by Arlene Hunt
‘Hey, ain’t that the guy?’ Chippy said.
‘That’s him.’
Darla watched Sam Villiers stroll down the street. His massive gut was cinched tight beneath a pink and green check shirt, which was tucked into gaudy mint-green pants that would not have looked out of place on a 1970s pop singer, assuming the pop singer was a small obese auctioneer with a brand-spanking-new addition to his police record which he hoped and prayed no one knew about.
‘Let’s try to get a shot of him with the bank in the background,’ Darla said. She grabbed her recorder and fluffed her hair in the rear-view mirror.
‘Aw, look, he’s turned around.’
They watched Villiers pat his pockets and do an about turn.
‘Musta forgot something.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘Prob’ly his wallet.’
‘Mm.’
‘Funny how he always eats in the same place.’
‘What’s funny about it?’
‘How come he don’t get bored, man?’
‘How come you don’t get bored asking stupid, unanswerable questions?’
‘Me, I get bored eating the same shit. Gotta change it up.’
‘You’ve eaten tacos and burgers every single day we’ve worked together.’
‘Different shit in ’em though. It ain’t the same if the shit’s different.’
The phone rang again. Darla offered a silent thank you to whatever saint covered mindless conversations.
‘Darla Levine!’
‘Where are you?’
It was Pip Lowe from the newsroom.
‘Opposite Bunny’s on Chadwell Street.’
‘We’re getting calls about an incident at Rockville High. Something’s going on over there right now.’
‘What kind of incident?’
‘I don’t rightly know. But it’s big enough that the Sheriff has despatched two cars. They’re en route.’
Darla sat up a little bit straighter. ‘That all you got, Pip?’
‘Hold on.’
Darla heard muffled sounds in the background before Pip came back on line. ‘We’re getting news that one of the kids might have been shot. But I don’t have confirmation on that.’
‘I’m on it.’ Darla hung up. ‘We need to get to Rockville High now.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Shooting.’
Chippy gunned the engine while Darla dialled from memory the number of Vonda Kelp, a money-hungry shrew who had been ‘temping’ at the Sheriff’s department for as long as Darla could remember.
‘Vonda, it’s Darla. What going on?’
‘Oh my gosh,’ Vonda’s voice dropped to whisper. ‘We’ve had a ton of calls in the last few minutes. Someone is shooting over at Rockville High.’
‘What do you know?’
‘Nuthin’ ’cept that shots have been reported.’
‘Shots? More that one?’
‘I can’t say for certain. Sheriff Dubray’s gone over there himself to see what the heck is going on.’ Incredibly, Vonda’s voice dropped another octave. ‘He looked real worried when he left here.’
‘Anyone hurt?’
‘I don’t know,’ Vonda said, ‘but it sure can’t be good if there’s shooting though, can it?’
4
By the time his brother showed up for work, Mike Conway was sweating up a storm and in as foul a mood as it was possible for any man to be. Earlier that morning, he’d sliced his palm open removing the shattered windscreen from a Honda Accord. Now his hand was throbbing and he was behind in his day’s work by an uncatchable rate.
‘Nice of you to bother making an appearance.’
‘I’m here ain’t I?’
Ace Conway ambled across the courtyard at a leisurely pace. He removed his cap and ran water from an outdoor hose over the back of his neck. He shook his head, straightened up and put his cap back on. He wore a thin cotton t-shirt under his overalls and work boots that had once been tan but were now the colour of sludge. Beneath the faded trucker cap, a piece of red leather tied his long hair in a low ponytail at the base of his neck. Prison tattoos defaced almost every inch of his scrawny arms.
‘We open at seven. It’s gone eleven.’
Ace stuck a cigarette between his lips and lit it with a match. Mike watched the flame and saw the tremble in his brother’s hand. He figured Ace was hungover and probably had more than just alcohol in his system. This was nothing new. Ever since Jessie had insisted he take his brother on, Ace had rewarded her faith and Mike’s loyalty by arriving to work late – if he showed up at all – stinking of hooch and stale cigarette smoke, usually wearing the same clothes he’d left work wearing the day before.
Mike tried to keep a lid on the bulk of his emotions. It did no good to nag his brother. Ace would do what Ace would do. Nagging made no real difference and only served to aggravate them both. His brother was a grown man and at forty-four was senior to Mike by five years.
‘Whatcha do to yer hand?’
‘Windscreen on the Accord split.’
Ace’s pale eyes drifted towards the main building. ‘Well, what’s on the agenda for today, Boss?’
Mike bristled at the title. He knew Ace was rattling his chain. Hell, neither of them wanted this situation. A condition of Ace’s parole was that he involve himself in gainful employment, and there wasn’t any sucker left in Rockville that was going to give Ace Conway a job, except for blood.
‘Going to strip out the engine on the Datsun. Can you finish this off while I make a few calls?’
Ace shrugged, managing to look more tired and disinterested by the second. Mike took that as a yes and went inside to the back office, happy to be out of the sun and away from a man he had once idolised with every fibre of his being.
Later they worked on the Datsun. Ace passed his brother whatever tool he needed, whistling tunelessly between his teeth.
