A strange weight had descended upon him. To him, it was as if the battle had already been waged, and he had lost. Defeated before a single blow had been struck. He’d let somebody walk into Lisa’s hospital room and snatch her right out from under him. Then if that wasn’t enough, he’d failed to keep them out of his home. Away from his family. He’d failed to protect anyone. He’d failed at being Alex Mendez.
Faith was what was called for here and Alex knew his faith was in short supply. As a policeman, he had found the will to fight. He had found the strength to come back to his family time and again. To be the man they had needed him to be. He had his reasons in the living, breathing, smiling faces of his wife, daughter, family and friends. Now with them in the ultimate peril, Alex felt as if his very existence was without meaning. It was as if he had lost his very reason for living.
Never before had Alex felt more worthless.
“They’re close,” Alex whispered to himself. “These guys are close by.”
“How close do you think they are?”
Moe’s voice provided an unwelcome distraction Alex was not quite ready to accept. Still, Moe was trying to help and maybe this was what Alex needed. A sounding board.
“They have to be close. How’d they get the tape out here before us? The car was still hot to the touch by the time we got here. Still smoking, parts of it. We’re close. I just know it.”
“It’s summertime, Alex. Summer and Texas. A hundred degrees or more most days.”
“Not today,” Alex said. “Heck this is about the coolest it’s been and it’s the afternoon.”
“Okay so they’re close,” Agent Sutton relented, allowing Alex’s logic to take form, the way law enforcement were trained to do. “How close? We’ve already had people out canvassing the houses.”
“They’ve got kids,” Alex said. “Somewhere they can hold a bunch of scared kids quietly. What’s big and close and indoors? I didn’t see a barn nearby.”
“You’re assuming they have more children,” Moe offered.
“They’ve got at least one,” Alex said, fighting back tears, swallowing a lump suddenly forming in his throat.
“All we know for sure is they have your family and Eric Reid. We assume they have his parents as well, but that could be conjecture. For all we know they’re in the Bahamas on some second honeymoon.”
“He’s got them,” Alex said, determined. “Question is what shape they’re all in.”
“We’ve been to the Reid’s house,” Moe said. “No signs of a struggle. No signs that would indicate any sort of foul play.”
“Have you seen it?” Alex asked. “Have youpersonallybeen to the house?”
“Well,” Moe stammered, “No. Of course not.”
“Then they missed something,” Alex insisted. “Somebody missed something. They missed a broken window, a picture frame on the floor. A spot of blood on the couch,” Alex paused. Sighed. “A family pet bleeding to death in the back yard.”
“Okay so let’s assume this guy’s got your family and the Reids. That’s, what, eight people? You don’t need a huge ark to house eight people this time around. Unless he’s planning on repopulating the world with his own kind.”
“Not even the slightest bit funny,” Alex snapped. He paused, ran his fingers across his whisker-laden chin and thought out loud. “This town’s only so big. Where can they be?”
A summer breeze kicked up, tickling Alex’s neck. He smelled something and realized that it was his own body odor. He thought about how bad he truly must smell if he could smell the odors radiating off of his hands, the only part of his body that had seen soap and water in the last several days. He couldn’t help but think about Tisha Warner, dressed in fresh clothes, showered and reasonably well manicured. In a moment of sleepy hallucination, Alex became aware of a phantom sensation of warm water washing over him. He envied Tisha Warner in ways he couldn’t express.
In the distance a small pop, like the backfiring of a car. Moments later a flock of blackbirds flew overhead.
“Birds flying south for the summer?” Moe said.
“What’s in that direction?” Alex said, more rhetorically than to the geographically-challenged Agent Sutton.
Moe Sutton shrugged. “Not my town. You tell me.”
“Danny?” Alex shouted, rising out of Tisha Warner’s small car.
Danny Peterson turned from his conversation with Agent Parker and Tisha Warner.
“If we go back down this road, what’s to the north?”
