by Eli Easton
Being on this side of the glass gave me a new perspective. The windows’ upper sections didn’t open, but there were smaller windows at the bottom that slanted out. A hedge ran stiffly along the length of the exterior wall below the windows.
My mouth went dry. Anxiety crept up my spine. The nasty little Gollum in my head rattled his cage. Sweat broke out on my back despite the cold. Cameron just stood there with his hands in his pockets, chin tucked into the collar of his blue parka, watching me.
“Well?” he said.
I took a deep breath. “The cops found evidence that the shooters went in the door at the end of B-Wing.” I waved a hand toward it. “But what about this? Fourth period starts, and Gordo and Mr. Fishbinder are alone in the room. Fishbinder has got it all planned out, down to the last second. They change into their black clothes, grab the guns that Mr. Fishbinder would have stashed earlier in the closet or something, then, instead of going out the classroom door to the hall, they come out one of these windows.”
“The windows don’t open far enough.”
I peered at the windows, pushing my way through an opening in the hedge to get up close. Each lower window frame was about three feet wide and had a hinge-and-bar mechanism that prevented the windows from opening more than a few inches. I could see it clearly through the glass.
“The only thing stopping them from opening all the way is a little bar, and that’s attached with a few screws. Fishbinder could’ve removed the bars, and then, after the shooting, put them back the way they were.”
“Okay,” Cameron said doubtfully. “You don’t think anyone would have seen them walking along the side of the building?” He looked around. “Like someone in one of these other classrooms?”
“Not if they used the bushes as a shield.” I demonstrated, crouching between the hedge and wall, moving along under the windows. Then I realized if there was any trace of footprints or broken branches after all this time, I’d mess them up, so I hopped back to the lawn.
We went back around to B-Wing’s emergency exit door. It was locked now. They’d made sure it was locked, and the alarm fixed, after the shooting. But that day, there would have been something stuck in it so kids could duck out and smoke. Hell, Fishbinder would have made sure of that. I could see it all in my head—the two of them, dressed in black, people I fucking knew, opening that door, armed with guns, ready to kill.
I had no proof that’s what had happened. But I knew all the same. They came from a classroom through a window, and somehow returned the same way. And the cops would never suspect them because Gordo and Fishbinder had been found barricaded inside after the building had been cleared. And because no one would expect a student and teacher to lie for each other.
A wave of nausea and light-headedness stole my strength. I leaned against the brick wall near the door, taking deep breaths, trying to clear my head. I couldn’t fall apart right now.
You must have to psych yourself up for games, so psych yourself up right now.
Landon’s words from that day came to me. It was like he was here telling me I could do this. I had to do this.
“I don’t know, dude. I don’t know,” Cameron said, his voice freaked-out. He started to pace. “Maybe it was someone else. You know? Maybe this is all a coincidence.”
I ignored him. “That’s why the security cameras had to be down. Not because they didn’t want to be filmed inside. They were wearing ski masks. But because they didn’t want to be caught going in and out of B-Wing by cameras outside the school.”
“Shit, Brian. I think you’re right. Fuck me, I do. But we got diddly-squat. All we know is that Gordo asked me to meet him in the basement that day, and he’s been acting weird.”
“And we know he’s been spending lots of time with Fishbinder. Don’t tell me that’s not messed up.”
“Okay. It’s messed up. But maybe Fishbinder is just a nice guy. A father figure. That doesn’t mean they shot up the damn school.”
“Except that Fishbinder took Gordo to a shooting range an hour away. A lot.”
“Oh God,” Cameron moaned, grabbing his head. “This can’t be happening.”
But it was. I went back around to Fishbinder’s classroom windows and took pictures with my phone. I took a picture with my hand between the bushes and the wall, showing the gap. I took pictures from farther back to show the distance between those windows and B-Wing’s entrance. I sent them all to Mike via text, one after another, in a flurry of righteous anger. Take this!