‘Wrench.’
Ace slapped the wrench into this hand and took up whistling again. Mike attached and leaned his weight onto his wrench. He tightened the bolt briefly before changing direction. The bolt gave. He did another, then another, passing each one back to Ace until he was done. When he had removed them all, Mike straightened and rubbed the small of his back with his hand. Lately, he noticed he’d been getting a lot more twinges and aches. It bothered him, made him feel a little bit old and a little more mortal.
‘You okay?’ Ace asked.
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Got something in the truck for pain, if you need it?’
‘No thank you.’
‘Suit yourself.’
‘We’re gonna need the winch.’
‘It’s ready already.’
‘Got the reconditioned—?’
‘Set up, all it’s doin’ is waitin’ on you,’ Ace said, pausing to spit to one side, a habit Mike detested.
The exterior phone bells jangled. Mike took the bolts from his brother and dropped them into the top pocket of his overalls. The bells rang on. He squinted towards the window of the wooden porch that served as their front office. From where he stood he could see through to the counter. Emma, the surly receptionist he had hired three months before as a favour to his mother, was nowhere to be seen.
‘Where’s she got to now?
The bell stopped and then began again almost immediately.
‘Can you get that, Ace?’
Ace strolled inside without a hint of a hurry to his heels. Mike pulled a bandana from his left pocket and wiped his hands. It was swelteringly hot and the sky overhead was cloudless and so deeply blue that it looked strangely unnatural. He removed his baseball cap and dabbed the sweat from his brow as he glanced at his watch. Just after one. He wished that it was closer to quitting time. He could really use a cold one or two.
Mike returned his attention to the busted engine. He heard the screen door slap open.
‘Mike! You need to come in here.’
‘What is it?’
‘Tro
uble.’
Mike dropped what he was doing and hurried across the yard. As soon as he stepped inside Ace thrust the remote control for the customer television into his hand.
‘What’s going on? Where’s Emma?’
‘She took off out.’ Ace jerked his jaw towards the street. ‘Saw her car kicking up dirt out front. That was Lou-Ann Granger on the phone. She says she was at home getting lunch ready when she heard word there’s been a shooting at the school. Says it’s on the TV.’
Mike switched on the small, wall-mounted set and flicked to the local news station. He immediately recognised Rockville High, the school where Jessie worked. Standing before the main gates was Lucy Francis, a local reporter more famed for her public romances than her journalistic skills. Lucy gripped her microphone tightly; her voice high with barely contained excitement.
‘Sources tell us the shooters entered the building sometime after twelve and opened fire. Though there has been no official confirmation yet, a witness told this reporter that she recognised one of the shooters and believes him to be a pupil expelled from the school a month ago. Witnesses say many of the exits were barricaded, causing pupils to panic in the crush to get free. It is not known if the shooters have been apprehended, or if they have made any particular demands…’
‘What the hell?’ Mike stared at the screen in disbelief as the camera panned left and came to rest on a spotty youth wearing a Rockville Bears cap.
‘Now obviously—’ Lucy jammed the microphone under his wispy-haired chin, ‘—you cannot name the shooters, but did you personally recognise them?’
‘Yeah, I like, know ’em to see.’
‘Can you tell me if they are pupils here?’
‘One of ’em is, for sure.’
‘And the other?’
‘Dunno,’ the youth shrugged. ‘I guess.’
The phone began to ring again.
Ace picked up and listened. ‘Yep,’ he said after a long silence, ‘he knows, he’s lookin’ at it.’
Lucy Francis now faced the camera. ‘A spokesman for the Sheriff ’s department has issued a brief statement saying a SWAT team is on its way, but that until then no one can enter the school as it is unclear if the shooters are still at the location or whether they have bombs or other incendiary devices…’
Mike grabbed the keys for his truck from a rack behind the desk and raced out the door.
5
Caleb Switch was restless. It was late on Saturday evening and he was back in the apartment in Charlotte. He had arrived home in the afternoon and gone to bed for a nap. Sleep had eluded him and now he was trying to put his finger on why he was so unsettled.
The long drive back to the city had been slow and irritating. His shoulders felt tense and he had a faint headache behind his eyes. Caleb switched on the light in the bathroom, swallowed a painkiller and studied his refection. Normally, after a successful hunt he felt calm for weeks, subdued even. But this time was different, this time he felt no such release. He felt no sense of accomplishment.
The girl had been too easy. It was as simple as that. He should have known better than to run a Category B target. They were only useful for two things: money or a cover story. That was it.
He ran water over his hands and dried them on a pink frilly towel.
She hadn’t even made it to the creek. He had scarcely believed it when he had discovered her hiding crouched behind a tree less than two miles from the release site. She was covered in scratches from where she had fallen and was sobbing loud enough to hear from thirty-five feet away.
Caleb shook his head. It had been like shooting fish in a barrel. Certainly, no great demands had been made on his skills. He hadn’t even bothered to quench his urges with her before he despatched her.
Despondent, he switched off the light and went to the kitchen. Though he had little appetite, he made a grilled cheese sandwich and carried it through to the dining nook. He sat at the mahogany table, surrounded by photos of Arthur Weils and his deceased aunt, the original owner of the apartment, Maryanne Weils. There were still a few hours to kill before he walked the four blocks to the nondescript office building where twice a week he volunteered on the Voice of Hope switchboard.
