by Sean Platt
Houser kept his questions to himself since he could tell by Jon’s voice he didn’t want to talk about it, at least not over the phone. “Gonna fly me first class?”
“Have I ever not?”
“No, but I like busting your balls, Jon.” Houser laughed again. “I’ll be on the next flight, even if it’s coach, and swim across the channel if I have to. You can count on me.”
“I know. That’s why I’m calling,” he said. “I’m staying at the Sands of Time Hotel.”
“Anything else I should know? Maybe look into while flying?”
“No,” he said. “See you in a few hours. Just keep the daughter thing to yourself, of course.”
“Of course,” Houser said.
“Thank you,” Jon said.
“You’re welcome. See you soon.”
Houser hung up, then turned to the teddy bear in the cop uniform riding shotgun. “Well, buddy, we said we were bored. Shit’s about to get interesting again.”
* * * *
CHAPTER 3 — Milo Anderson Part 1
Hamilton Island, Washington
Thursday
September 7
10:24 a.m.
Heller turned from the whiteboard, toward the classroom – face clammy and eyes bloodshot, hands shaking as he turned his head back and forth.
He looked down at his desk again, hands on either side of his briefcase, then pulled out a pistol.
Amber Riley screamed as students gasped around her.
Heller aimed the gun and fired, shooting Tommy Hopkins in the face.
Jessica ran toward him, eyes wide like her mouth.
Milo wanted to protect her, but Heller was faster.
Milo tried to speak but the gunshot murdered his voice, and Jessica. Blood pooled across her powder blue sweater.
Manny was shot in the stomach, laying on the carpet, twitching, eyes glassy.
Heller came toward Manny, gun shaking in his hand. Heller paused, staring at Manny with hollow eyes. He kneeled and whispered something to him.
Heller then turned to the whiteboard, pointing at the word “eleven” with the barrel of his gun.
He parted his lips and shoved the gun inside his mouth.
Heller pulled the trigger and Milo screamed.
Milo shot forward from his mattress, screaming, wondering if he would ever be able to dream anything else ever again. It was hard enough to have witnessed the horror of what happened, but he wasn’t sure how much longer he could go on seeing the visions played out over and over every time he fell asleep.
Milo swung his legs from bed and threw the covers toward the footboard, shaking his head. This couldn’t be real, Alex’s goofy dad couldn’t have gone Columbine. It didn’t make any sense.
Milo went to the bathroom, took a piss, and wondered if today’s misery would be any dimmer than the day before. He sure as hell hoped so because the school was opening its doors tomorrow, and Milo was damned sure he was gonna have a bad day.
He scratched his arms, annoyed that his stupid allergies were coming early. They seemed to itch even more than they had the day before.
Milo thought skipping the funeral would make him feel better, keeping him from having to stare the icy reality between the eyes. He couldn't bear the thought of seeing Jessica, or the others, frozen forever. It wasn’t just that. Milo could have forced himself to look inside the coffin. It was everyone else that would tear him apart. Despair he could deal with, no matter how bleak, as long as no one spoke to him. Once they did, Milo would break.
Milo perked his ears but didn’t hear Other Mom at all. He could always tell when she was in the house, even when she was quiet. The house had a different feel and sound when others were in it. For the moment, Milo was alone.
He crossed his room, opened the door, then peeled the pink Post-It from the front of his door:
“In Seattle with Janet and Teena. There’s $50 downstairs on the kitchen counter. Go out and do something fun, or order a pizza. Whatever you want. I won’t be home any later than 4:00 or so. Take care of yourself. Maybe order a movie from PayPerView? Whatever you want, it’s okay. xoxo”
Milo hated the x’s and o’s, and hated Beatrice for writing them. She could be gone a whole month with Janet and Teena for all he cared. That would save him from having to play nice and pretend like they were some kinda happy family.
Milo wondered if it was even worth leaving his room as he sat at his desk and opened the lid to his Mac, then logged on to his LiveLyfe page, the social media site many of the kids flocked to once Facebook became their parents’ number one hangout.
He updated his status:
“Going through Hell.”
Milo scrolled through his news feed, looking through his friends’ posts and videos and pics, pausing at an entry from Leslie Sissom, another junior at Hamilton Island K-12.
“This is America, where you can find a gun easier than mental health services.”
Milo gave it a High-Five by clicking on the icon of the open palm, then continued to scroll, wiping his tears as he reached the bottom and waited for LiveLyfe to load older posts to the feed. He moved his cursor to the LiveLyfe search box and typed, “Hamilton shooting,” then stared at the list that swallowed the page, scrolling until he hit the fourth choice: Hamilton K-12 Shooting Survivors Group.
Milo clicked on the link, then started reading through the posts from the kids at his school, a mix of names he recognized, screen names he didn’t, and names involving “clever” plays or words involving either 420, genitals, some racist term, or oftentimes a combination of all three.
“One day I’ll leave the island, but every time I hear a firecracker snap or a balloon pop, I’ll see blood and probably jump.”