There was no reply. Mike was probably ignoring me now. Hell, maybe he’d blocked me.
“Who the hell are you texting, Marshall?” Cameron demanded.
“A detective with the Silver Falls PD. He interviewed me in the hospital.”
“Oh fuck!” Cameron was close to tears now, his expression frantic. “I’m gonna go to jail. They’ll give me a lethal injection or whatever! How do they kill you in Missouri?”
“I don’t know, Cam.”
“Well, however they do it, they’re gonna do it to me! If Gordo did it, if he goes down, no one’s gonna believe it was a teacher with him.” His eyes went wide. “Oh, God! Gordo was trying to set me up! That’s why he told me to go to the basement, so I wouldn’t have an alibi.”
I thought about that. Had Fishbinder planned to let Gordo and Cameron take the fall? But that wouldn’t have worked unless Gordo got killed in the shootout. Because if there was one guy on earth who’d squeal, it was Gordon Stahler. “Nah, man. Fishbinder wouldn’t have wanted Gordo to say anything to anyone. He was planning on them getting away clean.” And they pretty much had. “I bet Gordo sent you down to the basement to make sure you were safe.”
Cameron rubbed his eyes and sniffled. “Ya think?”
“Yeah, man. Seriously. Look how he planned it. I was supposed to be in class and so was Jake. And they didn’t hit those classrooms. He sent you to the basement just to be sure you were out of the line of fire. He was protecting us.”
Cameron wiped his nose with the back of a hand. “Yeah. Yeah. He was protecting us.”
That seemed to make Cameron calm down, but the idea only enraged me. It only proved Gordo knew how many kids were likely to die that day.
“But how’d they get back into the classroom at the end? They left the school way over in D-Wing.” He waved in that direction. “They’d have to go past the entire damn school to get back over here.”
“Well, let’s go over there and see.”
We walked along the back of the school, across the dead grass toward C-Wing, and then followed the service driveway. As we rounded the corner and hit the north parking lot, the wind gusted across the asphalt, nearly blinding me. My eyes watered. The parking lot was empty except for a long line of yellow buses lined up along the curb, their blank windows staring at me.
Anyone could be hiding in there.
I panted like I’d been running, and my legs felt numb as we walked, and not because of the cold. I hated being in this place to begin with, but today, with the eerie quiet, and me and Cam tracking the killers’ path, it was worse than ever. I couldn’t help looking around for ominous figures. But there was no one, and there wouldn’t be. I might not know where Gordo or Mr. Fishbinder were at this moment, but there was no reason for them to be at the school with guns during Christmas break.
Right?
When we reached the portico and D-Wing’s door, Cameron tried it. It was locked. He stood there, hands on his hips.
“So they came out this door…,” he said leadingly.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “In that cell phone footage, they exited and went left.”
Heading left of the portico could get you to a lot of places—the north parking lot, the service road, and eventually….
I pointed. “The cornfield.”
Cameron looked between the field and the door.
“Nah. Somebody would have seen ’em. Two guys in black carrying guns? There are all those windows along C-Wing. Did anyone report seeing them?”
“I don’t think so. The cops think they had a car in the parking lot, and they took off before the first responders got here. Because the security cameras were down, there’s no video. And Josiah mentioned that other cars were leaving, lots of people with cars took off. So the cops probably just assumed one of those cars was them.”
“Yeah, but someone would have seen them walk to the cornfield, bruh.”
I held up my hand, so he’d let me think. I looked around. He was right. If they’d walked along the sidewalk or service drive, someone in C-Wing would have seen them.
Then it hit me between the eyes. I was staring right at it. “The buses. They’re here every day between morning drop-off and afternoon pickup. Come on.”
We jogged over to the line of buses, circling them to the parking lot side. Cameron and I gave each other a grim look. Then I crouched and ran alongside the long yellow blockade, my fingers ghosting the sides.
