“This is crazy. You’re sure it was him?” I ask.
“How many Sildas can there be? Especially ones with a husband home from Iraq? It’s him, all right. Molly said the police took him away in handcuffs. He was crying and yelling and just basically off his rocker. She said he has PTSD—post-traumatic stress disorder. He can’t handle being back home after being in Iraq. Or maybe he can’t handle the things he did in Iraq, I don’t know.”
“What else did she say about him?”
“I’m trying to remember. I wasn’t paying that much attention because I didn’t know it would be important.”
I reach for the keyboard again.
cole, can you get molly? emery thinks stutts’s wife is her cousin.
no shit. sure, i’ll send somebody. do you know where she is?
Emery looks at the clock and thinks for a few seconds. “Chemistry,” she says, so I type it in.
A phone rings in Stutts’s pocket, and he takes it out and looks at it. He makes a face, then puts it back and goes back to watching the door.
“And you can get bonus points here,” I say in a normal voice to Emery, pointing at the screen.
“I remember now,” she says. “You can’t move to the next level until you finish off all these guys.”
We make up more crap about the pretend game, but Stutts doesn’t look our way again. Then another line appears on the screen.
Emery, are you there? Its Molly. OMG, are you ok?
“Your turn,” I say out loud to Emery, sliding over for her to take the keyboard. “Let’s see if you can catch up, worthy opponent.”
Hey Mols. We’re ok, but I need you to tell me and Jake about Silda’s husband. He’s holding us hostage.
Brian? I cant believe it! Cole said he shot somebody.
A security guard. Don’t know if he’s ok or not.
Oh, Emery, be careful, hes crazy.
I know you said he has PTSD. I can’t remember what else you said.
He was ok when he first came home. And he used to be great guy. Pres of his class at high school and capt of football team. Silda said it started with nightmares and he was really moody and started drinking. She took Patrick and left.
Drinking now.
Hes messed up. He wont even sit with his back to doors at restaurants and at her little brothers ball game he made her wait til everbody left gym before he did.
???
He always thinks somebodys after him. He watches roofs of buildings for snipers. She said its like his bodys overly tuned to danger and cant turn off. He takes a gun everywhere. She was afraid Patrick would mess with it.
Can’t believe Patrick’s your cousin and I never made the connection. He’s so adorable.
No reasn for you to. Hes a sweet kid.
What else do you know?
He threw a bottle at a wall after she found him passed out at lunch one day. and I remember he had a panic atack in the grocery store.
Did she try to get him to go for help?
He wouldnt. He said if you admit you have problem, your army career is over. Nobdy wants to be in life-or-death situation with somebody whos messed up.
You told me he broke her cheekbone?
Yeah, she called cops and they took him to jail but she dropped the charges cuz she didnt want to lock up Patricks dad. but she filed for dvorce and full custody. Doesnt trust him with Patrick. Emery, be careful, sweetie. Im so worried about yall.
We will. Gotta go. Hey, Mols, will you call my mom?
Sure, Em. and tell her what?
Tell her I’m ok and I love her.
“Take that, Willoughby,” Emery says, fake-gloating loudly with a glance at Stutts, while I close the screen. I notice her hand shaking on the keyboard and I lay mine on top of it for just a minute and squeeze her fingers. She squeezes mine back.
CHAPTER 17
EMERY
Jake’s hand over my shaking fingers is the only thing keeping me from coming unglued right now. I know he can tell how freaked out I am now that I know who Stutts is, but I’m proud of myself for ignoring the POTS monster right now. I can’t let my symptoms keep me from helping these kids. I glance over at Silda’s violent husband, and he’s gone back to staring off into space, his hand resting on the table next to Patrick, tapping the butt of the gun against the wood—like a tick-tick-ticking bomb about detonate.
We’re running out of time. We’ve got to get these kids out of here.
Suddenly, the intercom crackles, making all of us jump.