Thinking of the evening ahead cheered him up some. The job was a goldmine and was his fourth such stint as an operator. Caleb had long ago discovered the rich seam of rubes and targets that helplines like the Voice of Hope Church provided. True, there was no end to the sad sacks of shit who made self-pitying phone calls, seeking solace, seeking redemption, seeking to be heard and absolved. Throughout their tearful litanies they offered Caleb all manner of information about themselves. Information he took great care to sift through, searching the useless sands of their misery for the nuggets he desired. So far, it had been most productive. He had found what he hoped was a perfect Category A target and was in the process of selection. The process could not be rushed. Slow and steady was the way. It was a matter of stalking the game, learning what makes it tick, its habitats, strengths and weaknesses. In this type of pursuit Caleb excelled.
The Voice of Hope itself was a small Pentecostal church and the late Maryanne had been a member until she could no longer look after herself and the state had shipped her off to a wretched home where she had eventually died of boredom. Fortunately, long before she shuffled off the mortal coil, Maryanne had repeatedly told her church friends of her beloved nephew Art, who she claimed visited her often. So when ‘Art’ turned up in Charlotte to attend to his dead aunt’s estate, Caleb suddenly found himself a shining star in a tiny community grateful for young bucks who could quote a Bible chapter and verse (a gift from his mother this time). Caleb’s background check had been minimal. Pastor T Creedy claimed that, by default, a believer in Christ had to be a decent person. It had taken Caleb less than three weeks to wangle his way into the inner sanctum and become a valued and trusted member of the congregation.
Landing on his feet was nothing new to Caleb. He did not believe in luck, he believed in the law of nature. Animals did not rely on luck. They lived and died by their instincts. They made split-second decisions based on the information they had before them.
The night Caleb had met Arthur Weils he had been sitting on a bar stool in a town called Hickory. Caleb had been minding his own business; bored mostly, bored and watchful. Arthur had already sunk a skinful before he arrived and plonked down beside Caleb. He was drunk and morose and in need of a friend. Caleb might have finished his beer and left, if only Arthur had kept his mouth shut. But Arthur Weils was full of gin and regret; he began to complain about the hand life had dealt him, swirling his gin clockwise and leaning towards Caleb with watery, red-rimmed eyes.
Within minutes, Caleb had decided Arthur was a perfectly useful Category B candidate, and from that instant, poor, dumb Arthur might as well have had a bullseye painted on his chest.
Caleb bought him a drink, listening as his new buddy sobbed and gibbered and spoke of being dumped by a woman, how he hated his job. He wept when he said his only remaining relative, a kindly aged aunt from Charlotte, had upped and died and he, Arthur, was returning there to pack up her home and join her in the great hereafter. The more Arthur rambled on about his grief, his wasted life, his fear of rejection, his lack of a sex life, his anger at the outside world and its rejection of him, the more Caleb’s instincts kicked in.
When the time came to act it had been ridiculously easy. Arthur, so trusting of his new friend, had invited him back to his tiny apartment to partake of some drinks. Caleb offered to drive them.
That was the last anyone ever saw of the real Arthur Weils.
After that, it had simply been a matter of Caleb shedding his identity – or rather the identity he had been using – and adopting Arthur’s. It helped enormously that Arthur was an unlikeable idiot and that his only living relation had conveniently died.
Free from restraints, Caleb made his way to Charlotte and began to avail of his new identity with impunity, starting with Arthu
r’s inheritance and now mining the life of Aunt Maryanne for useful progression.
Caleb sat at the table in the dining nook and picked up his longbow. He unstrung it and checked it for signs of damage. He pulled out a tin of wax from a leather bag and began to smooth the strings. As he worked, he became dimly aware of the news running softly on the television in the living room. He reached for the remote and turned up the volume.
‘America stunned as another high school shooting rips a community apart.’
Caleb watched the story unfold with little interest. He thought the anchorman fake and his tone risible. Then the red print speeding across the bottom of the screen attracted his attention.
‘Jessie Conway, a remarkable hero who saved so many lives…’
Hero.
Caleb curled his lip. Hero was a junk word much bandied about by the media. Footballers were heroes when they scored a touchdown; firefighters doing their damned jobs were heroes; nurses were heroes, no wait … they were angels. Heroes: the word had been diluted down to nothing by lazy rhetoric.
A photo of a smiling redhead appeared on screen. Caleb leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees. She was pretty: shy smile, pale skin and wide, expressive eyes.
‘Tonight Jessie Conway remains in hospital, although her condition is said to be no longer critical. Reports say the Special Education teacher and Coach was operated on earlier today and is recovering well from her ordeal. Mrs Conway was injured during a struggle with one of the shooters during the Rockville High attack, resulting in the deaths of three innocent people. Among the dead are Vice-Principal Alan Edwards and teaching assistant Tracy Flowers, as well as pupil James Aldershot. A number of other pupils remain in hospital, though their injuries are not thought to be life-threatening.’
