Leave No Child Behind

by Randy Overbeck

  Samson glanced though the glass at the huge windows at the dome of the Capitol. He noticed the rain was back, slashing against the pane. It choked the air, darkening the sky and his mood. Within five seconds, his phone rang and he picked it up.

  “Harold Samson.”

  “Well, Harry, old buddy!” called the voice on the other end of the line. “It’s Jim Cromer.”

  Samson didn’t detect any anxiety in his greeting and he relaxed a bit. “Well, Jim, how are things at HBE?”

  “A little tense, Director. A little tense,” answered Cromer, four hundred miles away. “I can tell you this. I’ll be glad when this son-of-a-bitch is juiced!”

  “I’m sure you will, Jim,” Harold said. “Are the natives unusually restless?”

  “About what you’d expect,” said James Cromer. “After I got that call from the President, I talked to my bosses. They gave the okay to use as much overtime as I needed, so I’ve put all the guards on double shifts. It’s probably overkill, but better safe than sorry.”

  “Probably a smart move. Jim, I have to keep this short. I’m due at the White House in a few minutes.” Samson gathered up the folder his assistant had dated and organized, and slid it inside his briefcase. “Is everything okay? Any particular reason you called?”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, you told me to keep you personally informed if anything happened, anything at all. Right?

  “Yeah, what do you got?”

  “I just got a call from the Hammerville Police Chief, Jeff Barker. He called to check to make sure everything was all right out here at the prison. He said he’d gotten a prank 911 call for help from the high school and wanted to make sure we were okay here at the prison.”

  Harold stopped his preparations. “What did the caller say? Was he sure it was just a prank?”

  “The caller yelled something about an attack on the high school. Apparently, they get a couple of these calls a year, you know when students want to get out of a test or something,” Jim Cromer explained. “So before they roll a unit, they have a procedure that they call the school to double-check.”

  “And everything checked out?”

  “I guess so,” continued the HBE Warden. “He said Marie, that’s the 911 operator, called the school and one of the janitors answered the phone. He said it had been a prank call from a student and the kid was getting grilled in the principal’s office.”

  “Did you say the janitor answered the phone?” Harold’s fingers reached behind the black and beige bow tie and tugged at it.

  “Yeah, it was lunch time and I guess everybody else was in the cafeteria.” Neither one spoke for a few seconds and then Cromer said, “Harold, are you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. Did they run a squad car out to the high school?”

  “Not yet. He said they were going to make a stop on their regular patrol route, in about an hour, I think.” When Samson didn’t respond, Cromer said, “Harold?”

  “Okay. Follow up and have them make sure everything is okay at the high school.”

  “Sure.”

  “And then get back to me.”

  “Can do, Harold. In the meantime, don’t let the big guys push you around too much.”

  “I’m not worried about the big guys. I’m worried about the bad guys,” Samson said. “Gotta go. Call Joyce if anything breaks. She’ll catch up with me. I’m due at the big house.”

  Chapter 32

  “Strip off your clothes!” Jesus screamed at me.

  Expecting a bullet, I was so stunned at his incredible demand that I couldn’t move. “What?” I got out.

  “Teacher, are you stupid and hard of hearing? I said take off all your clothes! Now!” A burst of gunfire exploded at my feet. I jumped back and fell into Jerod, who caught me. When he helped me to my feet, Jesus screamed, “Take off your clothes or I will rip them off in front of all these students! I will educate these children how insolent whores are to be treated!”

  I looked helplessly at the students and teachers staring at me, mouths agape. Even though I tried to control it, embarrassment flooded my face and seeing the red in my cheeks resurrected the sneer on my captor’s face. He nudged his partner and smiled in smug victory.

  Here! my mind raced, outside, in the freezing cold? He must be crazy! In front of the students and my friends? I cannot do that! I will not do that! I shrieked inside my head.

  Then, staring into the gray gun barrel, I quickly recognized that I had no choice. I fought to regain some composure. I figured that if I did not comply immediately, Jesus might begin firing again, this time maybe into the crowd, and take pleasure doing it. I had already resigned myself to the fact my death might well be imminent, but I was not about to allow my modesty to rush that fate onto my students.