“Mr. Stutts, this is Chief Reed Walker with HPD. We want to resolve this situation as quickly as possible so the children can be released. We want to talk with you about your demands privately—”
“No!” Stutts yells, jumping to his feet. “No one’s coming in here. Do you hear me?”
“Mr. Stutts, we need to talk with you about what you want. Your wife gave us the number to your cell phone, and we want to—”
“You leave her out of this!” Stutts screams. “What I want is to walk out of here with my son. There’s nothing to talk about. You people just want to take my son away from me.”
“Mr. Stutts, if we could just—”
“Shut up! Don’t talk to me! Just shut up!” He’s shouting at the intercom box like a maniac, and my heart sinks. Nothing good can come of getting him all riled up.
“Why don’t you let—” the voice continues.
Stutts raises his arm and there’s a loud blast—a deafening KA-BOOM—that rocks the room. The intercom box shatters and splinters of wood fly out from the wall. A couple of kids scream.
“Get down!” I yell, diving from the computer toward where the kids are sitting on the floor. The gun blast seems to reverberate through the room. I shove the ones nearest me to get their heads down, and the others duck, too.
Jake is there beside me, putting himself between Stutts and us. Stutts wheels around and yells at the crying children, “Shut up! All of you!” My heart stops as he points at Jake with the gun. “You get them quiet.”
We try to shush the children, but it’s no use. They’ve had about all the trauma they can stand.
“I said quiet!” Stutts says. “Make them stop.”
“We’re doing the best we can,” Jake says, exasperated. “They’re scared.”
“Mr. Stutts, if you could just give us a minute to . . .” My voice is shaking, and it sounds far away through the ringing in my ears.
“Shut up, shut up! Just shut the hell up—all of you!” His face is deep red.
“You’ve got to cut these kids some slack,” Jake says, standing up to face the crazy man with the smoking gun—which scares me to death. “Look at them. They’re not built for this kind of stress, man. If you could let some of them go . . .”
The kids are pitiful. They’re huddled together, and most are sobbing—some at top volume.
“Don’t tell me what to do.” Stutts takes a step toward Jake. I cringe, but Jake doesn’t flinch; he keeps talking in a low, steady voice. Jake, don’t do this.
“Mr. Stutts, keep me,” he continues. He’s using all his powers of persuasion, and Jake has many, I can tell you. “My dad’s the mayor. People do what he says. Use me to get what you want. Just let the kids go.”
Stutts glares at him for what seems like an hour, then snarls suddenly, “Some of them.”
“What?” His unexpected answer throws Jake for a second.
“Just some of them. Get the loud ones out of here, so I can think.” He reaches up and rubs his forehead. “Now.”
Oh my God! He’s letting the kids go! I can’t believe it!
“But make it fast,” Stutts orders.
“Hey, guys, it’s okay.” I swing into action before he can change his mind. “You can get up now. I need you to line up, very quietly, starting right here by me.”
Immediately there’s chaos as they stumble toward the door, pushing and shoving. “Me, me!” “I want to go home!” “Me first!”
“Anyone who’s making a sound,” I yell ab
ove the noise, “won’t be allowed to go.” Silence. God bless Willa Campbell—best teacher role model ever. The kids line up without speaking. Several are dragging backpacks.
“Leave your things here,” I tell them. “You can get them tomorrow, okay?”
“Can I get my snack?” Mason asks.
“I promise, your parents will feed you all the snacks you want when you get home.”
“But what about our take-home folders?” Alicia asks.
“Later,” I practically yell at her. “We need to move quickly.”
Before the unpredictable Mr. Stutts takes back his offer.
I look at the small faces turned hopefully in my direction. “Okay, three at a time from the front of the line. Tyler and Janita and Olivia, you’re first. Mr. Stutts, I’m sending these three out now.”
“Hold up a sec,” Jake says.
He moves to the door and raises his voice. “We’re sending some of the kids out. Can you hear me? Some of the students are coming out into the hallway.” He doesn’t add “Don’t shoot them,” but we’re all thinking it.
