by Alan Lee
On my way out, I passed Principal Martin.
“See you tomorrow,” I said, not breaking stride.
She let out a breath which sounded like she’d been holding an hour. I took that as a good sign. Climbing into my car, I phoned Sergeant Bingham on his cell.
“Saw you on cable news,” he said. “The Fighting Father sounds stupid.”
“I had an intruder last night,” I said. “I scared them off. Because I’m a hero.”
“Fuck. This thing is getting too real.”
“I can’t run. I came close, but I’m staying. Gotta see this one through. The whole town is spooked.”
“I’ll be on the first flight tomorrow,” he said. “One of us can be with Kix every hour of the day.”
“You got vacation time?”
“Months. But we’ll only need a few days.”
“I appreciate it.”
“August,” he said. “This doesn’t mean we’re friends. Just stay alive until tomorrow night.”
“Yes sir.”
49
The sheriff was out when I got to the station. Andrews stood at his desk with a mug of coffee in his fist.
“I’m staying,” I said. “Fill me in.”
Three nights in a row the killer had been active. First night, Roy. Second night, Emily Newman. Third night, me. That was a lot of alibis to check. The custodian, Mr. Gee, had no alibi for the previous two nights and his tires might or might not match the picture of the tire tracks left at the crime scene outside of the school. Mr. Charlie also had no firm alibi for the previous two nights but he had digital timestamps on emails sent during the Emily-Newman-fiasco. He would’ve had time to get home and send the emails after the shooting, but not much. Taylor Williams had so far refused to cooperate, declaring herself immune because of me and Andrews. The owners of the guest house she lived in had been gone for weeks.
Everything coming back from Roy’s murder matched Allen’s. Same gun, no signs of struggle, nothing weird on credit card or cell phone receipts. Clean, except for the email he’d received from Charlie about meeting him and Williams at school. That told us nothing new. The school’s central office was researching how the emails could be sent other than password sharing, which Charlie denied. The fake phone call to Emily Newman came from a payphone only a few miles from the school. No prints, no witnesses.
Deputies were banging on doors, including Murphy’s and other usual suspects. The media phoned regularly.
“I need you to bring Taylor in,” I said. “Tonight. Grill her.”
“Okay. We planned on tomorrow morning but tonight works. Why?”
“So I know where she is and where she isn’t.”
“Planning on breaking into her place?” he asked.
“Not telling.”
“Deniability?” he asked.
“Andrews. Stop saying things out loud we have to deny later. What the hell is wrong with you.”
“Give us,” he said, and glanced at his watch. “An hour and a half. Then you’ll be free for several after that.”
Tonight I would visit the bedroom of Taylor Williams.
But it wouldn’t be much fun.
I walked out to my car. Darkness had fallen and the rain returned. It was an overcast dreary kinda day. I drove down Highway 58 to Leta’s house in silence. Hopefully I could talk her into watching my son a few more hours, and then Kix and I would get a hotel. I drove with no radio, no podcasts. Only the rain and my thoughts.
I pulled into Leta’s and killed the engine. The gravel crunched wetly under my shoes and the rain made spots on my pressed red shirt. I loosened my tie. The trusty Honda was clicking and hot in the cold fall air. Floorboards squeaked as I ascended the porch. Leta met me at the top. She wore the white apron with pink flowers that she loved so much. Her hands held worried fistfuls of the fabric.
“You told me not to let Kix out of my sight unless you or the sheriff called.” Her voice was shaking.
“Right,” I said, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
“Well, he called.”
“The sheriff? What’d he say?”
“He said one of the teachers would come by for Kix. He said you were in trouble.”
“That wasn’t the sheriff.”
“I see that,” she cried. “I’m so sorry.”
“Is Kix gone?”
“Yes.”
“Which teacher?”
She held back a sob.
“Which teacher came and got Kix?” I repeated, my palms starting to sweat.
“I don’t know.”
“What’d she look like?”
“He. He was tall and skinny. Long shaggy hair.”
