Lockdown

by Traci Hunter Abramson

  Staying out of sight, Tristan kept his gun trained on the boy and waited for his team to catch up to him.

  * * *

  “Has anyone called the police?” Kel asked the principal as they gathered in the high school’s main office.

  “I thought your guy did,” Principal Newsome told him, his face filled with disbelief. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me that this is a drill.”

  “I wish I could.” Kel turned to Seth. “Seth, give them a call. Make sure we don’t have any cop cars coming in with their sirens wailing. Tell them we’ll handle things inside the school, but we need them to stop all traffic into and out of the school area.”

  “Got it.” Seth immediately pulled out his cell phone.

  “Let me see the map of the school,” Kel demanded.

  As Seth dialed the direct line for the police department, Kel pointed at one of the secretaries. “Get me every school bus you can over here.” He paused long enough to locate the trouble spot on the map the principal had just laid out and see that it was an interior room. “I want buses outside of every exit. As soon as they have a full load, they take the students to the elementary school down the road and then come back for more.”

  The young secretary already had her phone to her ear and was relaying instructions to her contact at the bus dispatch office.

  Kel turned to the principal. “I want a list of everyone who might be in that classroom.”

  Within seconds, one of the secretaries grabbed something off the printer and handed it to him. “It’s Mr. Rhodes’s class, but there’s a substitute in there,” she said. “Rhodes didn’t show up this morning.”

  “A substitute. Perfect.” Kel rolled his eyes heavenward. “Brent and Quinn, start by evacuating the rooms next to the problem spot. Take a headset for Tristan and get me a visual of our gunman. We need to get this guy identified,” Kel told them. “Seth, put our resources to work and then go help them. Make sure everyone understands that the evacuation has got to be silent.

  “Mr. Newsome, I need you to call the teachers in rooms 160 and 164. Tell them that my men are coming to evacuate their students and that they need to keep these kids calm. It is imperative that no one make a sound while they are exiting the building.”

  The principal gulped hard and nodded.

  “We’ve got three buses already sitting in the lot. That should take care of the nearby classrooms. Everyone else we may have to hold in the cafeteria to wait for more buses,” Seth told Kel. “I’m going outside to set our boys up.”

  “Affirmative,” Kel replied without turning.

  By the time Seth hurried out of the school, all fifteen of the course participants had arrived. Standing with them was Riley. Seth divided the men into groups, stationing two people at each of the three main exits and sending eight more to begin evacuating the outer classrooms. He then sent the last one to the office to act as liaison with the local police.

  “What can I do to help?” Riley asked.

  Knowing that Tristan wouldn’t want her anywhere near the building, Seth nodded toward the street. “Jog down to where the police are barricading the road to the school. You can be our eyes and ears down there.”

  Riley looked at him doubtfully, but she nodded in agreement.

  “Riley, make sure they don’t let anyone through. Usually it’s the person who wants in the worst who will cause the most trouble.”

  “Be careful,” Riley said softly.

  “I’ll take care of him,” Seth promised before sprinting back into the building. Less than a minute later, he located his objective.

  20

  “I don’t believe this,” Principal Newsome said, looking down at the image Kel had displayed on his cell phone and shaking his head. “That’s Eric Rhodes. He’s the son of the teacher who didn’t show up this morning.”

  Kel turned to the secretary. “Why didn’t the dad come in?”

  “I don’t know. He just never checked in. There wasn’t an answer at his house when I tried calling, so I sent for a sub.”

  Kel pointed at Neil, his current police liaison. “Send a unit out to this kid’s house. Let’s see why the dad didn’t show up today.” He then turned to the principal. “I want all of your files on this kid—counseling records, everything. As soon as we finish evacuating the building, we’ll see if this kid is up for negotiating, but I want to know everything about him first.”

  * * *

  Philip Walberg retrieved a carton of orange juice from the refrigerator and poured himself a cup. He hadn’t expected to be so calm. Then again, he had planned this out perfectly. Every detail had been taken care of, every contingency reviewed. Nothing could go wrong. Even the worst case scenario was survivable. No one would ever believe he could have been involved. His reputation was above reproach, and now the skeletons were being buried.

  When the man he feared most had convinced him to manipulate the boy to kill his father, Philip had suggested simply turning Eric’s father in to the police for child abuse. That suggestion had been dismissed immediately. After all, they couldn’t take a chance that Rhodes would confess to the police about the gambling ring and ruin everything.

  Philip tried not to think about the intended results of his involvement. He took a sip of orange juice and glanced over at the clock. 8:30. He thought he would have heard something by now, but the police scanner on the kitchen counter was oddly quiet. So far the only activity this morning had been a traffic accident on Ridgecrest Drive. Philip had driven over a hundred miles to buy the scanner, paying cash, of course. Tomorrow he would take another long drive to dispose of it.

  Suddenly the dispatcher’s voice came over the scanner. Philip expected to hear a variety of codes, like “Officer needs assistance” or “Alarm sounding.” Instead the message was brief: “Code 10-49.” Philip searched the list of codes he had obtained with the police scanner and looked up the meaning. He saw that the code was just cop talk for sending officers out on a call. He waited for the location to follow, and his eyes widened when the dispatcher announced an address—a very familiar address. He turned and stared at the scanner, his heartbeat accelerating. Maybe he hadn’t anticipated every contingency after all.

