“Tommy, are you okay?”
“Yeah, Mom. I’m fine.”
“It’s the last week of school.” I could tell she worried. “You could just stay home with me.”
I thought about it. Walking the halls after yesterday would be tough. I wondered what I could expect from Brunner and his crew. Worse, I didn’t know what Wendi would be like. “No, I think putting it off wouldn’t make it any better. I can’t let Brunner think he got to me.”
“Okay, I understand, but I don’t like it.”
“Me neither, but you have always told me to play the cards you’re dealt.”
She smiled. I hoped she knew I could handle it.
The rest of the ride passed in silence. I watched Redemption flicker by as the fog billowed around the car. I imagined it was like flying would be, skipping amongst the clouds, playing hide and seek with the birds. Such a peaceful landscape, the fog blotted out all the ugliness Redemption held. Hidden from view, Brunner couldn’t hit me, Powell’s nasty remarks went unheard, and the acid glares of the people who made their living off keeping the world safe from Gifted kids vanished. I wished I could just fly away and never come back.
The fog flickered up ahead as we approached the school. As we came closer, the red and blue flashing lights took on a weird life as they played against the fog. The shape turned into a Redemption Police cruiser parked near the entrance of the school. Probably a broken-down car or maybe a fender bender.
More police cars, all with flashing lights, emerged from the fog as Mom drove toward the parking lot. An ambulance and firetruck stood by the main entry doors. “It’s early for disaster drills,” I said absently.
Mom nodded. “Something isn’t right.” A uniformed officer waved us into the bus lot.
My stomach tightened, and a cold sweat broke out across my forehead. This many of Redemption’s finest couldn’t be good news. I forced my jaw to unclench as I peered into the gloom.
Mom parked the car, quickly exiting the vehicle. I grabbed my backpack and followed her. Stickley, the police chief, stood by the firetruck speaking with two uniformed officers. Mom marched toward the chief at a brisk pace.
I saw a car under the overhang that covered the main doors. Drunk driver. Maybe a school prank? I wondered why so many police would be here for a drunk driver. I should have stayed in the car, but Mom hadn’t mandated it, which, in my mind, equated to permission. My path happened to take me on the far side of a cruiser from where Mom and the chief spoke. I saw her head whip around toward our parked car.
I increased my pace, wanting to see whose car it was, but then I realized something, or more specifically, someone, hung over the car. I ran. I ran as fast as my legs would carry me across the parking lot. I must have dropped my backpack at some point, but I didn’t care. I recognized Mr. Taylor’s jacket—he’d been wearing it last night. An atomic bomb burst in my head, destroying all rational thought in its wake.
“No!” I screamed. Mr. Taylor hung from the overhang of the school. I could smell blood, gasoline, and shit as I stood there, tears streaming down my face. His head flopped on his shoulder in a horrible parody of the way he looked over my shoulder when I didn’t understand something we read. I shouldn’t have been able to recognize him as his face had been destroyed. Blood clung to his clothes, his shoes, and dripped down onto the car under him. The fire department had a ladder up removing his lifeless body, a gruesome piñata at some horror Halloween party.
Mr. Taylor’s car hadn’t fared any better than its owner. The windows smashed, the car burnt in places. Slag and other, darker, words spray painted all over the car.
Mom appeared before me, but my brain couldn’t process that she stood there. She tried to lead me away, but I pulled free and stayed in my front row seat to the horror show. She put her arm around my waist and held me tight. I don’t know how long we stood there for. A forensic guy circled the scene, a human vulture, picking it clean of every detail with his camera. Every flash illuminated the murk, showing more of the grisly scene. They dumped him on a gurney, more flashes. A missing shoe, his foot hanging at an unnatural angle, his torn-up hands. Finally, they secured Mr. Taylor in a black body bag and wheeled him to the ambulance. The police chief came over to talk to my mom. While not in the government, being the only lawyer in Redemption, she carried a lot of influence. I didn’t hear what they talked about.
I didn’t care to listen.
