The Last Teacher: A Stand-Alone Mackenzie Mystery

by Alan Lee

  Using an old machine in the back, I searched staff directories online for South Hill Middle’s technology resource staff person. Her name was Emily Newman. I dialed her home, got a machine, and left a message asking her to call me.

  Rain began to sound outside.

  I was still in the back room, looking through pictures, when Russ Cummings walked in. Russ Cummings the school board member.

  “Mr. August,” he said, and held out his hand. He wore a three-button charcoal suit and tasseled shoes. I wondered if his ring cost more than my car. He did not smile. “Good to see you.”

  I shook his hand and nodded.

  He sat down beside me, rested one hand on his knee and rubbed his forehead with a handkerchief with the other.

  “I just came by to see how the investigation was coming. Another one of our teachers…” he said and shook his head. No faking, he was genuinely upset. “Listen, about what we talked about? On the golf course? Forget it,” he said, and fixed me with his eyes. “Just find the fucker. Forget what I said.”

  I nodded and said, “Already forgotten.”

  He nodded too, patted me on the knee, looked like he wanted to say something else but instead he walked out.

  So now my school board theory lay in ruins. Rain beat against the back window.

  Detective Andrews came to get me an hour later.

  “Questioning is done for the day,” he said, scratching a thirty-six-hour beard. “Hopefully the medical examiner will be completely finished in the morning. And maybe we’ll get back the ballistics report.

  “Nothing special turned up during questioning, but you can grill the sheriff for details. Not many have great alibis, a few are going to check email timestamps or internet conversations and get back to me, including Mr. Charlie and Taylor Williams. A digital alibi is better than nothing. It’s been a long couple days, I’m going home for dinner,” he said, and he left.

  I followed him out, my stomach growling, and noticed Deputy Burnette had personnel files open on her desk.

  “You have cell phone numbers?” I asked.

  “Mm-hm.”

  “See if Emily Newman has one. She’s Technology Resources.”

  She did. I got it and left. A rainy night had fallen and I went to get KiX.

  45

  Kix waved at me sleepily in the rearview mirror as we pulled away from James’s and Leta’s house around 7:30 pm. The time would be changing soon but it was already dark, and my windshield wipers steadily churned.

  I punched in Emily Newman’s cell. She answered it on the second ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. Newman, this is Mack August. English teacher, eighth grade.”

  “Oh, hi! You don’t remember me, but I helped you set up your electronic grade book right after you were hired.”

  “I do remember you.” I did. Happy lady, smiled a lot. “I’m helping the sheriff’s office with the homicide investigation. Have you heard from the sheriff or Detective Andrews yet?”

  “Yes, I did, just a little while ago.”

  “Super. Got a question for you. I believe I received a bogus email earlier this week, but it was deleted. It wasn’t in my trash bin either, but it was sent to me from Mr. Charlie’s email account. It would be helpful to know whether Charlie still has a copy of that email in his Sent folder. Basically, I need to know, was that email sent from Charlie’s account or did it originate elsewhere?”

  “I can do better than that, Mr. August. I can locate that email and verify its sender, whether or not it’s still in his Sent folder,” she said.

  “How do you do that?”

  “Because emails are a gray area. Do they belong to the county or not? We play it safe and keep all emails at central office, both sent and received. We can’t read them unless they are flagged for inappropriate content or if we are required to. For example, in a homicide investigation. But we have copies of them all.”

  “Emily,” I said. “I could’ve used that information yesterday. Saved me a sleepless night, and cleared my name quicker.”

  “Sorry!”

  “You can’t access the central office’s email log from home, can you?”

  “No. You have to be at school.”

  “Okay. We’ll answer those questions tomorrow, then.”

  “I’m at the school now,” she said. “Can I help with anything?”

  A small alarm went off in my head.

  “Why are you at the school?” I asked.

  “The sheriff called me, like I told you. He’s going to meet me here and look at the emails you just mentioned.”

