Hot Mic!

by Jamie Collins

  Jon waited exactly five seconds for Hannah to answer her own question, pulling out his phone to order up a car.

  Then, it took her less time than that to determine that she was not getting onto the plane to New York.

  Instead, she turned to Jon and said, “Let’s go!”

  Chapter 64

  Hannah and Jon rushed to the rental car counter, where Jon finalized the rental and Hannah took advantage of the Wi-Fi signal while there still was one. She did a quick search for dragon mascots for high schools in the Dauphin County area, which was Principal Steller’s area code. She took a random shot. The results brought her three possibilities. She chose the third one and clicked onto the link. Oddly, it took several tries to get through to the website. The system was jammed.

  “C’mon, . . . C’mon . . . TALK to me!” she pleaded as precious seconds ticked away.

  A moment later, the images appeared in animated block letters, which seemed almost surreal as they gleamed on the screen, “WELCOME TO HARRISBURG HIGH SCHOOL.” A revolving cartoon dragon caught her eye in the upper right-hand corner. She clicked on it and noticed that the dragon icon had cyber connected to the physical education site for the school called Coach’s Corner. She quickly learned that the Dragons were the school’s football team. They were champions three years running, headed by Coach Rainer, an third-string former runningback for Penn State. A calendar of upcoming events was posted, touting an all-school pep rally scheduled for ten o’clock that very morning in the student assembly hall, named Bremen’s Hall.

  Hannah’s stomach tightened. She recognized the reference from EJ’s rantings. It was what they meant by “gut instinct,” and hers was firing off. She clicked down further and immediately found what she feared—the team’s linebacker, Grant Leary’s, name was at the top and center of the team roster. He was a handsome boy with a tussle of wavy brown hair and a broad, earnest grin. Next to him was a pixie-faced cheerleader named Melissa Gates. The caption beneath their images read: “Your 2015 Homecoming King and Queen? Click here to vote!”

  Melissa . . . sweet Melissa . . . letter number nine! Eric’s words burned in the file folder shoved in her carry-on bag next to her now-crumpled Prada blazer. It was clear that something awful was still going to happen. It was in motion.

  There was nothing she could do, or was there?

  Jon pulled up in a Subaru Crosstrek SUV, and she climbed in. “I’ll fill you in on the way,” she said, tossing the bags into the back. She then punched in the coordinates for Harrisburg High School on the console with trembling fingers as Jon peeled out of the parking lot, heading south on I-95. They were both praying that God’s grace, and sheer luck, would get them there—hopefully, in time.

  Chapter 65

  When they had reached seventy-five miles per hour, Hannah fumbled for her cell and began dialing 9-1-1 with trembling hands. Instantly, she was connected to the county police.

  The voice on the other end of the phone asked her to hold.

  “Hold! They put me on goddamn hold! Drive faster!” Hannah ordered. Jon was already breaking all the rules, but he floored it. They sped faster toward Veterans Memorial Highway toward Exit 7.

  An eternity passed, and then a supervisor came on the line.

  “Ma’am, I’m Officer Nolan . . . can I have your name, please?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m Dr. Hannah Courtland-Murphy of Venture Media’s syndicate talk show Straight Talk with Dr. Hannah. I think I might have information linked to the Leary bombing. Listen to me—I have reason to believe that Harrisburg High School in Dauphin County may be a target. You have got to call for a lock down! A student may be planning a rampage. In fact, I’m sure of it!”

  “Where are you now, Ms. Murphy?”

  She strained to think, glancing at her watch. It was nine thirty-five. The rally was set to begin at ten o’clock.

  “Did you hear me, Officer? I’m telling you that you’ve GOT to get those kids out of there! There is a rally happening in Bremen’s Hall. You have to act NOW!”

  “One moment, please . . .”

