“I’m hungry,” Jake said.
“Let’s get everything ready for when the girls get back.”
We trooped inside and prepared for dinner. Jake fished aged chopsticks out of the utensil drawer, his favorite and Laney’s. I grabbed some napkins and retrieved a beer for Rachel from the fridge in the garage, and a bottle of Pellegrino for myself. By the time I reentered the kitchen, I heard my wife’s car pull up. At the same instant, the home line rang.
“That’s probably Max,” Jake called from the kitchen.
I expected him to pick it up but the phone continued to ring. It sounded three times before I made it to the kitchen. Creasing my eyebrows, I moved to answer it.
“Don’t . . . please,” Jake said.
“Why? Who is it?”
I could tell Jake did not want to tell me, but he rarely left a direct question unanswered.
“It’s Doug.”
I lifted one eyebrow.
“I just don’t want to talk to him right now.”
CHAPTER 22
DAY TWO
First, I call Jen. She answers and I hear sadness before she even speaks.
“Is Max okay?”
“Yes.” She breaks down. “I am so sorry.”
Strangely, I do not feel emotion in this moment. Nothing at all. “Can I speak with him?”
Jen pauses. It is a lot I ask, considering what has happened. Yet, considering what has happened, there is no way she can say no. When Max gets on the line, I can tell he’s ready.
“Max? Are you okay?”
“I thought you’d call me,” he says.
His voice breaks and tears roll from my eyes again. I set them free, allowing the droplets to course down my cheeks and drip from my face without wiping them away. I do not sob or heave, though. The tears are peaceful but more real than any I have shed so far.
I stay quiet. Part of me needs to know what Max knows. Another part has absolutely no idea what to say. Like the parents outside our house, he might lash out, blame me, or worse, blame Jake. Maybe he will tell me all of the signs that I missed. I don’t think I can handle that, but I have to know.
My voice goes steely. “Talk to me, Max?”
“He didn’t do it, Mr. Connolly. I know he didn’t.”
I take a deep breath. My heart—already broken for my son, my family, the victims, and myself—breaks again for Max.
“I know it’s hard to understand. I don’t know what to tell you, Max. I’m sorry.”
“No, I mean it. I know he didn’t do anything.”
My brain feels numb as I comprehend what he said. I still believe this is simply adolescent denial. His young brain cannot comprehend the horrific facts so it has to change them. I understand that; I thought I saw it in Laney as well. But there is something about his tone, the way he makes that announcement, that sends currents tingling across my body. There is a very real possibility that Max knows my son better than I do.
“How do you know that?” I whisper.
Before he can answer, I dread what he might say because, for this split second, I can believe that my son had not taken part in this horrible tragedy. I can release a torrent of emotions that I did not even understand yet. Max let in a tiny, inconceivable hope that had vanished those first few hours after this ordeal started. Maybe Jake will come home to me, to us.
“Because I know. I know that kid Doug. He’s crazy. Jake was just nice to him, the only one, really. He always tried to protect him. I never understood why . . . Maybe I do, now. I don’t know.”
I hear Max crying. I imagine how difficult it must be for a seventeen-year-old male to cry on the phone with another male. I realize, though, that Max cannot be thinking that way.
“It’s okay, Max. None of this is your fault.”
He settles down. I hear him swallow and clear his throat.
“Thank you,” he says.
“Do you have any idea where Jake might be? Where I can find him?”
“I saw Jake that morning, Mr. Connolly. I talked to him. He said he was going to walk over to Doug’s house. I had to tell the police the truth. But they just didn’t care about the rest.”
“What rest?”
Max cleared his throat again. “He looked scared. Jake did. I’ve never seen him like that before. He’s a tough kid. He never really got upset about stuff.”
In a different circumstance, hearing my child’s friend speak candidly about his character would be utterly compelling, a spiritual treat. Under this circumstance, I hang on his words for a very different reason. I hunger to hear what makes Max so sure.
“He told me to stay away from Doug. He said something wasn’t right, that he was freaking out. Jake felt he had to go over there to make sure Doug wasn’t going to hurt himself.”
Max’s words became a chisel, chipping away at what I feared to be true.
“Did he say anything about hurting other people?”
“No.” Max’s reply sounds adamant. “Jake would never hurt anyone. You know that.”
I did. Yet, possibly, I had forgotten.
“Did he say anything else?”
Max does not respond right away. When he speaks, his voice sounds guilty and unsure. “He told me to tell you that he was sorry.”
My eyes burn and I have to swallow, but I cannot. I fall back into a chair, my legs giving out from under me.
He was sorry. For what? I do not understand. What did I do? What could I have missed? I failed my son. I failed on my most basic charge, protecting my own child. Nothing made sense any longer.
“What did he mean?” I whisper. To myself or to Max, I am not sure.
“I don’t know,” Max replies, breaking down again.
For a time we cry on the phone together, all pretense shattered. Finally, I can take it no longer.
“I have to go.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Connolly . . .” Max sobs.
“You are a great friend.”
I hang up the phone and bury my head in my hands. The weight of my body presses into the chair. I cannot feel my fingers or my feet any longer. This cannot be happening. It has to be a joke, some sinister test.
