Because of Logan

by Erica Alexander

  I think about what she said. It does feel longer than two months. We’ve grown closer. Secrets have been shared. Logan makes me feel good about myself. He sees me and he’s still here. He still cares.

  “Has he said the L word yet?”

  Her question brings me crashing down to reality. He hasn’t. Not with words, anyway. But sometimes, I could swear he’s on the verge of saying them but is holding back. Given his past, I can understand why.

  “No.”

  I don’t elaborate on it. What else can I say?

  “Hmm.”

  The sound is loaded with meaning, yet I can’t tell what she means by it.

  “Hmm what?”

  “I think he loves you.”

  “How so?”

  I’m fishing, I know. But I want to see if someone else sees it too. I want to know it's not just me making up stories in my head.

  “It’s pretty clear in the way he talks to you and looks at you.”

  “Elaborate.”

  I wave my hand at her in a motion that says keep going.

  River flattens a pair of jeans on the bed, wiping away any stubborn wrinkles, then folds it in half and adds it to the growing pile at the foot of the bed.

  “His eyes are always following you. Like one of those weird paintings. Wherever you go, he tracks you. Kind of stalker-ish, really. It would be creepy if it wasn’t so cute. And when you walk back into the room, his eyes light up like a kid’s on Christmas morning.”

  That puts a smile on my face.

  “And have you noticed he’s always touching you? If you’re within arm’s reach, some part of his body will be touching yours. So, yeah, I’d say that boy is in love, and if he hasn’t said the words yet, he will soon.”

  As River would say, my heart swells like Kanye West’s head. I’ve noticed how Logan is always touching me. Holding my hand, brushing a lock of hair away from my face, the tender kisses when we’re in public. And when we aren’t together, he shows he’s thinking of me with texts, phone calls, or pictures of something he saw in his day and thought I’d like. He cares. He may not have said the words, but it shows in his actions. And yet, I can’t help but be a little disappointed too. I want to hear the words. And I’m too chicken to say them first.

  “Have you said it to him?”

  River asks me.

  I shake my head.

  “That’s a negative, Ghost Rider.”

  “Why the hell not, Goose?”

  River picks up on my Top Gun reference, one of our favorite eighties movies.

  “Goose? I’m Goose?” I say.

  “Please, we both know that if anyone is Maverick, that’s me.”

  Damn it! She’s right, and she knows it too.

  “You do love him, right?” she asks again.

  “I think I do. I think I’m halfway in love with him and just waiting for him to say the words so I can finish falling the rest of the way.”

  “I don’t think you’re halfway there. I think you bottomed out already. Kaput. Splat. Flat on the ground. You’ve fallen all the way.”

  I drop my notebook to the bed. There’s no way I can concentrate on studying now. River is right. I’m in love with Logan. I’ve never felt this way. Whatever stupid infatuation I had for Blake back in high school has nothing on the way I feel about Logan. And yet I can’t bring myself to say it to him.

  I face-plant on the pillow next to me.

  “Ugh. I am in love with him. What am I gonna do?”

  My voice is muffled by the pillow, but River understands me all the same.

  “Just tell him. One of you has to take the first step.”

  “What if I say it and he doesn’t say it back? I’d be crushed. I don’t think I could take it.”

  “I don’t think he’d just leave you hanging and not say it back. I think he’s over-thinking this like you are.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “Nope, not one hundred percent. Mom is the psychic in the family. We should call her.”

  I pick my head up off the pillow just high enough to give her the evil eye. She laughs at me. We’ll have enough of Mom’s psychic abilities when we go home for Thanksgiving next week. No need to start now.

  “But you’re a little psychic. You always have those gut feelings.”

  River huffs an inaudible response, folding the last T-shirt. The laundry’s all organized in nice little piles, by type and color. She folds, and I put them away. That’s the deal. I get up and put the neatly folded piles into their places in her drawers and closet first before doing my own.