Sure enough, the buses would provide cover from anyone in C-Wing. And anyone over at the football field wouldn’t have seen them because of all the other cars in the lot. The last bus was maybe ten feet from the cornfield.
I walked across the grass to the edge of the field. The neat rows of short yellow nubs wouldn’t reveal any clues. The harvest would’ve erased any traces of footprints or a disturbance to the stalks. Surely the cops would have checked the field on the day of the shooting. Right?
But maybe not. They had so many dead and wounded, so many hysterical people to interview. And if they assumed the shooters had driven away…. After all, who would expect the killers to turn around and go back into the school? Pretend to be victims? I could picture it, though. The two of them running through the tall corn with their goddamn guns. Bile rose, burning my throat and making me gag. I went back over to the parking lot and sat on the curb, put my head in my hands.
Cameron plopped down beside me. “You gonna hurl?”
I shook my head.
Cameron was silent for a minute. Then he said, “This is crazy. Maybe I’m crazy. But I think they really could have done it like you said.”
“Yeah.”
A few seconds ticked by. There was no answer.
These guys needed to be caught, exposed, locked away so they’d never, ever hurt anyone again.
I took a shaky breath and stood up. I took some photos of the D-Wing door, buses, and cornfield, and sent them off in a DM to Detective Mike with short explanatory texts. He hadn’t answered my last set of messages, and he’d probably ignore these too, but at least I felt like I was doing something.
I ended it with: Did the PD even check the cornfield???
I waited a few seconds. No answer. I put the phone away.
I sat back down on the curb next to Cameron. The air bit sharply into my face and hands, but I didn’t feel cold. There were too many emotions churning inside me. Disgust. Rage. Sadness. So much sadness. I took deep breaths like the counselor had told me to, my head propped on my knees. Eventually that sense of urgency I’d experienced earlier resurfaced.
I needed to catch these guys, expose them, get the cops to lock them away so they’d never, ever hurt anyone again.
“So,” Cameron said. “You think they cut through the cornfield, then went back in through the classroom window?”
“Yeah.”
“Bet they stashed the guns and black clothes in the cornfield somewhere. Couldn’t have risked taking them back inside.”
“Yeah. Good thinking.”
“They make sure the way is clear, go back along the hedge, in the rigged window, screw the bars back in, bingo boingo. Looks like they were barricaded in there the whole time.”
I stared at him in surprise.
Cameron raised an eyebrow. “What, you think I’m an idiot or something?”
“Pretty much.”
He punched me in the shoulder. “Well, I’m not. You’re not the only person who can figure shit out. So what happens now?”
I was about to answer when my phone dinged. I took it out.
Landon: I’m about to go on the set. Just wanted to say that I wish you were here and I hope we’re okay when I get home. I’ll call you after the show. ILY.
The message made me smile at first. But then I thought about Landon standing with a group of people about to go on set. Probably they’d have the shooting survivors all lined up in chairs, and the host across from them asking questions—
Only Landon had said they were filming outside, in a park next to the studio so there could be a live audience. Like on those New Year’s Eve shows they do in Times Square.
The image caused a surge of intense dread. He’d be so exposed. Such a target.
Knock it off, mind-fucker. No one’s gonna shoot at him. He’s fine.
Anyway. The Wall shooters were Gordo and Mr. Fishbinder. They were in Silver Falls. So they definitely couldn’t—
They couldn’t.
“Shit. Where is Gordo?” My voice came out as a whisper.
Chapter 33
Landon
I STOOD in a back hallway at CNN with the six other panelists, waiting to be led over to the park where we were filming the show.
My stomach felt swirly, and I was sweating in the red turtleneck sweater and black wool pants I’d picked out to wear on TV. I had a major case of stage fright. I should be used to being interviewed on camera by now. But being on CNN in front of a live audience was another level of pressure. And there was a big crowd out there, they’d said. I told myself I’d be fine once I was seated in the cool air and the show started, but the anticipation was brutal.