  “Son-of-a-bitch!” They were no doubt attempting to trace the call. Hannah slammed her fist on the dashboard. A throbbing migraine was pounding at her temples. She feared the worst. Why should they believe her? What proof was there that she even was who she said she was in the first place? They could have been talking to some crackpot for all they knew! Still, shouldn’t they take every call seriously, regardless?

  Road signs whizzed by, indicating that they were just miles from the I-76 merge toward Valley Forge, which would be another eighty-four long miles to Harrisburg. Jon floored it, barreling through the gray haze.

  Chapter 66

  Eric watched the doors intently from the curb. Waiting. A momentary glimpse passed before his eyes of a vacation that he and his parents once took in Wyoming. There was the amusement park in Houston another time . . . his mother cutting vegetables on the kitchen counter . . . the skateboard he got for Christmas in two thousand seven; his computer games, the dog they had when they lived on Jenner Street with one blue eye and one brown; the dentist and his cold steel drill, the first day of high school. Then, he thought of Melissa; of cutting his lip two summers ago on the handlebars of his mountain bike, trying to impress her; Grant Leary and other boys, ogling her from the sidelines when she cheered. The times that she might have once tossed him a glance in passing in the hall. Had she smiled? He could not remember. Did she laugh when all the others iced him out and pointed and laughed under their breath, calling him a freak and a waste of humanity? They were just images—quick flashes—and then they were gone.

  He hadn’t given most of it much thought in the recent past, and yet, there had been one thing that he could not stop thinking about for months. It was always there—a way out. He was ready. As ready as he would ever be. The emails had been sent and the fates had been sealed. Just in case, he had printed off a copy of the last one sent to that hack, Dr. Hannah, and jammed it into his jeans pocket.

  There was only one last thing to do. He crossed himself quickly. In all actuality, he didn’t believe that God gave a rat’s ass about him, but in such instances, one could never be sure about anything. He figured he would call on Christ for the forgiveness promised, even though he hated fucking Jews.

  Chapter 67

  Harrisburg, PA

  Owen Brady slammed the metal locker—the last one on the far left, bottom row, with the busted lock that only worked when you jiggled it. A colorful array of lollipops were still taped to the front door; remnants of his initiation one week prior. He fastened the last button on his police-issued blues. His hair was still wet from the shower, but it was worth it for the extra twenty-five reps on the kettle bells in the gym that morning. He had slicked the cowlick back with some gel, which would get his balls busted from the other guys, but he didn’t care. He had other problems, namely, that he had just moved back in with his middle-aged mother due to a split between him and his ex-fiancé that started in Cancun two months back and was still holding strong. The new job coming through was a Godsend, but it wouldn’t be easy to consider himself as being a real cop until he had earned his stripes so to speak and saved up enough for his own place. At twenty-three, he wasn’t necessarily waiting for his ship to come in—a skiff that could hold water would do.

  He tied the rigid shoelaces and thought about an argument he had with his mother just that morning. “You don’t have to do my laundry, Mom. I can take care of that myself,” he had said as he gave her a swift kiss on the cheek, his army green gym bag in hand as he headed off to the station.

  “What? I have been doing somebody’s laundry for the past thirty years, so why should now be any different?”

  He hated that she felt the need to baby him. Hadn’t he gotten enough of that treatment with the initiation? Geeze! He didn’t know what was worse, living back home, or being the newest rookie on the force getti
ng razed at every turn. He would need to win respect on all levels before those who mattered would call him Officer. It was all that mattered.

  He grabbed his gear and headed out to the lot. He hated the way that his gun leather creaked every time he made a move. It was newly issued and hadn’t been fully broken in yet. Today, he would be riding shotgun with Ostrowski, an experienced veteran of thirty-five years with the Dauphin County PD. Damn! he thought. This one hates to do any paperwork—thinks that’s what I’m here for. Paper training as he calls it.”

  Ostrowski slid his middle-aged gut beneath the steering wheel, called in that they were “10-8,” in service and ready for duty. He then chided, “Okay, ‘boot,’ let’s see what the day brings.”

