by Alan Lee
I assumed it was a she. I’d never seen the shooter except vaguely, but I knew she was thin and had long enough hair to wear a ponytail. I think. I rubbed my eyes and forced myself to concentrate on the moment, even though I was tired of waiting.
One of the stairs squeaked. I had been listening for that, because they always squeaked for me. The squeak sounded near the top of the staircase, which meant other stairs hadn’t squeaked. So she probably weighed significantly less than me, another reason to assume a girl.
The ice in the refrigerator shifted noisily, maybe starting to melt. I imagined the stalker at the top of the stairs, peering around before entering the hallway, being startled by the sound.
The minutes kept dragging slowly by. She was patient. I bet the time had moved to well after one in the morning. My eyes were nearly adjusted to the dark. I could see everything I needed to.
Was she carrying her gun in her hand? A knife? Wearing a mask? Certainly gloves. In her socks, probably. Shoes would be wet. I had to resist the impulse to take deep breaths or fidget. I also had to keep talking myself out of rushing the hall, getting it over with.
Kix grunted and rolled over, disquieting me. If the shooter was observant, she might start to wonder why she hadn’t heard similar noises from my bedroom. Did she know which room was mine? Was she here for Kix? I tightened my grip on the gun.
A soft footfall in the hall and then rustling in the kitchen. Did she mean to go to the kitchen?
A new thought occurred to me. Had she been here before? Was this a regular routine? Were the previous power outages not really caused by the wind? Maybe she’d been here before, and planned to simply leave after snooping around. If it sounded like she was turning around and heading for the exit, then I could leave the bedroom and catch her going back down the stairs. If she did this regularly then she might not even be armed. Possibilities flew through my mind.
More footsteps in the hallway, the soft sound of carpet being compressed. Toward the bedrooms. Both doors were open, which would she choose? I held the pistol in my right hand, arm straight, elbow resting on my bent, supportive knee, barrel aimed at the right edge of the door.
The movement stopped just before it reached the open doorway. I could see straight into my bedroom and I could also see a very thin section of the opposite hall wall. My eyes were constantly moving, not letting them settle and become blurry, using my peripheral sensitivity. I was ready to shoot high if she was standing or low if she crouched. A fine sheet of rain washed across the outside of Kix’s bedroom window.
More waiting. The killer might not know which room was which, and might be inching forward, inspecting the rooms as they slowly came into view. By leaning right she’d be able to see more of Kix’s bedroom, and by leaning left the angle would let her see more of my room. She would see my bed. Would the ruffled sheets and comforter look occupied? Kix’s crib was on the far wall, and would be one of the first things she’d see.
Every few minutes I could hear her shift slightly. We were only ten feet apart. I’d still seen no movement, which meant she still hadn’t seen either of the rooms fully.
Kix whimpered in his sleep and I instinctively tensed. Outside an owl hooted. My butt had grown sore. I was sick of waiting.
A new thought occurred to me and with it came an increasing awareness of its accuracy; the shooter might have guessed the situation. Depending on how far she’d crept forward and peered into the room, she might have seen that my bed was empty. I became more anxious with that thought. And the longer she waited, the greater the chances she would figure out I knew that she knew.
She knew I waited for her. And I knew that she knew. And soon she would realize that I knew she knew.
We had an uneasy, unspoken but shared stalemate.
My eyes started to see things, flashes of black by the door. I grew jumpy, my nerves on edge, wondering if she would stick her gun around the door and start firing. But she couldn’t be sure which room I was in. I envisioned her slowly leaning her head into view, her one eye beyond the doorframe widening as she saw me, my eyes widening in recognition, my gun firing, blood painting the wall and carpet behind her.
The person in the hallway became less quiet. I could hear her move, fidget, take deep breaths. I kept as quiet as possible so she wouldn’t know which room I was in.
The waiting continued and I remained sharp, just in case she was inching forward. I pressed my thumb against the hammer of my gun until it hurt. Maybe I should pull the hammer back, loudly cocking the gun. The noise would reveal which room I hid in, but would let her know death waited inside.
The choice was taken from me. In a flurry of movement that sounded impossibly loud after the silence, she rushed. I got further behind my gun, looking along the sight, ready to kill, but the footsteps pounded away from me and thundered down the steps. Downstairs I heard two doors crash open, and then nothing. I was tempted to look out the window but if she had a gun then I’d be an easier target for her to shoot than she would be for me. The odds weren’t worth it. Tonight a stalemate was okay. Kix and I were both alive and when morning arrived we’d still be.
I still sat in the same position when the sun began to come through the windows hours later.
48
Deputy Andrews and I stood with our arms crossed, looking at the door to the garage. It stood wide open with no signs of being forced.
“Think you locked it?” he asked.
“Yup.”
“Which means they probably got a key,” he said.
“Yuck.”
“That’s not fun to think about.”
“No,” I said. “No it isn’t.”