“Tommy, let’s go home.” She led me back to the car, either in shock or numb to the point of oblivion. One of the few teachers who ever stood up for me had been murdered. Besides being a great teacher, he’d been a friend and role model. And now he was gone, butchered by people who had nothing to fear from him. The image of his swollen tongue hanging from the same mouth that Shakespeare had flown so effortlessly burned in my brain.
Why did they kill him?
We drove in silence, both lost in our own thoughts. Mom led me into the house, sat me on the couch, and headed to the kitchen to make coffee while I turned on the TV news. The red-bannered breaking news flashed across the top and bottom of the screen. Steve Nelson, the Action Nine reporter, stood outside the school. He had a serious look on his face all reporters get when covering a crime scene.
“We’ve spoken to Police Chief Stickley about the incident. Let’s roll the footage.”
Chief Stickley’s large round face and beady eyes filled the screen. Sweat rolled down his meaty cheeks to be lost in the numerous double chins. “Well, the perpetrator arrived at the school without his dampening device. He attacked multiple God-fearing people with his evil powers. Luckily, I was on hand to stop him. I tried to subdue him but ended up having to resort to deadly force.”
Mom froze in front of the TV, her mouth hanging open. “The only thing he’s ever stopped is a pizza delivery guy.”
The scene switched back to the reporter. “Things could have been much worse if not for the heroic deeds of Police Chief Stickley. And now back to the news desk and Daphne Newsome.”
“We’ve always known Discordants were dangerous. Thank God we’ve got dedicated Protectorate personnel here to keep us safe. We’ll be back with the weather and more details on the Rampaging Discordant after a quick break.”
Mom just about threw her coffee cup at the screen. She paced back and forth across the living room. “Lies, all lies. And that pig Stickley is setting himself up for a medal and a commendation.”
“Mom, has anyone ever broken out of a collar before?”
She shook her head. “Those collars are indestructible. Without the tool they keep at The Block, you’d have to cut off the skin it was attached to.”
I thought back to the women who had been murdered. All of them had had their collars cut off their necks. I shuddered, my hand involuntarily going to my neck.
The doorbell rang. I ran over and opened the door to find Officer McHale standing there. He was one of the officers assigned to the school as a public safety officer. Police should be the protectors of the public, but in Redemption, you didn’t rate protection if you wore a collar. It made me sick to think how many Gifted lived in misery without even the basic protection the police offered.
“Hello, Tommy. Can I speak with you and your mom?”
I stepped aside to let him in. He took his cap off as he entered the living room.
“Mrs. Ward,” he said, nodding to Mom.
“What can we do for you, Officer?” I wanted to put on a jacket to shelter me from the cold of her tone.
McHale actually had the decency to look a bit ashamed. “Chief wanted me to come talk to you and Tommy about what happened this morning.”
“Talk then.” My mother, the toughest defense lawyer in Montana, stood very still. I know other states in the Protectorate think that’s like being the toughest kid in daycare, but she took cases no one else would touch. I have seen her stare down murderers and opposing attorneys. People went out of their way not to offend her. McHale must have drawn the short straw if he had come here
.
He gulped. I actually heard him gulp. Under different circumstances I would have laughed, but laughing didn’t seem appropriate today.
“I was instructed to ask if you were planning on filing a report on the Taylor incident.”
“Incident!” It stunned me that he would actually walk in here and call Mr. Taylor’s murder an incident. “Incident, he—”
“Tommy!” Something in her voice stopped me dead in my tracks. “Officer McHale, why would either of us want to do that?”
McHale shifted his weight back and forth. He looked like a wind-up toy as he swayed. “Ma’am, you were at the school.” The tone in his voice tentative, making sure he didn’t fall off the tightrope into the seething pit of lava he stood above. “Chief told me I should take a statement if you wanted to.”
Mom just stared at him for a moment. “Do you need more witnesses? Are the police officers’ statements not enough?”
McHale’s mouth hung open. He had the same expression I got when Marcel went on about quantum physics. He drowned in water way over his head, and we all knew it.