  * * *

  His hands were sweating, his forehead beading with perspiration. Eric switched the gun to his left hand and wiped his palm dry on his jeans. Mrs. Cunningham was still talking. She was telling him that he could get help, that if he told the police the truth he wouldn’t have to go back home. He didn’t have to do something drastic to get help. He just had to tell the truth.

  Eric swallowed hard as he considered “the truth.” The truth that his father made him feel like nothing, a nobody. The truth that he wasn’t strong enough to fight back. But he was fighting back now. All these years of fantasizing about this, about finally standing up to his overbearing, unfeeling father, and now nothing was going right.

  “Why isn’t my dad here?” Eric demanded. He had asked the question several times before, but he still couldn’t understand the answer.

  “I told you, he didn’t show up for work today.” Mrs. Cunnigham was trembling, the stress of the past ten minutes obviously wearing heavily on her. “Mr. Wilkins came in because no one knew where your dad was.”

  He shifted the gun back to his right hand and shook his head.

  “Did you see your father this morning before you left?”

  “No.” The single word came out in a derisive snort. He never saw his father in the morning if he could help it. Even though they both went to the same place each weekday morning, Eric always walked the ten blocks to school. It could be snowing outside or pouring rain. It didn’t matter. Eric walked. His father said that he needed the exercise, that he needed to work off some of his excess weight. Of course, his father drove every morning in his flashy Z4.

  “Could he have been sick?”

  Eric let out a quick expulsion of breath. “He never gets sick.” He certainly hadn’t been sick when he had beaten Eric t
he night before.

  His mind churned along with his confused emotions. His father’s car had been in the garage when Eric had left that morning. He was sure because he had seen it when he had retrieved the hidden gun. It was right where it was supposed to be, tucked inside an empty paint bucket along with several clips of ammunition.

  He flexed his fingers around the handle of the gun once more, considering. He could make them bring his father. His eyes scanned over the frightened students and then landed on Mrs. Cunningham. With a wave of his gun, he motioned to the phone hanging on a wall.

  “Call the office. Tell them I want them to bring my dad here.”

  She hesitated as though understanding what he was planning. “Eric, this isn’t the answer.”

  His eyes hardened, and he aimed the gun at her. “Do it!”

  * * *

  Tristan had nearly fired his gun. He still wasn’t sure what had stopped him from squeezing the trigger when the boy had lifted his gun. Perhaps it was the look in his eyes. Oh, there was anger all right, but he didn’t want to hurt this woman. Tristan could sense it. Whoever she was, she was buying them time.

  The woman blinked hard against the tears swimming in her eyes and headed across the room toward the phone. The boy lowered the gun fractionally, and Tristan let out a sigh of relief. They still had time.

  * * *

  The phone rang just as Seth entered the main office. Except for the principal, all of the office staff had been evacuated.

  “We need three more minutes,” Seth announced.

  Kel nodded and pressed the button to answer the phone on speaker. He pointed at the principal, having already briefed him on the procedure to follow.

  “Front office, this is Principal Newsome.”

  “This is Mrs. Cunningham. I need you to find Mr. Rhodes and send him to his classroom.”

  “Is everyone okay?”

  “That’s right.” Tension vibrated through the line. “I need Mr. Rhodes as soon as possible.”

  “Tell Eric we’ll send someone to get him right now. It will take a few minutes. Just try to keep everyone calm.”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  No one spoke until the dial tone sounded. Kel hung up the phone and nodded at the principal. “You did great.”

  “Mrs. Cunningham isn’t even supposed to be in there.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She’s a special ed teacher. She works with the emotionally disturbed kids,” he told them. “Several of her students are in that class. She must have decided to go in there to help out when she found out there was a substitute today.”

  “Is Eric one of her students?”

  “He used to be.” The principal’s face reddened as understanding dawned. “Mr. Rhodes insisted that Eric be pulled out of the E.D. program.”

  “E.D. program?” Kel repeated, confused.

  “Emotionally disturbed,” the principal clarified. “Mrs. Cunningham had a fit when Eric was taken off her caseload. She was convinced that he was being physically abused, but Eric wouldn’t admit anything, so there was nothing we could do.”

  “Did the mother ever say anything?”

  “She insisted that everything was great at home,” Mr. Newsome replied. “Mr. Rhodes is a very popular teacher. I have a hard time believing he would hurt his own son.”

  “Believe it or not, it would help explain why Eric’s doing what he’s doing right now. Why else would he ask for his father?” Kel commented. He turned and called to Neil, who had gone into one of the attached offices to take a phone call from the local police department while Mr. Newsome was on speakerphone with Mrs. Cunningham. “Hey, Neil, what did the local cops have to say? Where is Mr. Rhodes?”

  Neil emerged from the office with wide eyes. “You aren’t going to like this.” He shook his head. “He’s dead. The police just arrived and found Eric’s parents lying in their bedroom. Both of them were shot to death.”