  Slowly I unwrapped my arms from my body. My grip around my middle had been so tight that I had bruised my ribs. The bracing cold wind struck me again, like a giant taunting hand. Up to that point, I had been locked in a battle so fierce, that I had been almost immune to the freezing temperatures, or at least hadn’t noticed them. The instant I took my arms away, the cold invaded again and my whole body began to shake. I reached down and slowly removed my black shoes, one by one, and laid them next to me on the soaked deck. Then I tugged at each black sock, pulling them off my feet with a sharp yank and set them inside the shoes. I set my bare feet down on the sleet-covered wood. The biting cold invaded through my exposed soles and began crawling up my legs like a poisonous snake. On shaky feet, I straightened back up.

  The two terrorists were both leering at my embarrassment. Each was taking turns elbowing the other and rubbing his groin. Allah’s sacred army, my ass!

  It took little imagination to envision what they had planned for me, in front of these students. I tried to steel myself. I glanced back and noticed all the students and teachers were still watching me, eyes glued in horrid fascination. I wanted to tell them to look away. Don’t you know this is what he wants, for you to watch me being humiliated? But I said nothing. I tried to keep my movements calm and controlled, fighting to hold on to some semblance of composure, even as I was shaking from the frigid temperatures and icy fear.

  I pulled the new red sweater over my head and dropped it onto the shoes, exposing my rapidly numbing flesh and the pink-flowered bra I had bought at Victoria’s Secret the previous week. Strangely, standing there half-naked, it flitted through my mind that I had purchased the bra with amorous intentions. I remembered standing there in front of the mirror in the fitting room, turning and modeling the bra, imagining how it might look to a lover. Did I pretend that to be Jerod, or God forbid, Jesus? Shame made me shiver at the thought.

  Now detached, surrealism and numbness replaced my earlier embarrassment and I watched as tiny snowflakes drifted onto my bare arm, beautifully white, settling against my skin before they melted. I saw Tess and Zoë turn away, refusing to look at my exposed body, pity and fear mingled in their eyes. Then, I sighted Rashid, standing in the back of the huddled students, or at least I thought I saw him. Surprised, I stopped.

  “Hurry up!” yelled Jesus. “We do not have all day,” and then both men laughed again.

  I unzipped the front of my pants, and using both hands, slowly pulled down my black slacks and stepped out of the legs, one at a time. Then I deposited them on top of the other clothes. The two terrorists elbowed each other again, pointing at me and shouting derisive phrases in Arabic. I looked down at my own partially exposed body for the first time, at the goose bumps erupting everywhere on my skin, like angry blisters. Impatient, Jesus motioned with his automatic weapon, indicating for me to finish.

  My glance darted back to the crowd of students. Rashid was no longer there, or maybe never was. The students turned away and shielded their eyes, refusing to look.

  Reaching behind my back, I unhooked my bra and slid the straps off my shoulders and gathered the top together in my right hand. I let it drop from my hand, without watching it fall to the wood. Woodenly, like I’ve done a thous
and times before, I repeated the process with my panties, idly recalling that they matched the floral bra. Then I raised myself up and stood naked, facing the terrorists.

  Within seconds, my composure began slipping and my body shook violently. Instinctually, I reached my arms back around in front of me, not concerned with modesty, searching only for any protection from the freezing wind. Another blast struck my face, forcing tears down my cheeks. I could feel the goose bumps spread from my torso down both my legs and I crossed them in another vain attempt to retain some body heat. Feeling my body temperature dropping, I was getting faint as the seconds ticked by. Oddly, at that moment I remembered hearing the weatherman predict the “wind-chill” temperatures would be in the single digits for the day and I shivered more, silently cursing the guy who invented “wind chill.”

  As I stood there alone, my whole body trembling now, I felt a hand touch my shoulder. Dazed, it took me a moment to respond and when I looked up, I saw Jerod slipping his jacket around my shoulders. He patted my arm and I gave him a weak smile and tried to say “Thank you,” but no sound came out.