Danny shrugged.
CHAPTER 33
Countdown
Charles Keslar considered himself to be Gilmer’s elder statesman.
And the description was likely not far from reality. At 97, he had lived in Gilmer all of his life. He couldn’t remember a time without Gilmer’s premiere newspaper, theGilmer Mirror, but he could remember a time when the Upshur County Museum housed the original post office on what was then a dirt-road-encircled town square.
He remembered Indian Rock Elementary, the outbreak of two world wars, rationing, segregation, integration, oil boom, oil bust, town growth and population shrinkage. His father had been born here, as had his grandfather, back before Texas was even a state in the Union. Nine siblings had lived and died having never left the borders of Gilmer, Texas. In 97 years, Charles Keslar had buried both of his parents, three aunts, five uncles, sixteen cousins, and a number of nieces and nephews. He had even buried seven of his own ten children, four in infancy.
Through the years, Charles had learned to detest cramped spaces.
At 97, he really didn’t need a three bedroom house. He didn’t need the spacious lawn in which he worked each and every day, trying to keep as fit and active as possible. He certainly didn’t need four dogs, though he couldn’t imagine his twilight years without the faithful brood.
Candy, his Pomeranian, had been the pet of his second wife, Sadie. In the two years since Sadie’s death, Candy had grown quite close to her previously shunned master. Rex was an old Bassett Hound. Lazy from birth, twelve-year-old Rex had given new meaning to the term in the last several years.
Dollie, the English Bulldog was an impulse decision. A young couple in a nearby neighborhood was selling them. Charles and Sadie made the mistake of stopping during one of their many walks through Gilmer’s residential streets. Oddly, it was Charles that had fallen in love with her tiny wrinkled face. She, in turn, had been the most faithful of all his canine children. His constant exercise companion. Always ready to go on a walk, rarely venturing more than a few feet during Charles’ daily yard work. In the years since Sadie’s death,
Dollie had become Charles’ bedmate as well, sleeping in the spot once owned by her dearly-departed human mother. And then there was Buddy. A stray that had wandered into the yard one day and simply never wandered off, Buddy was an affectionate mutt. A floppy-eared, black, tailless Cocker Spaniel-Beagle concoction with sad eyes that would have given Rex’s sour mug pause. Charles guessed him to be about three or four now, though desperately clinging to the puppy tendencies he’d first brought to the Keslar home. Perhaps a more fitting name for Buddy would have been Buzzsaw. There existed no more perfect description of his incessant need for chewing any and every thing leather and expensive. Buddy was a handful, especially for the elderly Charles Keslar. But he was a part of the family. A family which, by and large, consisted of Charles Keslar and his canine children, Candy, Dollie, Rex and Buddy.
Without a doubt, Charles Keslar was an icon in Gilmer. A human landmark. At 97, he knew all the names by which he was known. Some more flattering than others.
The old guy with all the dogs. The crazy old coot who’s always working in the yard. Curtis whozits—yes many people still thought his name was Curtis, not Charles and he had no idea where the notion had originated.
That old guy that lives by Gilmer Elementary.
Charles Keslar, one and all.
***
Lisa counted twelve terrorists. Eleven distinct, mi
ndless zombies working under Dr. Death’s unquestioned control. She might have missed a few or simply not come across them all but, to the best of her recollection, there were twelve. With any luck, maybe she had counted a couple of them twice. She counted eight people including herself in orange jumpsuits. Eight among a population that looked to be over a hundred. Had they been marked for death, she wondered? Why were those eight in jumpsuits and not the rest?
Eric’s parents had been dressed in the orange jumpsuits at the time of their deaths but the three girls in the cage had not. Christina was not. All this meant, Lisa thought, was that the manufacturers of these prison suits had neglected to account for the raging midget crime spree that was bound to break out someday.