“Go ahead,” a deep voice answers. “Tell them to walk slowly.”
To the kids I say, “Just walk very slowly down the hall and turn left toward the office. Someone will be there to take you to your parents.”
“Miss Emery, are you coming with us?” Janita asks, grabbing my hand.
“Not now, but we won’t be too far behind you,” I tell her.
“Are you gonna be okay?” she asks tearfully.
“Don’t you worry. We’ll be fine.” I squeeze her hand.
Olivia reaches up to hug me.
“I’ll see you soon, Livie. I promise.”
She nods, sniffling, and I usher them into the hallway. I push them forward and they waddle like baby ducks in a row down the hall. I can hear people talking to them as they turn the corner.
“Okay, next three . . .” I turn to the line. “Mason, Kimberly, and Anna-Caroline.” Stutts doesn’t move or say a word. Patrick stays seated. Kenji has come to the front of the room to stand next to him, his hand on Patrick’s shoulder.
“Later, Gator,” Mason Mayfield III says, pointing at Jake.
“No talking.” Jake shakes his head at Mason, who makes an oops face and pantomimes a zip your lip motion.
“Three more coming out,” Jake calls out into the hall.
“Okay, ready,” comes the answer.
They move into the hallway—out of danger, thank God—without incident, and I line up three more. “Nick, Kaela, and Abbey.”
Relief washes over me with each group that leaves—three more kids out of Stutts’s reach. After the tension of the morning, I have an insane urge to hug Stutts for this small concession. And I could kiss Jake for making it happen. Damn, I must be really tired.
Jake and I feed DeQuan, Lewis, and Carlos into the hallway. Then there are only six kids left, including Patrick.
“That’s it,” Stutts barks suddenly. “The rest stay.”
“But, Mr. Stutts, there are only a few more. You can keep me and Jake.” I can’t even look at the disappointed faces of the kids who are left—watching their friends leave and knowing they can’t.
“No!” Stutts bellows. “I’m not giving up all of them!”
The kids left behind—Patrick, Kenji, Simon, Rose, Natalie, and Alicia—are quiet, except for Natalie, who immediately goes into full-on drama-queen mode. “I want my daddy! I want my momma! I want to go home!”
“Shh, Natalie.” I lean down and pull her to me.
Natalie sobs louder. “I want Gran. I want Pop, and Buffy, and Socks.”
I look up at Stutts, my eyebrows raised in a question.
“Get her out of here,” he says roughly.
Jake calls “One more” out the door, and we usher Natalie, still wailing, through it. Her loud sobs can be heard growing fainter as she reaches the corner and turns into the office hall.
Stutts looks around at the rest of us. Rose walks toward Jake and reaches up to hang on his arm. Kenji remains with Patrick. Simon sits quietly nearby, staring owl-eyed at our little tableau; Mrs. C. calls him her “old soul.” Alicia looks up expectantly at me, waiting for directions I can’t give her. No one knows what happens next.
“How many children are left with you?” a voice calls down the hall.
“Five. We have five,” I answer, looking to make sure I’m right. It’s hard to think straight.
“Mr. Stutts, please release all the children,” the voice calls out. “We can talk about what you want when all the children have been sent out.”
“Tell him no way,” Stutts says to me. “I’m not talking to anybody.”
Not sure how I’ve become the translator, I call out through the door, “Mr. Stutts says he’s keeping these five. Jake and I are here with them. We’ll take care of them.” I look over at Jake. He nods, and I realize we’re a team.
“Do you need anything?” the voice says. “Will he let us send in some food?”
Stutts shakes his head.
“We’re okay for now,” I call out.
“Get back from that door,” Stutts orders.
The room seems empty with two-thirds of the kids gone. I try to rally, smiling at the unlucky ones and herding them back to the carpet again, all except Patrick, who stays where he is. They gather in a tight little group, with not one word of complaint, sweet angels. I’m almost sure I catch a faint whiff of Mrs. Campbell’s perfume, and I close my eyes, wishing we had her back.