One thing is certain. I have to get to the Martin-Klein house. I know for sure that’s where Jake went yesterday morning. I grab my spare keys and go out through the den into the garage. It is empty and I remember that the police have my car and Rachel has hers.
“Shit,” I growl, slamming my fist into the wall. I rush back into the house and throw on my running shoes. Their house is five miles away, less than one mile from the school. I burst from the front door and sprint through the renewed crowd. I feel a dark thrill as a few of them try to stay with me but fall behind like little yapping dogs chasing a car. The air rushes past my face and I feel alive. I am action now. I will not be stopped.
It is the fastest five miles of my life. My mind goes numb and my feet pound on the asphalt. I feel medieval as I push through the pain and the stares. I have one, and only one thought—getting to the Martin-Klein house.
When I reach their street, I stop, bending at the waist, hands on hips and panting as I take in the scene. Like our home, a ring of onlookers circles the property. This group, however, is different. The Martin-Klein house is not just dark, it appears long vacant. Although a few reporters stand on the fringe, within range of the streetlight half a block away, the rest skulk in the shadows. I instantly feel unsafe.
Pausing only for a moment, I walk down the driveway. These people will not stop me from finding Jake. I hear the threats as I pass among them, but no one touches me. I am through their midst and find open space surrounding the house. It is as if they fear being too close. I wonder. Are they afraid of getting hurt or catching whatever it is that allows a human to act as Doug has?
I approach the front door. The windows look like black soulless eyes staring at me. I press the doorbell and hear it echo behind the closed door. Otherwise, the house remains silent. I hear only the ominous murmur behind me.
&
nbsp; I cannot take no for an answer. I pound on the door. As I stand, shoulders wide, on the threshold, I see my shadow expand across the side of the house and realize a camera is recording. I think back to the moment at my house and feel I am pushing it.
At the same time, I feel like the atoms in my body are vibrating, like I might burst apart and scatter across the universe. My hand pounds the glass. It rattles but does not break. Behind me, the crowd moves closer, like a torch-carrying mob. I take a step away from the door, toward them. I am ready to fight every one of them. Then I’ll beat down the door and find out what Doug’s father knows. Another step and a young woman appears in front of me. She has the look of a reporter, but her eyes are not jaded. She is not looking at me like I am an animal in a zoo.
“We have a police scanner in the van. The police are coming. Someone called them. Get out of here before they do. It won’t look good.”
My head tilts. This moment makes no sense. The absurdity of a reporter telling me to get away before the best story of the night unfolds right before her camera is not plausible. This bubble of humanity strikes me to the core.
“Thank you,” I whisper. And I run home.
I return to an empty house. Worse, I have no car. I decide to call the detective. I will demand to know what they know. I will demand answers. Instead, I am put on hold.
Phone to my ear, I turn on the television. I do not know why I do this, other than it is a rote reaction to our generation’s need to know more. Our children surf the Net to learn the news. For me, the golden box remains king.
Immediately, I realize something has gone wrong. A thick red band crosses the screen entitled BREAKING NEWS. I find myself reading the scroll at the bottom and not listening to the crisply dressed middle-aged man with the graying temples talk on screen. It reads: Shooting at Kansas school/Victims thought to include four children and one teacher/Police source names Jeff Jenkins primary suspect.
I listen to the anchor.
“Initial reports claim that Jeff Jenkins was obsessed with the Delaware school shooting earlier this week. On a Facebook page since taken down, we found this post: ‘13 is nothing. Wait until you see what’s next.’”
I change the channel, my finger slamming the remote button down as if I can erase what I am hearing. A cable news channel shows much the same, except the host is now a young woman in a low-ish cut silk shell and a uniquely angled business jacket. A man in a crisp black suit with perfectly combed hair and soft jowls sneers out through the screen. He speaks as if his words carry a wisdom that he’s decided the rest of us have forgotten.
“Parents should have known. We could have seen this coming. From all accounts, Jeff Jenkins was strange. He kept to himself; no real friends. Just like we see in the Delaware case. Schools, and God help us PARENTS, need to identify these children before they harm others. Open your eyes, people. Look at your children. If you’re sitting there saying to yourself, Wow, little Johnny is different. But you’re convincing yourself that he’s just special, well, I say you are an accomplice to murder. There, it’s out there. I challenge anyone to prove me wrong.”
The host is visibly uncomfortable. “Okay, hold on there. I want to be sure that everyone understands that this is not a view held by this station.”
Rage burns under my skin, warming my body as Muzak plays in my ear. I slam the channel button again, daring them to show me more of this filth.
“Of course introversion is a personality type. There have been many successful people who might fall under that categorization. They are people who look inward, not outward. They seek quiet as opposed to noise. Their ideal night is spent at home, not at a party,” a middle-aged professorial woman says.
The host nods along, smirking. When she speaks, righteous indignation seeps from her like a contagious illness.
“They kill, too, is that not right, Dr. Gregory?”