I looked around at the other panelists. They all looked nervous and uncomfortable too. When I’d gotten to the studio at three o’clock, they had a cold buffet laid out for us, and we all had a chance to introduce ourselves. It was awesome to see two of the Parkland students again. There was a guy and girl from Santa Fe High School, Lauren and Emilio. Emilio was small and fragile-looking with big, beautiful brown eyes. He’d been through multiple surgeries for gunshot wounds, and he stuttered shyly when he talked. My heart ached for him. He reminded me of Brian, so sweet and so physically wrecked by violence. The Sandy Hook parents were warm and friendly, but they made me realize how long I’d be dealing with the shooting at The Wall.
Forever, that was how long. Their grief and anger still seemed fresh.
While we waited, I sent Brian a text.
Landon: I’m about to go on the set. Just wanted to say that I wish you were here and I hope we’re okay when I get home. I’ll call you after the show. ILY.
God, I so wished he was there—to sit beside me on the panel or smile at me from the sidelines. Give me a thumbs-up. And I knew in that moment, standing in that back hallway, that if it came down to it, I’d choose Brian. It was supercool to be flown to New York and get to be on a major news channel. But what was important was being a voice for gun control, and maybe I could do that without appearing on the air. It felt pointless without Brian, without knowing that he was behind me, was “on my team,” as he’d put it. This battle needed to be something we were both doing, together.
I almost texted him about that realization, but it was too late.
“Phones off, everyone!” James, the assistant producer, was a handsome and animated black guy who was constantly talking into his headset. “You can put them in a pocket or leave them with me.” He held out a bowl, which made us laugh. I decided I didn’t want to have to worry about it looking bulky in my pocket or accidentally going off, so I put mine in the bowl, and most of the others did too.
The door opened, and James led us out through an aisle lined with people toward a set of bright lights in the park across the street. There was a platform with tall interview chairs, two on the left for the hosts, and seven on the right. I was tall, so James had told me to take a chair in the back row.
Before I knew it, we were on the air. The hosts took us through introductions, then started asking questions of the Sandy Hook parents, Paul and Jane. M
y nerves vanished, the cool air cleared my head, and I got totally into their story. Even though there was a crowd, the lights created a kind of bubble on the set. They were so bright I couldn’t see much of the live audience around us. I could barely make out the backs of two security men standing on our side of the barricade.
As Paul talked about the pain of that day at Sandy Hook, I became aware of sirens. At first, I figured it was part of the normal New York noise. But they got loud, very loud. It sounded like they were coming to the park.
One of the hosts, Amanda, put a hand to her ear. “Excuse me,” she said, interrupting Paul. “I’m being told there’s a security threat.” She listened a few seconds longer, going pale. “Yes, I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen, I’m being told we have to clear the set.”
James was suddenly standing by the cameras, waving at us frantically, along with a security guard.
“Let’s go!” the security guard barked. “Now!”
What? What was going on?
I looked at Emilio, who was sitting next to me. His face had turned gray, and he looked stricken. Before I could reach out to give him a hand, something whizzed past my face, and a light behind me exploded. Someone in the audience screamed.
In an instant, I was back at The Wall. There’s a shooter.
Fear slicked through my body, and I dropped like a stone to the stage. I curled into a ball and covered my head with my hands.
God, no. Please, God, not again.
“Up! Up! Let’s go! Let’s go!” Someone tugged my arm.
I looked up to see a burly security guard, his face grim. I let myself be pulled up. He put his arm around me, half covering me, shielding me, and we ran, bent over. I had no idea where I was or where we were going. My mind was a blank of shock and dread.
He thrust me inside a door, and I found myself back in the hallway of the CNN building. Outside there was a cacophony of sirens and screams and shouted instructions from the police.
I turned to see Emilio, arms around himself, tears streaming down his face.
He hugged me. “It’s all right. It’s all right. We’re safe,” he said as if trying to convince me. I was shaking all over. I could barely stand, barely breathe.