I hit the ground running, kicking up gravel.
50
Puzzle pieces crashed into place. Cannon. Cannon had been very interested in my life ever since I’d met him. Cannon was thin and had long hair which he pulled into a ponytail. Cannon lived a few miles from the school and he was also a computer whiz. Taylor hadn’t disguised her voice to sound like the sheriff; Cannon had.
But Cannon was a Baptist. A devout one. Baptists can’t kill people. They can’t even drink.
My heart beat so hard that the steering wheel shifted under my fists. Was Kix already dead? If so, Cannon would die too. And then most likely me. My son had been in the backseat, waving and singing earlier this morning. I could see his empty carseat in the rearview mirror. His diaper bag was stuffed full of wipes and toys and lying on the passenger seat beside me.
I pressed my foot all the way to the floor and got the car over ninety-five. My left hand flashed my high beams and my right pressed the horn anytime I saw oncoming traffic. Makeshift emergency lights and siren. Wipers churning full speed, throwing aside rain.
The police would be no help. I didn’t want a hostage situation. If Kix was alive then I’d take him back. If not, I’d kill Cannon. I might anyway. My tie lay on the floor because I couldn’t breathe. Sweat and tears mixed in my eyes. The pounding raindrops began to take the shape of dead faces.
Please God. Not Kix.
I turned onto Highway 58, the car sliding through water across both lanes and into gravel on the far side before catching and powering forward. Cannon lived a little more than two miles past the school. I realized I’d been laying on the horn for the last thirty seconds and forced myself to let go.
I would pass the school before I got to his house. The campus lay just out of sight, five hundred yards away from the highway. I hated that school. I was so sick of being there at night. I almost passed it, but at the last second jammed on the brakes, cut the wheel and flew up the road, following a hunch.
I guessed right. Cannon stood at the school, in the rain underneath a streetlight which cast the front sidewalk in a sick, yellow glow. His car was parked in a handicapped spot. In his left arm he carried Kix.
My Accord slid to a stop beside his. Deep breath. Before getting out, I tore open the glove compartment and wrapped my left hand around the six-shot revolver. I still had the Kimber in my shoulder rig. I stood and started walking toward Cannon, keeping my left hand pinned against my left leg.
“I knew you’d come,” Cannon said, softly enough so that I could barely hear him over the deluge. His white shirt was soaked, his long, stringy hair dripping, glasses foggy. “I knew you’d find me.” My muscles were practically cramping with the desire to attack him, punch him until my knuckles split.
Kix wore the same jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt I’d dressed him in that morning. His shoes were missing. His eyelids were droopy and he was having trouble supporting his head. A long piece of silver duct tape had been wrapped around his head, covering his mouth. He drew breath only through his nose.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing, he’s fine,” Cannon called through the rain. “He was upset, Mr. August, so I gave him something to make him sleepy. He’s resting nicely now.”
“What’d you give him?”
“Nothing lethal
,” he said, and he waved the question off with the gun in his right hand. A revolver. I hadn’t seen the gun before because I’d been so focused on Kix. Water drops went flying as he waved it. I unzipped my jacket. “I knew you’d find me, Mr. August. I prayed you would.”
“I prayed that too.”
“You’ve come a long way, Mr. August. A long way. God is pleased.”
“Maybe with one of us,” I said. For the moment I was calm. Need crushed emotion. Focused adrenaline. Delayed aggression.
“You may not realize it yet,” he said. “But God has big things planned for you.”
“You sound like Mr. Suhr.”
“Don’t talk to me about that nigger. I’m sick of pretending his kind matter.”
“Mr. Suhr never kidnapped my son.”
“You of little faith.” He smiled, the way I’d seen him smile for the last two months. Except now he carried a loaded gun and my son. “You aren’t looking down, you aren’t seeing your path. Your path brought you here, Mr. August. Your path brought you to me.”
“Cannon, my path did not lead me here. You did,” I said. His smile faltered briefly. “You murdered your coworkers. You broke into my classroom and my home. You stole and drugged my son.”