“What a psycho, shooting up a school like that. Good thing Heller’s dead.”
“I heard the gunshot, then saw the empty expression on Mr. Heller’s face, just before he pulled the trigger.”
“MR. HELLER KILLED MY BFF. I HOPE HE ROTS IN HELL!!!!”
“All the assholes on the news are asking, why did this happen on Hamilton Island?” They blame us for not taking more precautions, but how can you prevent crazy?”
“If schools around the country can do metal detectors on kids, they ought to do it on the teachers, too!”
“I knew Heller was a bit too ‘nice’ and ‘squeaky clean.’ Makes you wonder what else he was up to?”
Milo kept scrolling, getting angrier as he read – his rage at war with his swelling sadness. There were a few legitimate fears, and thoughts about the students who died. In a school as relatively small as Hamilton, everyone pretty much knew everyone else. The grief may have been real, but that didn’t give anyone the right to act as if they were there, or stand on the shoulders of the victims so they could gaze out at the rest of the world. Christopher Swart, the guy who said he’d always have nightmares, was the only one on the page who was even in the room. Roland Wilder, the asshole who commented on Heller’s empty expression wasn’t even in the same grade. And then some of the names, he didn’t even recognize. Probably trolls just looking to hit the hornet’s nest to see what comes out.
One troll in particular stuck out, a name that despite seeming like a real name, struck him as made up. It was Cody Brandt, who posted:
“Mr. Heller was screaming at everyone, telling them to kiss the floor as he waved the gun in the air. His eyes were crazy and he was drooling like a dog.”
The post made Milo so mad he felt like punching his laptop.
Milo typed:
“Unlike you, I was there. I was the only one who was there, other than Manny, who saw Heller shoot himself.”
There was a ding, just seconds later. A private message.
“Cody Brandt: You were there?”
“Milo A.: Yes, who are you? You shouldn't be making stuff up.”
“Cody Brandt: Someone who thinks there’s more to this story.”
“Milo A.: What do you mean?”
“Cody Brandt: Did an
yone talk to you yet about what happened?”
Milo took a second to think, mentally scrolling through the long list of reporters, police department and Paladin officers, all asking a similar series of questions, with varying degrees of compassion. He wrote:
“Of course. Reporters, cops, everyone. What do you think?”
“Cody Brandt: What did you tell them?”
“Milo A. The truth, unlike you.”
There was a long pause. Milo was ready to log off and leave the asshole behind, when there was another ding.
“Cody Brandt: Did Mr. Heller say anything to you before he killed himself?”
“Milo A.: No, but he said something to my friend, Manny.”
“Cody Brandt: Then your friend is in danger.”
“Milo A.: WTF do you mean?”
There was no response, not then, or for the five minutes Milo spent waiting, scratching his arm and cursing his goddamn allergies. “Cody Brandt” had crept under his skin, along with the pollen.
A loud knock on the door downstairs made Milo jump from his chair.
He went to the window, slipped his fingers into the slats of the blinds, then pulled them open enough to see outside. Alex.
Milo turned from the window, then collapsed onto his bed.
Fuck him and his father.
He could stand out there all damn day for all Milo cared.
Milo hoped it rained.
Milo closed his eyes and decided he wasn’t ready to wake up today.
* * * *
CHAPTER 4 — Alex Heller Part 1
Alex knocked on Milo’s door, feeling exposed and alone standing on Milo’s doorstep, as if behind every closed window on the street, prying eyes peered from barely opened curtains and blinds.
There he is, the son of the murderer.
Come on, Milo. Open the door. I know you’re in there.
He didn’t know if Milo was home, but figured he was, since his mom’s SUV wasn’t in the driveway. Milo’s dad usually kept the sedan in the garage, but Alex doubted his father was home, either. He was never home. And if he were, Alex wasn’t horribly concerned that Milo’s dad would freak out nearly as much as his Other-mom. Milo’s dad was laid back, and a nice guy. Why he’d married Beatrice was beyond Alex. Sure, she was hot. But there were tons of hot women who weren’t blue ribbon bitches.
Alex knocked again, listening at the door to see if he could hear music or the TV. Nothing but silence.
Alex grabbed his cell and called Milo.
It went to voicemail.
“Come on, man. I know you’re home. Please, come to the door. I want to talk. I want to tell you how sorry I am about my dad. I’m just as freaked as anyone. Please, Milo.”
Alex hung up and waited a few minutes at the door to give Milo time to listen to the voicemail, maybe change his mind and come to the door. He waited nearly five minutes before turning from the door and heading back to his bike.
Alex rode, uncertain where to go. He thought about riding to Katie’s, but was afraid of her mom’s reaction. To almost lose your daughter to her boyfriend’s father had to be the kind of thing that would make Alex an unwelcome guest for the foreseeable future.
He thought about going to the ferry, getting on, and never coming back. He could go somewhere and start over in a place where he wasn’t known as the son of Roger Heller, murderer! But he couldn’t just up and leave his mother and sister. They needed him more than ever. They were alone, left to pick up the pieces and start over, attempting to rebuild their lives.