  I was cruising along Route One at fifty miles per hour. I pinched the phone between my shoulder and ear, dropped a gear, mashed the gas, cut the wheel, and spun a perfect U-turn.

  “Emily, I’m four miles away and I’m coming to pick you up,” I said, pushing into the next gear. I was redlining between each shift. “Is there a back door?”

  “I think so. Why? Hang on a second.” I could hear her moving around. “I’m back here!” she yelled away from the phone.

  “Emily!” I shouted, and Kix startled in the backseat

  “What’s wrong? I think the sheriff just get here.”

  “Listen to me, Emily. That’s not the sheriff. He went home.” She gasped and the noises stopped. “Do what I say, else you’ll be dead when I get there. If there’s a back door, use it and run. If not, hide. Put your phone on vibrate. I’m hanging up and calling the police,” I said and I hit End.

  I punched in 911, which I should probably put on speed dial. I was doing eighty around curves, and fishtailed around a stop sign onto Highway 58. The golf clubs in my trunk were sliding everywhere. Two miles away.

  The killer had lured the technology resource teacher to the email server at school. I bet he was guessing he could manipulate emails and erase evidence from that server. I filled the 911 operator in on what was happening. She contacted the sheriff’s office and put out a radio call. I was the closest to the school by several miles.

  I power-slid as best a Honda Accord could manage around the final stop sign, turning right onto the street leading to the middle school. My Highway Patrol training put me at the school a least a minute faster. South Hill Middle is long, most of the school being visible from the large front parking lot. The front entrance glowed with spotlights; the north and south exits had streetlights; and the back of the school had a few well-lit spots. Other than that, most of the building and campus remained dark.

  There was one car in the parking lot. My tires crunched and scudded as I braked hard to stop, facing the building from the parking lot entrance. I rolled down the window, but all I could hear was the engine growling down to a steady idle and the rain. After the rush to get here, the night sounded eerily quiet. The air felt cold compared to the warm car.

  Emily was crouching behind a bush near the front entrance. She didn’t realize the school’s spotlight was hitting her so directly. I’d have to drive forward fifty yards through the parking lot approaching the school, until the car was directly in front of the right-hand entrance, and turn left and drive another hundred yards to reach her hiding spot. I’d be following the route taken by the school buses, basically, as they loaded and unloaded students. The car would be within spitting distance of the school, an easy target. The sound of the rain hammering the roof of the car increased. My tires smelled hot.

  Slowly, I eased the car forward. When I got close enough, I’d gun it, but until then I wanted silence. My eyes were no longer on Emily, but were scanning the shadows.

  I redialed her number. She answered and breathed heavy into the phone without saying anything.

  “I’m in the car,” I said. “When I get close enough, run for the passenger door. If you hear a gunshot, jump through the passenger window and hold on.”

  Movement, out of the corner of my eye. In the shadows, close to the wall, dead ahead of me. The killer? I couldn’t get to Emily without driving right by that spot. Nor could Emily get to her
own car.

  I mashed the gas, and loose parking lot gravel sprayed. New plan: run over the shooter. I’d be an easy target for the next forty-five yards, but he’d have to be a world-class shot to get me. Calculated risk.

  Except…

  The brakes squealed, the engine quieted, and the car stopped.

  Kix. I’d forgotten he slipped in and out of sleep in the backseat. No calculated risk was worth him.

  I ground my teeth in frustration. I was sitting still too long, making myself vulnerable, but I didn’t know what to do.

  First priority, Kix stays alive. Second, so does Emily. Third, catch the shooter.

  “Emily,” I said into the phone. “I see him. He’s near the southern entrance, between you and your car. My kid is in the backseat, so I’m bailing out and chasing him down on foot. I need you to drive my car and get Kix to safety. It’s much closer than your car. Get out of range and wait for the police.”

  I hit the gas again, cut the wheel, and re-aimed. The high beams flooded the area where I’d seen someone. More movement. A flash of a body ducking behind a shrub, moving backwards into the quad. Maybe I imagined it, but I might have seen the glint of gunmetal.