“You know what I hate,” he said, spitting out rain. “I hate weak-minded fools. Like the faggots who don’t understand how God could condone violence in the Old Testament. Violence is necessary,” he snapped and the insanity inside his head was briefly and clearly visible. “God used violence as a way to prune, to discipline, Mr. August. God disciplines His sons through pain. You needed pruning. Real powerful, holy pruning.”
He set his right hand across Kix’s stomach, the gun lying on my son’s shirt. My Kimber was out in a flash.
“Get your gun away from him.”
“Hey,” he yelled, and flinched away from the barrel pointed at him. He hid behind Kix as best he could and pressed his revolver into Kix’s neck. “No, no! Put your gun down. Mr. August! Put your gun down! This is not God’s will.”
I couldn’t shoot him in the head. Not with his gun pressed so tightly against Kix, and not with his face hidden. I could hit him easily from the navel down, but he’d still be alive with a loaded weapon and a priceless hostage.
“Get your gun away from his neck.”
“I see how upset you are, Mr. August. I understand. I know this is hard.”
“Point your gun at me. Point it away from him.”
“Haha, you see,” he yelled. “Look at you! Your face is red. Don’t you get it? You’re blind. You’ve made your son an idol. You aren’t able to do God’s will. The burden you carry with you is too heavy.”
“Point your gun at me and I’ll stop pointing mine at you. Just don’t point it at Kix.”
“Fine.” He smiled and turned his weapon on me. I took a deep breath, and aimed sideways at the school. Then I released the grip and let the pistol dangle from my trigger finger. “Are you happy, Mr. August? Are you satisfied with your false sense of security, of control?”
“Why’d you kill Mackenzie Allen? Why’d you kill Roy Davis?”
“I know you’ve read the Old Testament, Mr. August. You’re a priest, for God’s sake. And a real good one. You might not have known it, but you have become my spiritual mentor. How did God deal with the Israelites when they began to breed with the unclean, uncircumcised Philistines? Or the Moabites, those filthy, inbred enemies of God? How did God rebuke the Israelites? He disciplined them. He hurt them. God’s people are holy, set apart. They do not sit in the seat of the scornful. Allen and Davis chose evil. Just like you, Mr. August. You chose evil. Evil friends. You walked in the way of the wicked. They had to die, for your sake, your future, to prune you.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me?”
“God is not in the earthquake!” he snarled. “Nor in the fire. God is in the whisper. You have to grow quiet and hear God for yourself. I removed distractions.”
“You’re not thinking clearly,” I said. “Thou shall not murder.”
“Those rules were for the Jews,” he spit. “Those rules are tools to govern cattle, Mr. August. How many men did King David slaughter? Thousands. Those rules do not apply to kings, those rules do not apply to God’s chosen, they do not apply to us.”
“Why’d you kidnap Kix?” I needed to keep him talking while I looked for an advantage, an opening.
“Kix,” he scoffed, and got a better grip on my son. They were both sopping wet, and Kix was heavy. Growing heavier and slipperier by the minute. “Your kid is the largest burden you carry, the largest distraction, the biggest golden calf of all. I called your former employers, Mr. August. You were a mighty weapon for God. A holy scythe. You jailed niggers, killed Latinos.” As he spoke, water spit and drooled from his mouth onto the top of Kix’s head.
“Called justice, Cannon.”
“Then Kix was born. Your son, by a married woman. Did you not make the connection with Abraham? Do you not remember what happened to Abraham’s first son? He was cast into the wilderness, Mr. August. Because of Abraham’s lack of faith.”
“Remove the tape, Cannon. He’s having trouble breathing,” I said. Kix was soaked, the rain falling directly on his face. His head rolled side to side. I deliberately stayed far enough away so that I couldn’t hear him whimper. Otherwise I knew I’d start shooting. I had a gun in each hand.
“You think I would kill him before he’s ready?”