  Brady was calm-faced and obedient. This was no time to fend off insults.

  They barely made it out onto the main road when a car with faulty taillights caught Ostrowski’s eagle eye. He pulled the vehicle over and approached the car cautiously. “Stay here,” he said, grabbing his ticket book. The dash cam recorded the exchange. He delivered a stern warning to the driver, a harried office worker gushing with apologies. After a few minutes of friendly exchange, he let her go.

  Yep, Brady yawned. It was going to be a slow day.

  Two traffic crash calls later, a potential break-in inquiry, and a flat tire assist rounded out the morning with little effect.

  “Come on,” Ostrowski said, sensing Brady’s dip in energy. “Let me show you something they don’t teach you in field training—where to score the best coffee in town.”

  Chapter 68

  At precisely ten a.m., Eric Johansson walked through the double doors, past the reception office, and made his way down the long, empty corridor to the doorway of the assembly hall. Remarkably, he went unnoticed. The school receptionist had been away from her station just long enough for him to slip by.

  The rally was just getting started, and the crowd of students was buzzing with excitement. He could imagine Melissa, dressed in her cheerleading outfit, pumping her fists in the air to rev up the bleachers in a flurry of hoots and whistles. The band started up, and pandemonium swelled from behind the massive wooden doors. Through the sliver of glass, he could see the members of the Dragons football team, jogging out onto the floor—minus one Grant Leary. Had the authorities released the names yet from his handiwork earlier that morning? It appeared not.

  He took a deep breath, shut off his mind, and pulled the Kel-Tec .223 semi-automatic rifle from the duffel bag that swung low on his shoulder, letting the bag fall to the floor. He located the charging handle, shoved the cartridge into the magazine well, and locked it into place with a click. His finger trembled as he placed it on the trigger and pushed open the door with his open palm. He paused, took a deep breath, and immediately began shooting rounds from left to right in a sweeping motion, moving forward into the assembly hall, shouting at the top of his lungs, “Die! Bastards, die!” Manic and methodical, he watched without affect as the bodies dropped in his wake.

  First down was the stunned security guard, Freddie, who, only for a second, might have recognized the boy and pleaded for his life with a quivering, pathetic gesture just seconds before Eric filled his chest with a spray of bullets.

  And for thirteen eternal minutes more he moved his way across the massive room, starting with the chaotic scene of students jumping from the bleachers, picking off freshmen and jocks, geeks and honor students; children of mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers. The holy and the haunted—teachers, coaches, and counselors—anyone in his path.

  Brady and Ostrowski had pulled up to a coffee shop on Green Street and were nursing two steaming cups of joe on a sticky park bench and having a heart-to-heart about wearing the badge.

  “I hear you did time,” Ostrowski said, removing the lid and blowing into the paper cup.

  “Yes, sir. Two tours in Iraq. Twelve months each, back to back. Mostly serviced gun trucks for convoy security, but I did do some grunt work in the red zone on my second deploy.”

  “What was that like?” Ostrowski asked, partly to make conversation and partly because he wanted to know, seeing as how he had missed the draft in ’71 due to a viral infection that had laid him up for months.

  “It was a bag of dicks most of the time, but you get through it. Not much different than working the grind out here some days, I suppose,” Brady opined.

  “Well, all I can say is that you shouldn’t let the weight of all this unnerve you. Don’t believe what they say about throwing out what you learned in the academy—that none of it is real. It’s not true. No matter what happens, never lie about a screw-up. If you lie, you’re out. Embrace and own your mistakes.” He flicked a gnat off his cuff with a beefy thumb.

  “Yeah, some situations can be rough, I guess,” Brady said, wondering if he had the stuff to make a good cop.

  The surly cop chuckled, raising a freckled index finger. “I doubt this is any different from what it was you went through. Remember, losing your focus is the number one thing that’ll get you killed—or worse, lead to more problems,” he said, proving that even crusty old cops had a sense of humor.