  “I’ll think about it. I don’t just want to blurt it out. Or say it during sex. I love you should not be said for the first time during sex. Or right after either. Too much room to confuse lust with love.”

  “You’re such a planner, Skye. Just let it happen. Let it happen when it feels right. If it's during or after sex, who cares? You know you love him and it's not some hormone-induced blabber. This is not one of your romance books. You can’t plot life. You’re so busy plotting, you’re forgetting to live.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The crackling sound coming through the radio asking for all officers in the vicinity of Riggins University to report to campus freezes me for a fraction of a second before training takes over and I turn the lights and sirens on. The sounds of my cruiser are soon joined by the same sounds coming from several others in the neighborhood, getting louder and louder the closer we get to campus.

  My heart races in tempo with the cacophony of sirens. Police, ambulances, EMTs. More information comes through the radio. The thundering of my heart is so loud in my ears, I only hear fragments of the words—Riggins University . . . Jane Austen building . . . code 105 . . . active shooter . . . hostages . . . lockdown . . . caution . . . armed and dangerous—and between each word, along with the sound of sirens and my heart, another word on repeat.

  Skye, Skye, Skye, Skye, Skye . . .

  The five minutes it takes me to get to campus and the two more to navigate the throngs of students and staff running away from it feels like an eternity in hell. My eyes dart everywhere, looking for Skye and trying not to run anyone over. I come to a stop twenty yards away from the Jane Austen building, where I know Skye has half of her classes. Half a dozen other patrol cars are stopped in a haphazard semi-circle around it.

  I was only eight years old when the Columbine attack happened, but it left such an impression on me. I watched it on TV and read about it on the newspapers my father left behind every morning. I was just a naïve kid back then and kept thinking if it was my school and I had a gun, I could have stopped it. Back then, I thought only bad guys and police officers had guns. I decided to be a cop on that day. For years, I nurtured that dream of stopping the bad guys. It faded as I grew up and my father molded me more and more to take over his company. But some of it lingered hidden still, because when I went to college, my major was Criminal Justice, which would be a nice segue into law school. But it never happened. My father and Amanda happened, and it gave me the final push to step from under his control and find my own way. And once I was out from under his domain, and faced with choices for what I wanted to do with my life, the first thing that came to my mind was my long-ago childhood dream of being one of the good guys with a gun. I never imagined that seventeen years later, I’d be facing the same kind of situation that made me want to be a cop in the first place.

  The university is on lockdown. I remember the lockdown procedures from when I attended Riggins—close and barricade all doors. Stay away from the door and any windows. Hunker down until the eminent threat is eliminated and either a school authority or an officer tells you so.

  Together with the other officers, I approach one of the entrances to the building. This one has four, aptly named North, South, East, and West. Each of the first-line officers on the scene pairs up and takes one of the entrances. We go South, and I hope this is not an omen for what’s to come. We don’t have enough guys for a diamond forma
tion just yet, but backup is on the way, I’m sure. It used to be that the standard procedure was to wait and call in resources and ask for assistance or for a SWAT team to show up. In Vermont, we have TSU—a Tactical Services Unit that works pretty much like a SWAT team does. After so many schools and public place attacks over the last few years, the way law enforcement responds to this kind of situation has changed. The first-line officers on the scene need to aggressively step in and neutralize the threat. The more time the suspect has to walk around free, the more harm he can do.

  I tamper down the urge to call or text Skye to make sure she’s okay. If she’s hiding somewhere, the last thing I want is for the sound of her phone ringing or buzzing to alert the shooter, whoever he is.

  The guy I paired up with, Mike, takes the lead and I’m close behind him. The long, empty hallway leads to dozens of doors, each closed. The only sounds are our breaths and soft footsteps. The silence is deafening. We follow the protocol for checking and opening doors, taking turns, staying behind the door, ducking under and catching the door with a foot, and entering the room with our weapons raised. Each room we check is empty. Papers and books lie abandoned on desks and the floor, water bottles and laptops left behind. We signal to the other officers and clear the first floor. This guy is either gone or upstairs. I know Skye’s classes are on the third floor of this building. Dread’s icy fingers run down my spine. We’re approaching the wide stairs at the center of the building now when I hear Pop-pop-pop.