  * * *

  Philip got in his car. He just had to see for himself. Maybe Eric had abandoned the plan. Maybe he had chickened out. That would ruin everything.

  Philip’s hands were sweating as he gripped the wheel tighter and turned toward the high school. The roadblock was a good sign. That meant Eric was causing some kind of trouble. He might have already taken care of the problem. He might even be dead. Still, Philip had to be sure.

  He pulled up alongside one of the police officers. “What’s going on, officer?”

  “I’m sorry, but this road is closed.”

  “I was just going up to the high school.” Philip drew out one of his business cards and handed it to the policeman. “One of my patients attends there, and I’m worried about him. He’s been acting unstable for the past day or two, and I thought the principal should know.”

  The police officer read the card and considered the information. “What’s the student’s name?”

  “Eric Rhodes.”

  “Could you wait here for a moment, sir?” The officer turned and motioned to a woman nearby.

  Philip recognized her immediately. Riley Palmetta was one of many students he had counseled after the Oswell Barron massacre, but she was the only one of his patients who had actually seen the carnage. He expected she would be an unwitting ally in helping him get the information he needed. If necessary, he could convince her that he needed to talk to Eric. If the boy was still alive, all it would take was one more little push. To his surprise, he saw Riley shake her head and point to the side of the road.

  The police officer returned and rested a hand on Philip’s car window. “Please park over there, sir.”

  Reluctantly, Philip parked his car and then climbed out and approached the officer, who was talking to Riley once more.

  “But he’s the kid’s shrink. He might be able to help.”

  “My orders are specific. No one gets in,” Riley insisted.

  “What’s going on?” Philip demanded as he stepped up beside Riley. He knew she was worried. He could tell by the occasional deep breath she took.

  When Riley didn’t answer immediately, Philip pressed on. “Is something wrong with Eric?” Just then a bus filled with high school students drove by. “Oh, no. What did he do?”

  The police officer spoke now. “We have a situation. Your patient is holding a classroom hostage.”

  “Let me talk to him,” Philip insisted, his heart sinking. If Eric was still alive . . . He shook his head against the possibilities and put some authority in his voice. “I’m his doctor.”

  Riley pulled out her cell phone. “I’ll call the commander, but I don’t think he’s going to change his mind.”

  Kel picked up on the first ring.

  “Dr. Walberg is here at the blockade. He’s Eric’s psychiatrist and wants to speak to Eric.”

  “Negative,” Kel replied. “No telling if a familiar voice might make it worse.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Riley said before hanging up. She turned back to face Philip. “I’m sorry. No one gets through.”

  “I know this kid. I can help,” Philip pressed.

  “It may be too late for you to help,” Riley said sadly. “Right now we have to trust the people trained in hostage situations to do what they do best.”

  Grudgingly, Philip nodded and hoped that the information he had received on the Navy SEALs was accurate. He had read an article in the local newspaper about the course the SEALs were conducting just a few miles away, and he was confident that the police had called them in to help. After all, the police would surely utilize any resources available to avoid another Oswell. Philip just hoped his source was correct—that the SEALs would eliminate any perceivable threat, no questions asked.

  21

  “Get ready to move.” Kel’s voice was low, so low that Tristan heard it only over his communications headset, despite the fact that Kel was standing a mere four feet away. Seth and Brent were poised on the other side of the door at the back of the classroom, and Quinn had already checked in as well. He w
as positioned inside the air-conditioning vent, his rifle trained on young Eric Rhodes.

  Tristan maintained his position right outside the door, where he could see Eric without being seen, the same position he had taken when he had first located the threat. Only once had the boy come close enough to the door for Tristan to get a good look at the weapon. Traces of white were on the barrel, and Tristan worried that the boy might be on some kind of drugs. Still, weighing the risk factors, he believed they could get everyone out without anyone getting hurt.

  The call was his and he knew it. And unless Eric made an aggressive move, Tristan was waiting for a weak moment to go in. He was waiting for a replay of Eric shifting his gun to his left hand. Over the past fifteen minutes, he had repeatedly transferred the gun to his weaker hand in order to wipe the sweat from his palm.

  The special ed teacher, Mrs. Cunningham, had made a second call to the office just two minutes before to check on the whereabouts of Eric’s father. No one was sure whether Eric had killed his parents and somehow blocked it out or if perhaps he had witnessed their murders. Either way, they were dealing with a traumatized kid in the middle of a psychotic episode. Of course, there was also a third possibility. Eric really might not know that his father was already dead.

  A silent prayer ran through Tristan’s head that they could do this without hurting anyone. He hated killing. He had done it before, but only as a last resort to stop hardened terrorists and people threatening his squad and his country. This was so much different—the thought of facing down a gunman who wasn’t even old enough to have a driver’s license.

  He considered what the hostages were feeling, a terror he could only imagine. Riley knew what it was like to be unarmed and looking into the eyes of a man holding a gun. But this time would be different from what Riley had witnessed, he assured himself as he saw Eric rubbing his left hand on his jeans. “Get ready,” he said quietly.