“No, ma’am.”
“Then why would you need our statement? Did something occur other than what the reports have?”
He glanced at me for help. Not getting it here, officer douchebag.
“No, ma’am.” He spoke slowly, as he weighed each word before he spoke. “I’m sorry about Mr. Taylor. He was a nice man.”
“Yes, he was.”
McHale turned to leave. “Oh, Chief is requesting you join a meeting they are having this afternoon at the school to discuss funeral arrangements. Meeting starts at four in the conference room. Since you were close to Mr. Taylor and you being a lawyer and all, they thought it would be good if you could attend.”
“Goodbye, Officer McHale.” She opened the door and held it, waiting for him to leave. McHale slunk out like a whipped dog.
She stood watching until his car pulled away from the house. She shut the door, a bit harder than normal.
“Just what were you thinking?”
I jumped. “What?”
“Do you understand what would happen if you told McHale that Taylor was murdered? Did you not watch the news?”
“I did. They lied, he—”
“I realize he was murdered. So does everyone in town. The investigation is already closed.” She resumed pacing across the living room. She did the same thing on the phone with her clients. “McHale came here to see if we were going to cause trouble.”
The lights came on and guess what? Nobody’s home. Ashamed, I ducked my head. Once again, my big mouth fired before my brain even knew it.
“Sorry.”
“Tommy, there is no sorry. Look around. The people of this world hate Gifted individuals. There is no justice for you, you are collared, you are trouble. Period.”
“I’ll try harder, I swear.” I wiped the tears from my eyes. “They killed him, and no one is doing anything about it.”
“I know, honey.” She pulled me into her arms, and we cried. I cried for Mr. Taylor, but I got the sense Mom cried for me.
That afternoon Mom and I headed to the school for the meeting. Mom insisted I accompany her, so I did, but not without protest. As usual, I lost. Having an attorney for a mom sucks sometimes.
We walked into the room Principal Wilson used for council meetings. A large conference table dominated the room, chairs arranged so they faced out. Three rows of folding chairs stood facing the table. The Norm residents of Redemption would fill these when the board met to discuss business. Today they were empty. Wilson, the acting mayor of Redemption, occupied the largest chair in the middle. He always dressed the same. Conservative blue suit, check. Thick retro glasses, check. Bad comb-over, check.
Vice Principal Robinson sat to his left. Her dark skin set off her blood-red nails; they always reminded me of claws they were so long. She spoke quietly to Police Chief Stickley. The name Stickley mocked his appearance. His protruding gut had its own zip code.
At the far right of the table hulked Powell, in full military uniform, buttons gleaming against the navy blue of his coat. His eyes bored into me as soon as I entered the room. The consummate military man in full dress uniform, but scum is still scum no matter how you dress it up.
I dropped into a chair in the back row, trying to not draw attention to myself. Mom strode down, sitting with her back toward me. The supplicant before the all-powerful Redemption board.
“Susan, thank you for coming,” Principal Wilson said. “We wanted to include you in the discussion about Mr. Taylor’s arrangements.”
“Thank you for inviting me.” She nodded to Principal Wilson.
Wilson cleared his throat. “Well, Chief Stickley asked that we do not have a public ceremony for Mr. Taylor. I will give him the floor to tell us why.”
The chief stood. “While the police force regrets the necessity for extreme force in the subduing of Mr. Taylor.” His eyes everywhere but at my mom. The man sucked at lying. “Having a public gathering sends the wrong message and opens things up for civil disobedience.”
He sat down, and I swear I heard the chair groan. The idea of civil disobedience made me want to laugh. Most of the Gifted people in Redemption attended school here. Protests by Gifted had never happened since most times it resulted in a one-way trip to The Block. You didn’t get to be an adult by causing trouble.
Mom stood up. “Jack Taylor was a respected teacher at this school.” She turned to face Chief Stickley. “The way his life ended is a shame, but the students are hurt and need a chance to say goodbye.”