How do you start over when the world is pulled out from under you?
Having nowhere else to go, and not daring to reach out to any of his friends, Alex decided to go home. As he passed the Paladin security truck parked in front of his house, he saw Katie’s car in the driveway, pushing his heart to a rapid thud in his chest. Finally, someone to talk to. Not just someone, but his girlfriend – assuming she was still allowed to see him.
Or wanted to.
He hopped off his bike before he even hit the brakes, then kicked the stand and ran inside his house. Katie was sitting in the living room with his mom and Aubrey, talking. Her eyes were red and so was her nose. She held a fat cluster of used tissues in the palm of her right hand.
Katie stood up, then came to Alex. She met his eyes then broke the gaze and hugged him. At first, the embrace seemed obligatory, as though part of her was afraid to fully commit. He wondered if it was a sign of new distance between them, or if maybe she were getting ready to break up with him. He squeezed her tighter, closing his eyes, trying his best not to cry. His hands found her thick, long brown hair, and he stroked her mane through their embrace.
“God, I miss you,” he whispered.
The warmth of her embrace was a blanket after the icy nothing that had swallowed his life since Friday. She smelled so good, too, like that raspberry soap she got from The Body Shop.
Alex parted before he allowed himself to cry, then met her eyes. This time she didn’t look away as she wiped her tears away. “Your mom wanted me to tell her exactly what happened on the day of the shooting,” she said.
Alex felt his stomach drop. “Oh.”
“Do you want me to tell you?”
Alex didn’t know what to say. He’d heard the unbelievable details on the news from police statements based on witness accounts. He’d watched the constant replays on TV of the security camera footage of students running through the halls screaming. Would he learn anything new? Would hearing the details from Katie somehow make things make sense?
Alex looked at his mom and she nodded. “I think you need to hear this,” she said, patting the couch beside her.
Alex sat next to his mom while Katie sat on the connecting love seat to their right and told them what happened, starting with how he was late to class, and then finally arrived looking disheveled, writing the number “eleven” on the whiteboard.
As Katie spoke, Alex stared at his little sister, lying in her playpen, playing with her stuffed Eeyore doll, biting its tail, oblivious to the three people discussing her father and his horrible acts that would change the island, and their lives, forever.
“He looked so . . . different. He wasn’t himself. Like he’d been up all night, or . . . drinking or something.”
“Dad, drink? No way,” Alex shook his head. “The hardest thing he ever drank was iced tea.”
“It’s all so weird. This is the kind of thing you see on the news, not something that happens to people you know. Not to your friends,” Katie said, staring at Alex, though her gaze looked like it was somewhere in Seattle. “I shouldn’t have run. Maybe Jessica would be alive, or maybe Manny would be here, instead of a hospital bed, if I’d stayed put. Maybe I could’ve talked your dad out of . . .” Katie’s voice started to crack.
Alex got up and moved beside Katie, hugging her, as her voice finally broke and she surrendered to sobbing.
Alex’s mom stood, tears streaming her cheeks, and said, “I’ll be back,” before heading up the stairs.
As Alex held Katie, he felt torn, as if he should be upstairs comforting his mother. Truth was, he didn’t know how to comfort her, or if it were even his place. She was his mom, after all. She’d always been a strong woman, independent, and part of Alex felt she needed to feel strong now more than ever before. If she knew that he’d seen her weaknesses, it might make her feel even worse.
So he stayed on the couch, holding Katie.
She pulled away, wiping her eyes, and asked for more tissues. Alex grabbed the box his mom had been using, handed it to Katie, and she blew her nose. She met his eyes and asked, “Does the number ‘eleven’ mean anything to you? Do you know why he wrote that?”
Alex racked his brain, trying to think of any significance the number held for his dad, or maybe their family. Other than the fact that his dad’s birthday was in November, the eleventh month, Alex couldn’t think of anything that stood out, much less rose to the importance of being the last thing he communicated to th
e world before opening fire on his students.
“I have no idea,” Alex said. “They didn’t mention that on the news. It’s weird.”
“I know. Usually he’d write something on the board before class and then he’d talk about the subject. Sometimes, he’d even do it creatively, starting with a word or phrase that didn’t seem to have anything to do with the story he was going to tell, and then in the end, he’d come back to it, and you’d be sitting there thinking what a genius he was.”
“Yeah, he was.”Hu
Aubrey giggled at something apparently only she could see, momentarily distracting Alex and Katie. In that moment, conversation stalled and an awkward silence sank between them. Alex had no idea what to say.
Finally, he cleared his throat and managed, “So does your mom hate me?”
“No, not at all.” Katie shook her head. “She told me to give you her love. She feels horrible about what happened.”
“What about you?”
“I could never hate you,” she said, her eyes locking onto his. “I just . . . I just feel awful, like I want to somehow take all this away, make it not happen. It’s so tragic... for everyone.”