  I shoved open the door and yelled, “Go!”

  A gun fired.

  I needed no extra motivation. A bullet could hit my car and my son. My feet pounded faster than I thought possible.

  A second gunshot and a small muzzle flash. Instinctively, I winced and leaped mid-step. I was thirty yards from the school and too far for an amateur to hit a moving target with a revolver in the rain. He wasn’t using a silencer, I noted as I flew over the sidewalk. I hadn’t been shot at in a long time. I still hated it.

  Closer, closer. I was moving too fast to check on Emily. If she wasn’t running to the car then she and I were going to have words later.

  I reached the quad sidewalk, planted a foot, changed directions, and slashed diagonally to the right. Just in time. Another muzzle flash, another ear splitting crash. If he was using a six-shot revolver, he only had three bullets left.

  I’d forgotten my gun in the excitement. Brilliant.

  I slid and came to a complete stop, hitting the side of the school. The shooter retreated backwards from the entrance, deeper into the school campus and closer to my trailer. He could hide behind the brick columns or retreat further and shoot from around the corner of a trailer. Meanwhile the headlights were going to silhouette me if I ran after him. I wiped water out of my eyes.

  A car door slammed. Gears ground and my car began to haltingly reverse. Way to go, Emily. The Honda lights swung away from the courtyard entrance, pitching me into darkness.

  Sirens wailed in the distance.

  I counted to three and went on two. I ran into the courtyard and at the last minute I ducked behind the final brick column. Another gunshot, the retort growing louder and echoing against the bricks. The bullet sounded like a whip as it tore violently through the decorative bushes. I didn’t see the muzzle flash but I guessed the shooter was behind a trailer. My trailer. Only two bullets left. If he was using a revolver.

  He could easily flank me and shoot around the column so I left my hiding spot in a hurry. As I did, the fifth bullet snapped into the bricks beside my head, shattering and sending splinters flying. They clawed at my face, but I kept running, spurred on by the sixth gunshot, which destroyed a rear-facing window in the school.

  The silhouette of the shooter was black against the gray night. I made it safely to the trailer. I was on one side, he was on the other. The sirens got louder.

  Did he have a revolver or not? If he did, he was out of bullets and needed to reload, which would take precious seconds. I planned to use those seconds to my advantage. I mustered my courage, edged my way around the corner of the trailer and ran down the length.

  I lowered my shoulder, turned the final corner, and charged. No one there. Gone. I stepped onto six golden shell casings, which rolled on the sidewalk. Dropped seconds ago.

  The shooter could have gone several directions. If I spent much time guessing he could shoot me from the shadows, so I picked a direction and ran.

  I guessed wrong. The baseball field was big and faintly illuminated with hazy moonlight through the rain. I splashed to a stop at the fence. Not this way.

  Turning, I saw the shooter. A hundred yards distant. I’d run directly away from him. He was moving full speed, leaving the school grounds, but I could see an outline. The figure was thin and not very tall. I soon lost sight of him in the shadows.

  For a brief instant I made out a distant dome light, coming on inside of his car. The car door slammed and the light went out, but before it did I thought I might have gotten the impression of hair pulled into a ponytail. The engine fired, tires ground into gravel and the car drove off without turning on its lights, leaving me behind. I stood trying to listen for its direction, but soon the car drove too far away.

  A few minutes later I walked into the police spotlight with my hands raised. Several cars had arrived, including an ambulance. Radios squawked, and blue lights flashed. My car parked behind the squad cars.

  “What happened?” shouted Detective Andrews.

  I sank down on the wet sidewalk to catch my breath. Andrews and someone else crossed in front of the spotlight. Rain splattered and dripped off of their Stetsons.

  “Drove off,” I said between deep breaths. “Couldn’t see the car. Into that back neighborhood, couldn’t get there in time.”