  Three rapid-fire shots. Screams. No. Not screams. Shouts. The whole group takes the stairs now, stopping on the first landing to listen. More sounds come from upstairs. Three of us take the lead, and we’re running up the stairs now. Another six guys are behind us for cover and to protect our rear. We still don’t know if this is a lone shooter or if there’s more than one. When we get to the second floor, I can make out what he’s saying. He’s calling someone. And he’s a floor above us. The third floor. The floor where I hope Skye isn’t. My rapidly beating heart seems to stop with the realization that she could be in harm’s way before resuming an adrenaline-infused gallop.

  “You think you can leave me and take everything?”

  The shout echoes in the empty hallway.

  “Answer me, goddammit! Where are you, Regina?”

  The sound comes from our right, but when we spy around the top of the stairs, we can’t see him. He must be in one of the side corridors from the main one.

  “If you don’t come out here, I’m going to kill all these kids you love so much.”

  He follows the threat with another round of shots. The situation is escalating. We look at each other, and everyone is thinking the same thing. We have to take this guy down now. He’s losing his grip on reality fast.

  Without saying a word, we fall into two diamond formations. I take the front—I’m the point man—and two other officers flank me, Mike on my right, Steven on my left. And a fourth takes the rear to cover the three of us ahead of him. This formation originated in the military. The idea is that officers will have overlapping fields of vision and shooting ranges. The most difficult thing in this scenario is what we call sympathetic shooting, a trigger reflex when we hear gunfire, which is emphasized in the chaos of confronting an active shooter. But that’s where training comes into play.

  We don’t see any victims as we make our way closer to the shooter. That’s one of the hardest parts of confronting an active shooter. We can’t stop to help the victims until the danger is neutralized. Stopping the shooter from hurting anyone else is our first priority.

  Our steps are careful and soft. We want to keep the element of surprise as long as possible, even though this guy, whoever he is, must know cops will be closing on him sooner or later. Situations like this never end well.

  We close in on the corner, and now I can tell he’s in the corridor away from me.

  Steven signals and we close in behind him. He looks around the corner and calls out.

  “Drop your weapon and get on the ground!”

  The suspect whirls around and looks at me and Steven, raising his gun in our direction. We both take cover behind the wall, which is not an ideal situation since only two of us can look at him and take cover at the same time. As expected, he shoots at us. We duck behind the wall again. The gunshots are much louder now that we’re so close to him. Four more shots. The sound echoes in the empty hallway. Plaster rains on the ground as a cloud of dust settles around us. The acrid smell of gunpowder fills the air and coats my throat with a sharp and pungent metallic flavor. We wait and listen for his footsteps. Nothing. I’m holding my breath in a futile attempt to slow down my heart, but the adrenaline coursing through my veins won’t allow it. We’re going to have to take this guy down before he hurts someone. I’ve been lucky as a cop. I’ve never had to shoot at anyone before, and I don’t want to now. Steven looks at me and must read the hesitation in my face. This is not the place or time to second-guess myself. I think of Skye and the armed suspect who’s putting her life at risk and keeping me from getting to her. Coldness like I’ve never felt before washes over me. I would kill him with my bare hands, rip him to shreds to keep Skye safe. The realization shocks me, but I don’t have time to dwell on it right now. Steven is still watching me, and whatever he sees now must satisfy him because he nods at me to take position. The other guys fall into place as well. Steven calls out again.

  “Last chance to drop your weapon. You don’t want to do this. They’re just kids—”

  “I don’t want to hurt the kids. I just want my wife. She won’t talk to me.”