  “I’ll try to remember that, sir.”

  “You don’t have to call—”

  Just then, their radios squawked. “Multiple shots reported in the vicinity of Harrisburg High School. Possible active shooter.”

  “That’s a block away,” Ostrowski said, reaching for his radio. He delivered a series of codes rapid-fire into his radio and then barked the command, “Dump the bean juice. Let’s roll!”

  Brady ditched the half-drunk coffee cups into the dumpster and jumped into the car. They peeled away with the siren blaring and lights blazing toward Market Street.

  Chapter 69

  Betty Brady caught the news bulletin just as she was about to press her son’s police-issued shirt with a perfect crease down the sleeve that was her specialty. A female news anchor with a pretty face delivered the update about the events unfolding at the high school standing in a half-empty parking lot blocks away from the school. “Word has it, according to eyewitnesses, that at least one gunman opened fire on the students at an assembly in the school’s Bremen’s Hall.”

  Betty gasped and set the steam iron on its stand and looked up to watch the television screen in the living room. Her heart quickened as she heard the anchorwoman report that every police officer in the county was descending upon the tragic scene, in addition to federal SWAT teams, who had begun swarming the area.

  She grabbed her cellphone from the credenza and scrolled for Owen’s name. “Pick up . . . pick up,” she said, her stomach tightening with nerves. Surely he would be okay. It was only his first week on the job.

  Brady and Ostrowski pulled up first on the scene, stopping short of the main entrance. Throwing open the car doors, they pulled their weapons and crouched down, for cover, waiting for backup. Brady tossed his unanswered phone onto the floorboard, where it continued to buzz. The sound of shots being fired reverberated in the direction of the assembly hall. They were coming from an automatic weapon.

  “I’m going in!” Ostrowski said, tugging on his vest and feeling for his radio to inform dispatch. “You stay—”

  Just then, as he tried to stand, he teetered unsteadily and fell backward to the ground, clutching his left arm.

  “Sir—are you hit, sir?” Brady called out, moving around to the back end of the police car to see. Ostrowski was writhing in pain and could barely breathe. An ambulance skidded up, and Brady motioned for help. “Something’s wrong. I think he’s having a heart attack!” Brady said, backing away to allow the medics to assess the situation.

  The perimeter was filling up with police cars and medical support from every angle. A huge black truck rolled onto the campus sidewalk, and heavily geared men climbed out of the back to swarm the north end, where the classrooms were located. A news chopper hovered overhead.
<
br />   The shots ceased momentarily, and then started up again—a quick succession of staccato blasts echoing across the campus.

  Brady ducked through a stream of first responders in the opposite direction—eastward toward the assembly hall from which he and Ostrowski had heard the first shots.

  Brady ran around to the back end of the gymnasium and slipped into the service entrance off the locker rooms. He was in.

  From this vantage point he could hear the screaming and commotion emanating from the gymnasium. Several frantic students rushed past him in tears, wailing and frightened. One girl grabbed his arm and wouldn’t let go. He pried her off and motioned for them to run out. “Hands over your heads—go! Go!”

  Then, he crept around to the access door to the gym and could see the shooter firing. His back was to Brady. He had stopped momentarily, perhaps to reload, as students scattered in all directions, ducking and taking cover any way they could.

  Then, it got eerily quiet. Students were hiding beneath the bleachers, stuck between the shooter and any viable exit.

  Brady held steady. He had been here before. It was northern Iraq all over, only without the dust and heat. He was once again on the back of an Army truck, watching as the women and children scattered like ants as enemy gunfire rained on them from the tree line. It was no different.

  When the shooter heard Brady’s radio squawk, he spun around and faced him dead-on. Brady lifted the revolver and lined up his mark. He did not wait a beat, or for Eric to discover that his clip was indeed empty just before he squeezed the trigger. Brady fired—felling the boy in one clean shot.