I turn off the television. Strangely, the anger abates. My mind latches on to a single comment I heard—Just like we see in the Delaware case. The woman referred to a child with no real friends. I will never forget the sound of Max sobbing on the phone. Never. It was the sound of a true friend suffering utter loss. The woman was wrong.
The hold music begins to grate. I look at the display. I have been on hold for over twenty minutes. I startle when someone knocks on the door. Hanging up the phone, I answer it. Jen stands before me, her eyes red rimmed and her face pallid.
“Can I come in?”
I nod.
As I back away from the door, I see flashbulbs pop. They are taking pictures of me letting this other woman into my house. Great.
I sit down without offering Jen a seat. She remains standing. When I look up, I see she is crying. Everyone is crying. My life has become a babbling creek of despair.
“There was another shooting.”
“I know,” she whispers. “I had to come over to make sure you’re okay.”
“They say the kid did it because of ours.” It seems strange for a second that I take ownership of this tragedy; but it is ours now. No one touched by these events will be free of them, ever. If we don’t own it, it will own us.
“They need to be able to explain it away. That’s what all this is about. If they can’t categorize what happened, put it in a nice, neat box, they can’t sleep at night. . . . I’ve done it before. Now I see how awful it can be, though. It’s like they want to pick at us until we are bare, exposed, just to make themselves feel better. They dissect our pain just so they can convince themselves they are immune to it. It is like someone suffering a horrible disease and finding someone who is worse off than they are and asking them, Why? Why are you worse off than me? How is your situation different from mine? Tell me, so I can go home feeling better as you stay here and die.”
Jen begins to cry as she speaks. I want to get up, wrap her in my arms, and hold her, but I have no comfort left to give. I am used up.
She continues. “You know, it’s been proven. If there is a suicide and the news reports it, particularly with their typical flare, the suicide rates actually go up in that area. This is proven. Kids can’t buy cigarettes because they die fifty years down the road. But they can watch the news even though it might kill them in three days.”
“Jen,” I say, reacting to the tension in her voice.
“No, I mean it. If that’s true for suicide, which it is, then why wouldn’t it be true with school shootings, too? There are kids out there on the edge. Shouldn’t we try not to push them over? Maybe that kid did copycat the Martin-Klein kid, but maybe it wouldn’t have happened if those vultures out there just kept quiet, stopped making these troubled souls into superstars.”
“It’s okay.” I feel impotent, unable to calm her. “Everything is going to be okay.” My words are empty.
“No it’s not,” she snaps, her hands shooting up and covering her face. “Oh God, I am so sorry.” She laughs, a sound totally lacking in mirth. “I came here to make you feel better.”
I cannot take it anymore. I stand up and hug Jen. As my arms wrap around her, I imagine the reporters outside sneaking up to my windows, craning and jockeying, and finally snapping picture after picture of my staged infidelity. I think of Laney and how that would make her feel. My insides are a storm, a swirling tempest of neurons and guilt. Pulling away, I can’t look at her.
“I think I need to be alone,” I say.
Jen shudders, but nods. She backs to the door.
“He didn’t do it,” she blurts out. “He’s a great kid. The best. Don’t let them make you think he did. Don’t let that happen. Promise me!”
I stare at her.
“Promise me, Simon! I mean it,” she cries out. Her entire body shakes. “Don’t let them do that to him.”
She’s too late. I have already returned to my senses. Jake could never have done anything like this. I knew that all along.
“Don’t leave,” I say.
“What?”
“I need your help.”
; Jen looks confused. “Okay.”
“I need to take your car.”
CHAPTER 23
DAY TWO
I am already sitting in Jen’s car when Rachel calls.
“I see you have a visitor,” she says after picking up.
“What?”
“Jen.”
I am confused, thinking for a second that Rachel has the house under surveillance, which makes no sense at all. Then I remember the TV crews outside.
“I called Max.”
There is a pause before Rachel speaks. Her tone is cool, protected. “What did he say?”
“That Jake couldn’t have hurt anyone.”
“I know that. What else?”
“He said that Jake was afraid of Doug. He was really upset.”
“And Jen?” she asks.
“I don’t know. Nothing. Look, we have to find Jake.”
She laughs. “What do you think I’m doing?”
I pause this time. Strangely, I have no idea what Rachel thinks. Our communication since this all started has been disjointed at best. At worst, we have split, a chasm opening (or opening wider) between us.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“I’ve called the police and threatened a suit if they don’t find Jake soon. They’re treating him like a suspect, not like a victim, so they don’t care about the possibility that he is hurt somewhere.”
My mouth forms words before I think it through. “You thought he was dead before.”
“They can’t just leave him out there somewhere . . . alone. No matter what.”
I feel dizzy. I want to yell at her, tell her she knows nothing. Yet I realize I know nothing. Some part of me believes Jake is alive, maybe hurt, but alive. The rest of me is numb, thoughtless.
I go back to the one truth we share. We have to find our son.
“I think this all ties back to whatever was going on with Alex Raines. Can you check with the police, see if there were any complaints? I tried to call his father again but he won’t answer.”
“I’ll try,” Rachel said. “I’m heading to the station now. They might not release that kind of information, but I’ll try.”
Finding Jake Page 18