s boyfriend?” Meadow can’t quite make the connection. “What does he—”
Alia’s not listening. She’s back on her phone. “Front door. Now.”
Meadow looks back. Amber and her small but terrifying phalanx are striding down the hallway after them with grim purpose. We’re not going to make it to the front door. We’re fucked.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Bassim is in class, half asleep, drowsing his way through the American Revolution, when his ringtone blares, the opening synthesizer riff of Europe’s The Final Countdown. The lecture stops for a moment, the silence only broken by the tittering of the other students.
“Mr. Khoury,” the teacher, a curly-haired, bearded twentysomething man says as sternly as a curly haired twentysomething man can. “Would you like me to get that?”
Bassim checks the screen. “No, sir,” he says with a brightness as sincere as the teacher’s. “I got this.” He puts the phone to his ear, intending to answer in a suave voice. Before he gets a chance, Bassim hears his sister’s voice. “Okay,” is all he can say in response to the barked order. He looks up at the teacher glowering at him. “Sorry, sir. Family emergency. Got to go.”
FIFTY-EIGHT
A soft chime comes over the intercom, echoing through the hallways. “Condition Red,” a voice says. “Condition Red. This is a lockdown. All students, report to the nearest classroom. All teachers, report to the nearest classroom and initiate a Code Red stance. Repeat. This is a lockdown.”
“Shit.”
Meadow stares at Alia in shock. She’s never heard even the mildest curse from the strait-laced Muslim girl. She glances back. Amber and her friends are stopped, gazing around in confusion. A male teacher steps out of a classroom door, says something in a low, urgent voice. Amber looks up the hall, her eyes narrowed in hatred, but she obeys the teacher. When she follows him into the classroom, the group with her goes as well.
“Alia. Melissa.” Meadow turns to see Miss Othmar beckoning from a nearby doorway. She’s clearly terrified out of her wits, judging from the shaking in her bony knees. “In here,” she beckons. “We need to shelter in place.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” Alia smiles apologetically, “but we have a ride coming.”
The teacher blinks in confusion. “But. We’re in lockdown.”
Alia continues walking down the hall, still smiling. “Yes, ma’am.”
The combination of verbal agreement and physical defiance seems to be frying Miss Othmar’s brain. “But,” she says again.
Meadow bites back a hysterical laugh and waves. “Enjoy the lockdown, y’all.” She turns and follows Alia, who’s making for the front doors. Behind her, she hears the door slam. “We are in so much fucking trouble,” she says.
Alia doesn’t break stride. “Yes,” she says as they turn the corner toward the front of the school.
Meadow hears the pounding of running feet. She turns and looks down a hallway that leads to the freshman wing of the high school. Bassim is running as fast as he can toward them, almost stumbling over his own feet in his haste. He catches up as the three of them reach the front door. He says something in Arabic to his sister, who replies with a curt phrase in the same language. He turns to Meadow. “Hey,” he gasps, breathing hard from exertion.
“Hey.” She scans the parking lot. From far away, she can hear the sound of sirens drawing nearer. “So, where’s our ride?” she asks.
FIFTY-NINE
Keller’s cruising the county roads, his mind walking that dangerous border between red fury and cold calculation. He needs to know how to find Brandon Ochs’s address, but the calculating part knows that any attempt to get that information will set off alarm bells. His fingers tapping on the steering wheel are hitting harder and harder, the prelude to pounding on the wheel and screaming in primal rage, when his phone goes off. He picks it up off the passenger seat and looks at the screen.
ALIA.
Keller’s heart feels as if it’s skipping beats in his chest. He answers. “Keller.”
Alia’s voice is calm but urgent. “We need help. Front door of the school. Please.”
There’s only one answer he can make. “On my way. Sit tight. Is Bassim with you?”
“He will be. And one other.”
One other? Keller thinks. “Hang on. I’m on the way.”
SIXTY
Marie stares at the gun on the table. She doesn’t speak. There are a thousand things she wants to say, to shout, to scream into her son’s face, but she stays mute.
“What were you thinking about, Ben?” Rogers is asking her son.
Normally, she likes her fellow resource officer a lot. They’ve laughed, joked, made plenty of snarky comments about the faculty and staff. But right now
, Marie is the mother of the boy Rogers is interrogating, and she’s having a hard time not hating her partner.
Ben just shrugs, and Marie has to admit, while she’s not anywhere close to hating her son, she’s finding it nearly impossible to like him right now. “Answer the man, Ben.”
He looks at her, eyes blazing with anger and betrayal. “Fine. You want to know what I was thinking? I was thinking I was going to kill that son of a bitch.” He looks at her, eyes brimming with tears. “The one who shot at my mom. And my little brother. If you fuckers want to put me in jail for that, then do it.”
“No one’s going to jail, Ben.” It’s Vice Principal Burnham who speaks up from across the office, his voice calm and soothing. He smiles sadly. “I get that you’re angry—”
“You don’t get shit,” Ben mutters.
Burnham goes on as if he hasn’t heard. “But we do have a problem with one student killing another. Can you see that?”
Before Ben can answer, the school intercom chimes. “Condition Red. Condition Red. This is a lockdown. All students, report to the nearest classroom. All teachers, report to the nearest classroom and initiate a Code Red stance. Repeat. This is a lockdown.”
Burnham closes his eyes wearily. “Of course.”
“What?” Marie says.
Burnham shakes his head. “Once the word got to the main office that a gun was found on campus, the lockdown goes into effect. It’s automatic.”
“Sir,” Rogers says, “in a lockdown, the SROs are supposed to be in the halls.”
Burnham nods. “To address whatever threat caused the Condition Red. But it seems to me, Officer Rogers, that’s already been addressed.” He nods at the gun on the desk. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
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