“But what about protests or riots?” Chief Stickley whined.
“Chief, we have never had a riot or a protest in the fifteen years Redemption has been here. I see no reason for there to be one now.” Her voice could have cut solid Carbinium.
Principal Wilson stroked his chin, trying for the all-knowing look is my guess. “I am inclined to agree with the chief in this matter, unless anyone else has an objection.”
Stickley, a smug grin plastered on his face stood. “Well, I—”
“Let them have the funeral,” Powell commanded. Every head in the room snapped around to gape at him.
“But why?” Stickley gasped, all the color draining from his face.
“So they can see what can happen to them when they get out of line.” Powell stared right at me when he said it.
I swallowed hard thinking how this is how the rabbit feels when the hawk is coming for him.
9
Most times when school got canceled, I was happy. Snowstorms usually caused school closings. Wednesdays were hot dogs for lunch and gym class, but today wouldn’t be a normal day. The committee had taken Powell’s “suggestion.” No wake, but the funeral would be held. The kids from the school who wanted to took the bus to the church so they could pay their final respects. It made me proud that all of them came.
The morning turned out to be beautiful. The rain had passed, leaving behind a warm summer day. It would have been the perfect day if we weren’t going to a funeral for my favorite teacher. The police held a perimeter around the church, dressed head-to-toe in riot gear.
Stickley was an idiot.
The deacon ushered everyone inside for the service. The church didn’t have air conditioning, becoming borderline hot with everyone packed into the pews. I could hear people crying and barely held off joining in.
The deacon sauntered up the center aisle as everyone took their seats. He stepped behind the pulpit and opened a Bible, pausing to kiss it before he began. He spoke about how Mr. Taylor had been a shepherd to his flock. How he had guided us through the perils of being teenagers in a difficult time. The deacon spoke without a trace of sarcasm or scorn through the sermon. When he bent his head for a prayer, I discovered why. He wore the same collar as the rest of us. The silver reflected the light for just an instant, before being covered up again.
That flash made me think how it paralleled my time with Mr. Taylor. I saw
a glimpse of him, and then they lowered him into the darkness. I wished Mr. Taylor could be like the good guys in the movies, always finding a way back from the dead. Wishful thinking was a whole lot of nothing. Dead is dead.
You ever get the sensation someone is staring at you? It feels like invisible rays are boring into the back of your head. I glanced around and found the shooter. A guy, a few years older than me, glared at me. A sobbing woman’s head rested on his shoulder, her hair covering part of his collar. Based on the hair color and the slightly hooked nose, I thought mom and son. She must have been close with Mr. Taylor to be so upset. When I caught his eye, he resumed listening to the deacon.
We sang a couple of hymns, Mom off-key as always. She held my hand the same as she had since I was little. Mom always there, always solid. Marcel sat to my right. I felt for him, living at the Institute, his parents not wanting him, banishing him for being what they created. It sucked. The fact he was so awesome proved even jerks can have good kids.
He smiled a sad smile at me. Abby sat next to him, tears running down her face, her shoulder pressed firmly against Marcel. Mr. Taylor had been the one to ask us to watch over Abby. At the school, he’d been the only one to actually help Abby.
The funeral ended. I walked to the front with Jon, Marcel, a junior, and a couple seniors. As we lifted the coffin, it was heavier than I thought it would be. We carried Mr. Taylor’s remains down the center aisle and loaded him in the hearse. Marcel, Abby, and I rode with Mom as we followed the hearse to the cemetery.
After parking, Marcel and I stood by the hearse while Mom and Abby left for the burial site. A few minutes later, the staff had the coffin in place, and we joined Mom and Abby at the graveside. The deacon said a few more words. Mom had arranged for flowers to be there.
The Institute kids didn’t have dress clothes. The government stipend they got every month barely paid for clothes and toiletries. They looked more like a concert line than a funeral procession as each took a flower, stopped at the open grave. After a bit, they would drop the rose on the lowered casket and head back to the waiting bus.
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