She’d been stitched up again, this time not afforded the luxury of anesthesia. Her body still prickled with sharp phantom pains, her mind stabbed mercilessly with the memories of the horrifying surgery-like procedure she was forced to endure. Though somewhat incoherent thanks to a smack on the head, she’d been painfully aware as Dr. Death and his female companion had stitched the gaping wounds in Lisa’s stomach and shoulder.
There was no sterilization. For all she knew, the needles and other sharp instruments had not been clean. Even if she got out of this alive, Lisa found herself fearing the plethora of unknown bacteria and viral infections that might be coursing through her at that very moment.
Even if she managed to kill the man responsible for her situation, his final revenge might come in the form of some as yet unforeseen incurable plague.
At least they were all together again. Well, she hoped this was everyone.
The fire that had broken out in one of the classrooms had been the result of some industrious prisoner’s use of a paperclip in a light socket. It had been, she surmised, extinguished relatively quickly. She hoped that no more had lost their lives in the ensuing prisoner roundup.
The cafeteria was awash in frightened faces, ranging in ages from four to seventy or older. Mostly female adults cradling groups of frightened children. Though only sunlight illuminated the faces, their pale, fearful expressions were evident from one end of the room to the other. There was a slight humming that filled the room as each adult did her best to calm the spirits of her frightened students. A sea of fear existed in the cafeteria and many—adult and child alike—were drowning beneath the violent waves.
***
Scott street, a very narrow lane, was the only thing that separated Charles from the view of countless Kindergarten to second grade students venturing in and out of Gilmer Elementary’s outdated school from August to May of each year. He watched, year-round, as Pre-K students piled in and out of Gilmer Elementary’s hallowed halls hoping to fill their heads with the vast knowledge left behind by those that came before them.
Charles had never been a teacher, but he was all too keenly aware of the vast knowledge hiding in the most unexpected of spots within the borders of Gilmer. He was a veritable encyclopedia of useless knowledge as it related to Gilmer. He could name every queen of every Yamboree festival since its inception—having dated several of them, he often bragged. He could list the mayors as far back as they went in order of their succession or, if you preferred, grouped by political affiliation. No matter what part of town you lived in, Charles Keslar could tell you when your electric meter was going to be read, when your trash would be picked up, what bus your child road home from school and, in the past twenty years or so, had become more reliable than the Farmer’s Almanacin predicting whether or not your side of town would see rain or shine.
When he hung up the phone with the Gilmer Police Department, Charles Keslar had felt more like a busybody than an icon. More like a nervous old coot than an observant, helpful member of the citizenry.
The lady on the other end of the phone had been nice enough. She’d listened to him as he described the strange comings and goings of some foreign-looking men in and out of Gilmer Elementary. She had acknowledged and confirmed confusing details about loud noises— pops and bangs, he told her—emanating from within the building itself.
She had promised they’d check it out nearly two hours ago and so far not one single officer had made the five minute trip from the police station to Gilmer Elementary. Not so much as a curious drive-by.
Gilmer had a small police force compared to surrounding cities; barely enough resources to handle what few adolescent crimes there actually were in the small community. The worried ramblings of a feeble old man—even an icon like Charles—were probably not very high on their list of priorities.
Still, something needed to be done, he thought. They at least needed to drive by and take a look didn’t they? Wasn’t it their job to answer reports? Even the reports of a crazy old coot who, at 97, was not as far off his rocker as some might think.
The last pop had been followed by all the windows in the building suddenly growing very dark. A power outage. As the lights in his own house hadn’t gone out, the cause for alarm seemed greater.
A school like Gilmer isn’t just going to forget to pay their bill, he thought to himself. There were puffs of smoke too, he swore. Had he mentioned that to the young lady who took his report? He couldn’t remember. Maybe he had forgotten. Maybe if he’d said the building was on fire every cop in the county would be on their way. Sighing, staring out the huge window of his living room, Charles Keslar reached for the cordless phone resting on the nearest end table.