  “No!” Jesus yelled and burst from his position by the rail. His boots clamored across the wet slats and he was upon us in seconds. In an instant, he pulled the rifle off his shoulder and swung the butt. It connected with Jerod’s skull. Stunned, I watched in horror as Jerod fell, his hands flying to his sides before he collapsed onto the wooden deck.

  I screamed his name, but he lay motionless, face up on the wood. Trembling, I bent over, reaching down to check his breathing. My tears rolled from my face to his, and I watched them, in a slow motion free fall, splash onto his lips. But before I could place my hand on his chest, Jesus yanked me up by my hair and tore the jacket off my shoulders, throwing it down. My body shuddered again as the frigid air knifed against my exposed skin.

  I don’t know that much about the effect of freezing temperatures upon a body, but I knew enough to know that my body was slipping into hypothermia. I knew I didn’t have long.

  I heard some pushing and shoving behind me, but was too spent now to turn around. Then I heard a familiar voice. “Okay, Jesus, we get it. We’re sorry,” Christie said and I saw her come up beside me, trying weakly to smile. “We’re sorry for everything. You win. We are the bad guys, who have sinned against your people. Now please let her get her clothes back on.”

  “No,” Jesus yelled again, whipping around to both of us. He fired two quick bursts, the pop sounds lost in the wind. I cringed and waited, but didn’t feel anything. Perhaps, I'm just too numb, I thought. Then I looked over at Christie, who stood next to me with eyes wide and her lips open in a red circle. Her head tilted down and I followed her gaze. When I did, I saw a red bloom spreading in the center of her white sweater. Her hands flew to her stomach and she looked over to me, confused. Then I watched as her body crumpled onto the deck next to Jerod’s motionless form.

  “Oh, my god! Christie!” I cried and fell to my knees clutching at her head. “Christie! Christie!” I screamed again and began weeping uncontrollably.

  Jesus strutted back to his position by the rail. “Come over here!” he commanded, gesturing with the AK-47 for effect. I refused to move. He stomped back and grabbed me by the hair again, forcing me to stand, and he pointed the rifle at my bare chest. “Over there!” he shouted, indicating the railing, “or I will begin shooting them!” The automatic weapon jerked toward the huddled students.

  I edged across the deck slowly, covering the distance with difficulty, my feet and legs numbing. Anticipating I was about to get what he gave Jerod or Christie, I tried to keep my body poised to react, but it was little use. The freezing was spreading and I couldn’t make myself care any more. Expecting a rape or the rifle butt or a bullet, I was caught off guard by what he said.

  “Get up on the railing!”

  I stared at him, listless.

  “You heard me. Get up on top of that railing!” He shoved the gun roughly into my half-frozen breasts.

  Whatever defiance I had was gone, eliminated by the unbearable cold and the horror of the violence. He had won. I climbed unsteadily onto the top flat rail, trying to keep an eye on the gray, freezing waters of Lake Harold and on the guns of the two terrorists. With no post to balance myself against and with little feeling left in my feet and legs, it was almost impossible to stand up, but somehow I managed. I stared down at Jesus.

  “You see, Miss Sterber, as Muslims,” Jesus shouted into the wind, “we hold our women in high esteem.” He turned to Fadi and with his gun pointed to my exposed vulva, which was now at his eye level. “I believe the American idiom is ‘to keep them on a pedestal.’ ” He laughed and Fadi joined in. “In exchange for such loving treatment, women know their place and perform their duties as expected.”

  I peered at him, no longer caring. I simply wanted it to end. Tears flooded my eyes and dripped off my face.

  “But obviously, you deserve no such treatment. Now kneel down and I will show you what women like you are good for in my country.”

  I shuddered as I realized what he had in mind, but it didn’t matter. My body refused to respond to threat or will. When I didn’t move, Jesus reached up and yanked me down and I grabbed the rail to try to keep my balance. I do not know how, but with him forcing me to my knees, I managed to stay atop the top rail.