I had called Deputy Andrews at six to come look over the house and see if I’d missed anything. The intruder had obviously entered through the garage. There were still small damp places from the rain, and a faint muddy footprint. A collection of wet mud marked where she’d most likely taken off her boots. No prints on any doorknobs, which meant she’d been opening doors with a rag and wiped mine off too. Nothing in the kitchen was disturbed, and there was a faint depression in the hallway carpet where she had stood, silently waiting during our stalemate. She’d gotten real close to my doorway.
He finished his inspection and joined me in the kitchen. I ate Cheerios and I poured him a bowl. We chewed without talking for a while.
“Thing is,” I said, “last night would have been easy, if I wasn’t a dad. I could have hidden anywhere and taken her. But that small, tiny chance of me getting hurt and Kix being defenseless…that changes everything.” I poured us both a glass of orange juice. “I’ve been in much worse spots than last night. No problem. But with my son in the house…” I shook my head.
“You’re a good father,” he said.
“No, but I hope to be one day. Most guys have nine months to prepare. I had zero.”
“Look,” he said. “Is it Taylor? We’ve gotten several calls from LA, saying you can smell lies, you always know who did what just by looking at them. If you think it’s Taylor then we’ll bring her in again, grill her for a few hours, see if she cracks.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “She’s the only one who makes sense, and she’s been pretty aggressive. But I spend a lot of time with her at work, and she’s acted flippant, careless about the murders. Not proud or guilty.”
“You’re the first guy’s ever told her no,” he said.
“Allen was dead before I told her no,” I said.
“Was she chasing you before he died?”
“Yeah. I’d already decided she wasn’t right for me. She maybe could’ve picked up on that. But even so, that’s a pretty thin motive for shooting someone in the forehead.”
“She knew and flirted with both victims,” he said. “You spent time with both victims. The notes left were written by someone educated. She sounds like she’s been obsessed with you since you met.”
“All good points.”
He finished his juice, set the glass down and said, “Going
to work today?”
“Yes,” I said. “My last day.”
“You’re quitting?”
“I think so. I don’t know what else to do. We’re sitting ducks, and Kix is too valuable,” I said, frustrated.
“You’d be missed.”
“Not worth the risk.”
“You could ship Kix off to your father’s,” he suggested.
“I don’t ship Kix anywhere.”
“Sorry.”
“I don’t know what to do.” I laced my fingers behind my head and paced the kitchen. “I promised Ms. Allen I’d find the killer. I promised Mr. Charlie too.”
“We’ll find him. Or her.”
“Probably. But that’s beside the point. I don’t want to quit, to let them down, make myself a liar.”
“You barely know them.”
“That’s not the point either,” I said. “What am I, if I’m not hard working, determined, honest? A quitter? Besides, I used to be great at this. About a year ago I was one of the best in LA. I gotta figure out how to balance honor, duty, loyalty, commitment, and fatherhood. But I can’t sit around here until I do. The intruder last night might have been headed into Kix’s room instead of mine.”
“That’s a scary thought.”
“You’re catching on.”
He nodded and said, “See you at school.”
The mayor, the sheriff, and the superintendent all made speeches on the news. The mayor did his best to look comforting and in control and as though he was personally doing his best to catch the killer. Sheriff Mitchell promised that there would be several deputies on school grounds during the day and they would close off the campus at night. Everyone would be perfectly safe and had nothing to fear by going to school. Superintendent Neal stressed the importance of going to school, pledged more security would keep everyone safe, and stated that he would personally be walking the halls of South Hill Middle. So when I arrived at school I wasn’t surprised to see three squad cars in addition to Officer Reed’s car in front, as well as a handful of news vans. Hopefully none of the cameras would zero in on me and notice my car was stuffed with most of our belongings.
I wore a zip-up rain jacket so I could hide my shoulder rig. Principal Martin would have to come wrestle me herself if she wanted me to go without my gun today.
A little under three fourths of the students in my classes showed up. The braver ones raised their hands and asked me if I was the Fighting Father, was it scary being shot at, and did I know that Jimmy’s mom wouldn’t let him come to school because of me.
When my planning period rolled around I went straight to the principal’s office. Ms. Martin’s door was open. She sat behind her desk with her hands crossed. She wore a brown, fine houndstooth suit with an open white collar. Her hair was back in a bun.
“Expecting me?”
“A little,” she replied.
“I quit.”
She allowed herself a small smile. Rare for her.
“I have a flair for the dramatic,” I said.
“I noticed.
“Today is my last day.”
“Detective Andrews is here. Rumors are circulating.”
“The rumor about an intruder being at my house is true. If it was just me at home then no problem. But it’s me and a nine-month-old, and apparently it’s personal. I can’t stay in town anymore.”
“Where will you go?”
“Roanoke, three hours west from here,” I said.
“And do what?”
“Not sure. I didn’t sleep last night, so I’m not thinking clearly. Perhaps I’ll arrange for childcare and come back for the killer.”
“Would you come back if we catch the killer for you?”
“Wow,” I said, and I rubbed my forehead. “That makes me sound like such a…”
“Weenie?”
“Yes. A weenie.”