“You’ve got my attention. Let him go,” I said. My fist tightened on the hidden revolver pressed against my left hamstring. Water cascaded into my eyes.
“Think, Mr. August, think. Remember. Remember Abraham’s other son. Remember Isaac and the test of faith.”
My blood turned cold. I knew the story. God asked Abraham to sacrifice his only son, Isaac.
“It was a test, Cannon,” I said. “Abraham didn’t actually have to kill his son.”
“You’re right,” he said, the barrel of his gun shaking. “He didn’t. But he was willing.”
“Well I’m not.”
“Then your faith is too small. You don’t pass the test.”
“I don’t care,” I said.
“Samson was also a mighty weapon for God. But he allowed himself to become sidetracked by Delilah. What happened?”
“I don’t care.”
“You’re not listening,” he snapped. “You’re better than this! I’m better than them! I need you. You need me. You need discipline and deliverance.”
“Your faith is flawed, Cannon. My sin is between me and God. You have no part in it. You have taken it upon yourself to hand out judgment. What happens when people play God, Cannon?”
He stared at me in stony silence.
“What happens to people who play God?”
“You don’t know,” he said, growing angry. “You haven’t been paying attention.”
“What does the law hinge on, Cannon? Love.”
“Do not question me,” he snarled. “You disappoint, Mr. August. I expected you to be more receptive.”
His voice had grown quiet, his face closed. He was going to shoot me. He’d already murdered two men at the school; I would be no different. I’d been shot before. I wasn’t looking forward to it.
“You can’t kill me, Cannon,” I said.
“The Lord is my strength.”
“I’m too far away and you’re a bad shot. I’ll dodge. And then I’m going to kill you.”
“The Lord is my shield.”
“Put Kix down and find out,” I said, and I started pacing. He probably couldn’t hit a moving target. I didn’t know what else to do.
Cannon took the gun off of me and pointed it at Kix’s temple.
“If you kill him,” I said, “you’re next.”
“The Lord is my salvation.”
“Not right now he’s not, Cannon. And you know it. You kill my son, and I kill you. You and Kix will get to heaven at the same time. See how God feels about you then.”
�
�You blaspheme,” he said and he tried to get a better grip on Kix. He knew I was right. He had no element of surprise, and I was the better shot. We had a stalemate. I had no way of preventing him from killing Kix. But then he had no way of preventing me from killing him.
“You know I’m right,” I said.
“The truth shall set you free.”
“Set Kix free, Cannon. Set him down, put your gun down, I promise I won’t kill you.”
“I cannot. I still have a mission. A purpose.”
Wheels spinning in his head. Inside of his madness he searched for an escape. A way out. A way to kill me. Even a madman possesses a scrap of self-preservation.
“You need help. Let me help you. If I’m your mentor then listen to me.”
“Let us see, Mr. August,” he said, slowly. “Let us see if God will let your son strike his heel upon the stone.”
The world slowed. He bent his knees and put both hands under Kix’s arms. His silver pistol pointed straight into the air, the barrel no longer aimed at either of us. Fatal mistake.
My hidden left hand rose into view, revolver gripped tight. I spun the Kimber back into my grip and swung my right arm forward.
He launched Kix at me, not realizing how difficult throwing a twenty-pound object would be. His throw only propelled Kix a foot over his head and four feet forward.
I surged toward him in slow motion. I refused to let Cannon’s last act on earth be cracking Kix’s head on the sidewalk.
He leveled his gun at me. I squeezed off two shots with the revolver in my left hand before I brought the Kimber to bear with my right. I fired again, four more shots with each gun, yanking the triggers so fast the gun blasts sounded like a machine gun. Ten shots total. The sharp crack and muzzle flashes were disorienting in the downpour. But I didn’t miss.
My hands released the weapons and I dove forward, arms outstretched. Kix landed on my forearms as I hit the cement, cushioning his fall. My jaw hit the ground hard, and bells rang in my head. My son rolled forward out of my grip. Dazed, I grabbed at him but missed. In my fingers I held only the tape which used to be around his mouth.