He couldn’t swear to it, but it looked like the lights were still off in parts of the building. A couple of windows had been opened and puffs of smoke chugged out intermittently. Pressing the on button, he dialed the number for Gilmer’s Police Department again.
“Somehow you fellas are gonna listen to me today.”
***
Alyson, Christina and Mrs. Mendez had been brought in and positioned near Lisa and Eric. She had her family with her now.
Battered and beaten but alive. Eric had himself and the horrific image of his parents’ brutal murders. A look of distracted bitterness attempted to veil the pain that was otherwise obvious. He was angry, but he was lost beneath the fury.
Had he given up, she wondered. Had she lost him in the sea of grief?
She thought of September 11th, 2001. About the plane that fought back against the hijackers. About the futile struggle they had waged against men bent on the assassination of their fellow Americans.
Strangers to them, but countrymen nonetheless. Americans. Innocent lives in need of heroes.
Panning the room, looking into eyes of fear and uncertainty, she knew that this was not a room of souls eager to fight in the manner of those brave people. She knew that her own fervor could not ignite a heroic rebellion against their oppressors and even if it did, sheer anger of a raging horde of five-year-olds was no match for automatic rifles and razor-sharp long blades. The heroes in this room would wage war much differently. Silently, dying for a cause they did not understand.
Unwilling victims—martyrs—in a war for which they never volunteered.
Looking into her daughter’s frightened eyes, Mother Lisa Mendez filled with a tiger’s determination to defend her young. To survive long enough, if nothing else, to ensure Christina’s survival. Looking at Alyson, bruised and beaten near to death, worry set in. Worry that they might do her more harm should Lisa decide to take any sort of futile action against them. Letting her eyes catch Mrs. Mendez’s stare, Lisa’s mind began to contemplate having to explain to her overwrought husband how it was her fault they were burying all that remained of the Mendez matriarch.
Looking at Eric Reid, she thought of his dead parents. Police Lt. Lisa Mendez was enraged. Filled with an undeniable sense that Lady Justice had been robbed of her due process. That revenge would be hers and hers alone. By all rights and privileges sworn to her when she first pinned on a badge, she would be the hand wielding the hammer of justice, so help her God.
He might not want her help, Lisa thought, but Eric’s parents cried out for justice and it was u
p to her to see to it their cries were answered.
She had counted twelve armed terrorists before, but only six remained visible from her vantage point near the serving line entrance at the back of the cafeteria. One in the corner opposite her, two more dotting that far wall, two more standing guard over the wall opposite Lisa and Dr. Death himself standing post on the wall to Lisa’s right. Possessing the same 9mm pistol she’d seen before, Dr. Death remained the only one not armed with a machinegun.
Occasionally, a side door would open and one of the remaining terrorists would walk through, whisper something to Dr. Death, trade knowing glances and scurry off about whatever miniscule task the worker bee was covering.
Her mind drifted to the dead girls, and to Eric’s parents again. Examples for the cause. Collateral damage in the struggle for religious superiority. Puppets for the amusement of these twisted idiots and their idiotic ideology.
People to her. Christians to Dr. Death. Infidels.
The Enemy.
To her left, the door opened and two men entered, carrying assault rifles and backpacks. They spoke loudly in Arabic, addressing Dr. Death across the crowded room. He said nothing, merely smiled and nodded in approval.
“What’d they say?” Lisa asked, boldly, risking an answer in the form of a bullet between the eyes. His eyes oozing with venomous intent, Dr. Death looked at Lisa as if she were spit. As if she were lower than the lowest form of scum. When he paused, Lisa momentarily thought he had decided not to address her question. He looked away, regarded the ceiling as if offering a brief prayer to whatever God schizophrenic morons like him prayed to. Finally, he craned his neck back toward Lisa.
Narrowing his eyes, Dr. Death breathed out heavily and smiled.
“It is a glorious day, Mrs. Mendez,” he whispered. “It is finished.”
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