“No one thinks of you as such. Many of my teachers are out ‘sick’ or taking personal days. I had to call in all of my subs.”
“The fast-paced life of a principal.”
“Have you thought about having the police patrol your house?” she asked.
“That would be a short-term solution. The killer needs to be caught. If I leave and someone around here starts going missing, or someone shows up in Roanoke, then we’ll know exactly who we’re looking for.”
“Do you have any guesses?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Is it one of our staff?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Shit,” she said and looked down at her hands, which looked like they might be shaking if they let go of each other. “Isn’t that enough to arrest them?”
“Both the sheriff and Investigator Andrews know. But it’s not enough.”
“Will you tell me?”
“No. You’d act differently around the person and they’d know.”
“Mr. August,” she said, her voice shaky. “I’m a single parent too. What am I supposed to do? I can’t run away.”
We sat in silence for a long time, me searching for an answer. Eventually she got up and went to her personal bathroom. I left and went straight to Mr. Suhr.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I told him. He wore work khakis spotted with paint and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and monitored a very small classroom, nailing together what looked like shelves.
“Do what, Mr. August?”
“I don’t know how to do the right thing. I don’t even know what the right thing is. For the sake of my family, I think I should leave. Make this my last day. But what about everyone else?”
“What about everyone else?”
“They’re my neighbors, right? I know I’m supposed to be a good neighbor, look not only to my own interests. I know I’m supposed to take care of widows and orphans. I know that to whom much is given much is required. But it’s my kid,” I said. “If Kix dies, I will too. I’ve lost too many people, I’m barely hanging on as it is.”
“The Lord is with you, Mr. August,” he said.
“I don’t know what the hell that means. Is He with me even if I run away?”
“Even if you take your family to safety.”
“And if I stay?”
“Even if you stay to bring safety to other families.”
“You’re a fat load of help.”
He smiled.
“But you are comforting.”
“God does not usually tell us right or left,” he said slowly. “Instead, He tells us right or wrong. I do not know if your question has a wrong answer. Perhaps you have the freedom to choose either way and know that either way the Lord will be with you.”
I left. That didn’t help at all. I didn’t understand Christians.
I sat at my desk, staring at my monitor. Trying to grade papers and failing.
Movement at the window. A camera disappeared from view. I went out the back door of my trailer, circled around front, and caught a cameraman by surprise. From a newspaper, most likely. Seedy-looking guy, greasy and fat. I took his camera and smashed it on the ground.
“Hey! That’s destruction of my property!”
“No it’s not. You dropped it.”
I went back inside before I punched him. I was sick of being in the paper. I buzzed the office to alert the resource officer we had an intruder, and then I tried to grade papers. Five minutes later, Steven Reed opened the door. He kept his right hand on the knob and stood in the doorway.
“Found’em,” he said. “I kicked him off campus. Said you broke his camera?”
“He dropped it. Wink.”
“You might make the front page again, if he was able to salvage the memory stick.”
“At least I wore my nice socks today.”
“Also, Mr. August,” he said. “I quit the pot.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Not a hit since our…argument.”
“Hang in there. It gets easier with time.”
“I told Jon not to come around anymore.�
�
“Poor Jon Murphy,” I said.
“Yeah. Poor Jon.”
He stood there awkwardly for a long moment, looking like he wanted to say something else but couldn’t find the words. Finally he nodded at me, turned around and walked out. I could be wrong, but I took the head nod as a Thank You.
You’re welcome, Officer Reed. For hitting you in the jaw. I take all the credit.
I couldn’t leave. What was wrong with me. All that’s necessary for the triumph of evil, and that kinda inspirational stuff. If Officer Reed could take a stand, then I could too. Because no way he was tougher than me. I was the toughest. And the good-lookingest. And tough good-looking people such as myself didn’t let the government handle our problems. What was the difference between Detective Andrews and myself? Other than his great hair? He got paid to catch killers and I didn’t? So what?
I couldn’t spend another night at the lake house, even with a patrol car making passes in front of my house. Not with Kix in danger. I’d need to leave him with James and Leta, or….or something. I didn’t know. But I couldn’t leave.
The administrators called the grades one at a time into the gym for separate assemblies. Normally rowdy and nearly uncontrollable en masse, the eighth graders were silent today.
Principal Martin and one of the guidance counselors did the talking, making the collective grief and fear audible and more bearable. Martin gave a few brief details about Emily Newman, the resource teacher who had heroically shown up for work today, and her close call at the school just two nights ago. It had been a long two days. The counselor gave them permission to feel afraid and the freedom to cry. The sadness and comfort was unifying. I felt better too, despite everyone sneaking glances at me. Before we left, Principal Martin announced that all after-school activities had been cancelled and that police were going to swing by the school once an hour and arrest anyone they found.
I stayed in my trailer and did my best to concentrate and finish grading papers for an hour after school. Mr. Charlie, Mr. Suhr, Ms. Friedmond, Mrs. Short, and Mr. Cannon came to check on me and cheer me up.