  Andrews repeated the report into his shoulder radio. Deputy Burnette sat in my car, holding and talking to Kix. Mental note to send her flowers. Emily Newman stood near the ambulance with a poncho wrapped around her shoulders, talking to someone in a rain jacket. Pretty good response time, considering I only made the call ten minutes ago.

  “I could be wrong, but I think…” I said, and I blew rainwater out of my mouth, “our shooter might be a woman.”

  46

  I lay in bed that night, jumping at shadows. Mackenzie August, Super Wimp.

  I’d discovered a dead body, been the chief suspect in a homicide investigation, and been shot at. Six times, one of which had put a hole an inch above the bumper of my car. All in a good day’s work as a South Hill Middle School teacher.

  The next day I was still exhausted. Sheriff’s office was checking bullet casings for prints. A deputy found a partial tire track and taken a picture before the rain washed away the evidence. Maybe they’d learned something new from banging on doors in the neighborhood behind the school. I was intentionally not calling to find out. Kix and I wanted to think about something else, so we played Halo while it rained outside. Then we played with blocks. Then we practiced crawling. Then we took a nap. Mine was cut short by nightmare gunfire, hitting my mother, hitting my former partner, hitting me, hitting my son. I took a shower to wash away the dream.

  Keep it together, Dad, Kix told me.

  My phone rang around four o’clock.

  “Hey stranger.”

  “Hey Taylor,” I said. She was poison. Ill tempered, crass, and back-stabbing. But my heart quickened at the sound of her voice.

  If the obsession theory was true then Taylor jumped to my top suspect. Especially because the killer had a ponytail.

  “Ever heard of Affair on the Square?” she asked.

  “Is that a movie?”

  “No, stupid. It’s a shindig. It’s fun. You can meet me there, downtown South Hill tonight. The rain is supposed to let up, darlin’, but they have big tents just in case. Beer, games, music, me. What else do you need?”

  A bulletproof vest?

  “Sure,” I said. “Why not.”

  Sergeant Bingham called and I put it on speaker. He asked, “How’s it feel to have a stalker?”

  “Very gratifying. A lot of hard work paying off.” Kix and I were cruising away from our house toward South Hill.

  “I’m just surprised you only have one.”

  “I’m glad you said that,” I said. “I felt like someo
ne should.”

  “How sure are you the South Hill shooter is your stalker?”

  I blew some air out of my mouth, and thought for a second.

  “Kinda sure,” I said. “The profile for the shooter is bizarre. White female, careful, pragmatic, obsessed, educated, leaves notes, and good with computers. Also a killer.”

  “Did you say female?”

  “Yup. She made an attempt on another employee last night. I chased her away but couldn’t catch her.”

  “Couldn’t catch her,” he repeated.

  “Stop smiling. And she can impersonate the sheriff.”

  “Weird,” he said.

  “She lured another staff member to the school, pretending to be the sheriff on the phone. But she’s not a great shot.”

  “You still getting shot at?”

  “Professional hazard,” I said.

  “Of a teacher?”

  “A really mean and scary teacher. Why’d you call me?” I asked.

  “Anne made me. I think she’s jealous of the stalker. Keep us posted.”

  The Affair on the Square celebrated fall in a parking lot near the library. Lanterns, pumpkins, bales of hay, and scarecrows mixed in among the stage, snack tables, beer venders, ring toss, bean bag toss, bobbing for apples, and other games. Hundreds of people had shown up. A bluegrass band played on stage. I’d stopped to pick up Stephen along the way, and parked three blocks from the library. I was pretty sure Taylor wasn’t going to be overly excited about having one of our eighth-grade students tag along with us, but I figured Stephen needed someone to bring him since his mom worked nights. I also knew that having Stephen there would keep me from making out with Taylor again, which I definitely did not want to let myself do. And, since Taylor had climbed to the top of my suspect list, having another witness around would help reduce the chances of being shot. The streets were damp and the sky threatened, but for the moment we were dry.