Rose must have noticed it, too. “Can we sing a song?” she asks. “Mrs. Campbell always says singing makes you feel better.”
“Sure,” I answer. “What would you like to sing?”
“I know, we can sing ‘The Wheels on the Bus,’” Alicia says.
“That’s a baby song,” Rose complains.
“Okay, then, ‘John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt,’” Alicia says.
“What else do you know?” I ask.
“How ’bout ‘Edelweiss’?” Simon asks.
“Y’all know ‘Edelweiss’?” I ask, the word catching in my throat. My dad used to sing it when he rocked me to sleep.
“It’s Mrs. Campbell’s favorite. She let us watch The Sound of Music,” Rose says.
“Twice,” Simon says.
“Mrs. Campbell taught us the words. She said it’s a flower,” Alicia says.
Rose settles it, starting out on her own. “Edelweiss, edelweiss.” The others join in—Alicia confidently, Kenji quietly, and Simon with his serious intensity. The spontaneous song makes me ache; they’re so brave and sincere, singing their little hearts out with an armed gunman ten feet away.
As the notes float upward, a wave of memories of my father rolls over me, and I feel a sob bubble up in my chest.
After the first few lines, the children stall, stuck for the words. There’s a moment of dead air time, and I look helplessly at Jake and shake my head, teary-eyed, unable to make a sound without totally falling apart. Jake shrugs. He doesn’t know the words and I can’t sing them right now. The children lapse into silence.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, the air is filled with the melody of a sweet, high voice from the front of the room—so pure it sends a shiver through me.
Patrick!
His head is raised; the words are strong and clear. All of us look up in surprise as he fills in the missing words.
“Blossom of snow, may you bloom and grow, bloom and grow forever.”
His voice is haunting, and his face is filled with an angelic light. He seems unaware that anyone else is in the room; he’s caught up in the melody and transported to some place far away. He holds every note a little long before releasing it, as if it’s hard to part with each fragile bit of the melody.
“E-del-weiss, e-del-weiss, bless our homeland for-e-ver.”
The last clear note surrounds us. He stops and the room is silent, electrified by the unexpected solo. No one moves. The air is filled with the beauty of the simple melody and t
he power of his small voice.
Then Patrick realizes we’re staring, transfixed. He looks down at his hands in his lap and I see a tear drop onto his tiny thumb.
His father gazes toward the back windows without moving. His eyes are unfocused and distant.
“Patrick, that was beautiful,” I manage to whisper.
He looks up at me, and his lower lip trembles. “I want my mama,” he says in a desperate whisper, another tear slipping down his cheek as his face collapses in a sob.
I kneel beside his chair and hold him, refusing to look at his father, smoothing his hair and speaking softly to him while he cries. I feel so guilty for all the comfort we’ve given the others. This child needed me, too, but he was denied my help because of my fear. His small body melts into my side and his head rests on my shoulder as he clings to me. The other children watch in respectful silence until his cries taper off to whimpers. Eventually, a soft tick from the clock is the only sound in the room.
I never knew. In all the times I heard him hum to himself, in all the times I coaxed him to speak, I never saw this kind of confidence. Music brought strength from a place deep inside him that no one can touch.
Stutts stands and moves toward me. I stiffen. Then he reaches out and puts his hand on his son’s shoulder. His jaw clenches and his Adam’s apple moves in a hard swallow. Patrick remains motionless and we stand there, the three of us, linked by bizarre circumstance and uncertain fate. Eventually, I hear a soft yawn behind me and turn to see Rose’s head nodding.
The clock says 11:45. It feels like we’ve been in this room for days. The schedule on the wall shows 12:00–12:20 as Rest Time.
“What do y’all do during Rest Time?” I ask Simon.
“We put our heads down on our desks and listen to music or nature sounds.”
“Okay with you?” I ask Stutts. “I think they’re used to a break now.”
He doesn’t answer at first. Then he nods.
“I’ll get our pillows out,” Kenji says, running to a large shelf in back.
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