  Kneeling there, wood splinters pressing into my flesh, I lowered my head, awaiting the final indignity he had planned. He bent his head down to mine. His fetid breath spread across my face and, as he spoke, the white puffs of his expelled breaths materialized like some poisonous gas. “Now where is that American insolence, Miss Sterber?” he snarled.

  Thinking of Christie and Jerod, I managed to raise up my head and stared at him, eyes burning and tears dropping from my cheeks. In the only voice I could muster, a hoarse whisper, I said, “Fuck you, Jesus!”

  I saw the anger explode in his eyes and the rifle butt came up so fast, I never even saw it move. The metal slammed into my head and I felt my consciousness slipping away. I must have lost my balance and fallen backwards, my body sprawling through space, my hands flailing at nothing. The last sensation I remembered was the angry slap of the freezing water against my back. Then blackness.

  Chapter 33

  “Tom, you worry about the interdiction efforts and you let me worry about the Congressional oversight committee!” bellowed President Gregory.

  “Yes, sir,” was the sheepish reply from Thomas Dickson. The reproach seemed even more dramatic because the FBI Director had almost eight inches and eighty pounds of muscle on the President.

  They had been at the weekly Executive Briefing in the Situation Room for about twenty minutes and Harold Samson was already wishing he were back in his office. At least there he felt he was connected to what was going on, not sealed off in this sterile chamber. Of course, he knew he wouldn’t breathe easy again until the execution of Asad Akadi, the first Islamic terrorist caught on American soil, was just a minor story on NPR’s “All Things Considered.” He realized it would be months and even years before it dropped off the radar of Fox News and the like. The talking heads, who masqueraded as journalists, would be milking every sensational detail out of this story for as long as they thought it would gild their ratings, or their agenda.

  “Harold, what about your corner of my empire?” the President asked. “Is everything still on track for the Akadi execution?”

  “Mr. President, I spoke with Warden Cromer just a few minutes before I came here,” Harold Samson said. “And he told me that everyone is pretty jumpy, but his staff is fully prepared and waiting.”

  “Okay, that’s what I want to hear.”

  “Of course, Mr. President, I’ll feel a lot better after the execution is history and we’ve moved on to our next crisis.”

  “Harold, in today’s world, we never seem to be short on those.” The President rapped the top of the table with the cheap pen in his right hand. “Tom, your boys picked up anything on the two dead Arab
s...?” He turned to the FBI Director for the names.

  “Mohammed Armdi and the second vic still unknown,” replied Tom Dickson, his big form shifting uncomfortably in his chair, not anxious to endure a second thrashing from his boss, “No, sir--”

  His answer was cut off by the insistent beep of the intercom on the table.

  “Forgive me, Mr. President,” the voice of Marilyn Cook, the president’s secretary filled the room. “I have a call for Mr. Samson and I think he--and you--might need to hear this.” “MC,” as she was known, had served four presidents before Ryan Gregory and had heard it all. Her voice was measured and calm.

  “Okay, Marilyn, who is it?” said the President.

  “Sir, it’s Joyce Caster, Mr. Samson’s secretary,” she began and Harold felt every eye in the room on him. “She says that she has Warden Cromer on the line...”

  “Put Joyce through,” Samson called, louder than he meant to.

  “Mr. Samson, Warden Cromer has called twice before and now he is on the line and is insisting on talking with you right now,” the Homeland Security secretary said.

  “Patch him through then.” In the brief seconds that followed, Samson’s eyes met the questioning glances around the table.

  “Harry?” The voice of James Cromer came through. The one word was tinged with anxiety.

  Harold said quickly. “Jim, I’m here with President Gregory, Tom Dickson and Dean Settler, and you’re on speaker.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. President.”

  “Warden, what’s happening at HBE?” asked the President without preamble.

  “Yes, Mr. President, well, I’m not really sure, sir.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” yelled Settler.

  Samson broke in. “Jim, what is it? Just tell me why you called.”

  “Okay, Harry. I got a call from John Tupes, he’s the guard on the west watchtower. He called in a few minutes ago and he said that he saw what looks like hundreds of people, students, I guess, on the deck at the school in the snow,” started Jim Cromer.