  “Okay, we can get her for you,” Steven bluffs.

  “Just put the gun down, and we’ll make sure to get her. What’s her name?”

  “No!” he screams.

  “I need my gun. This is the only way. I know she’ll come if she thinks I’ll hurt her students.”

  “I’m Steven. What’s your name?”

  Steven asks in a friendly tone, like they just met and are sharing a beer.

  There’s hesitation. We can hear him shuffling.

  “Just your first name and your wife’s, so we can get her for you,” Steven goes on.

  There’s perspiration around his temples, and I realize that cold sweat is running down my spine.

  “My name is Joe and my wife’s name is Regina.”

  Steven signals for one of the guys in the back, and he goes out to get more information on the teacher. There’s only silence over my earpiece. We stay quiet as not to alert the shooter of what’s happening on our side of the wall. It feels like hours, but it’s been only minutes.

  “Joe? We’re sending one of the guys to get Regina. Why don’t you put the gun down, so you can talk to her when she gets here?”

  “No. Get her first, and then I’ll put the gun down.”

  “Now, Joe, you know we can’t do that. For everyone’s safety, you have to put the gun down first.”

  “No. If I put it down, she won’t talk to me.”

  I hear quiet steps behind me. We have backup now, and one of them has an iPad with a live feed from the security cameras in the hallway. We can see the suspect—Joe—in the grainy black and white video. He’s pacing, a rifle in his hand, a duffel bag on the floor near him, and I bet it has more guns and ammo inside. Vermont gun laws are very lax. Visitors and residents can openly carry firearms or conceal them without a permit, and they can buy rifles and shotguns as easily as a can of soda. Handguns take a little more work as they have to be shipped through a federal firearms seller. There could be anything inside that bag, and knowing this terrifies me. The newcomers signal for us to pay attention to the communication from our earpieces.

  “The suspect is one Joseph James Orcher, forty-seven, married to Regina Ann Orcher. It seems that they are going through an ugly divorce and he’s none too happy about it. They have one kid, twelve years old, same name as the father.”

  I hold my breath for what I know is coming.

  “The wife is on th
is floor, room 307, and her roster has twenty-seven students in it. We can’t confirm if all students in her classroom are in attendance.”

  I should be thinking of the task at hand, but all I can think about is Skye. Her name pounds into me with each frantic beat of my heart.

  Steven resumes negotiations.

  “Hey, Joe? We talked to Regina. She said she’ll come out and talk to you, but you have to put the gun down. We can’t let her come in here if you are still armed.”

  “No. You’re lying. It’s a trick, I just know it. She’s in one of these rooms. I just need to find out which one.”

  We watch the video feed. He’s pacing frantically now, trying to look into the small windows of the two classrooms closest to him. I look the opposite way down the corridor he’s in, noting the numbers above the doors.

  Jesus Christ.

  His wife is in one of those rooms he’s closest to.

  “It’s not a trick, Joe. Think of your kid. How scared would he be if something happened to his mom or you? He needs his parents. Don’t do something you’ll regret.”

  “It’s too late, too late, too late,” he screams.

  We watch the video on the iPad. He’s walking our way, his voice getting louder with each step, the rifle raised. We’ve run out of time and options.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The shouts outside get louder and louder and then lower as the man in the hallway seems to pass the door to our classroom. We’re all huddled in the back, some of us inside a closet, but it can’t fit all of us in. Tables and chairs offer a weak barricade against the crazy man outside these walls. I think of River and whether she knows what’s happening or not. And of Logan. He must know. I’m sure the police got dozens of calls, if not hundreds. My phone is in my bag, in the front of the classroom. I can’t call Logan or my sister. But even if I had my phone, we’re all too afraid to make a sound. We stay as quiet as we can, but muted whimpers and low cries mingle between our tightly compressed bodies. Safety in numbers feels like a lie. I don’t feel safe in the least. I feel like a fish in a barrel, waiting to be shot.