One Breath Away Page 23

  Cal steps out of the RV and into the swirling snow with a lost and bewildered expression, leaning on to Father Adam for support.

  “This has got to end,” the chief says miserably. He looks hard at Swain. “Doesn’t the implied threat that Cal heard over the phone give us cause enough to send the tac team into the building?”

  “He’s talking,” Swain explains. “As long as we’re participating in a dialog with the man and no one has gotten hurt, we keep negotiating with him.”

  “But it’s me he wants. Let me go in there and talk with him,” I say with more conviction than I feel.

  Swain shakes his head. “Listen, we’ll get you in phone contact with him, but there is no way you’re going into that school building, especially if you’re the target. We’re not going to endanger innocent children, teachers and officers because you want to play hero.”

  “Then let me go in there alone. If you think this is Tim holed up in there, what are you worried about? I’m not. Tim has never hurt me, would never hurt me in a million years and certainly would not hurt Maria in this way.” My face is burning from anger and from Swain’s condescending attitude toward me.

  “Let’s make phone contact with him first,” Chief McKinney says, trying once again to get us back on track. “You’ll recognize Tim’s voice, then we’ll know for sure.”

  Something clicks into place within my brain. The phone. If it was truly Tim in that school and it was me he wanted, he would have simply called me. Why would he care whether or not I recognized his voice? It didn’t make sense. No, this wasn’t Tim. “You said the intruder called you asking for me, right?”

  “Yes,” Swain agrees. “He called using one of the students’ cell phones.”

  I pull out my phone. “Why didn’t he just call me, then?” I pause as I look at my phone. “It looks like I got several texts earlier from an unknown number. What was the student’s cell number?”

  Aaron flips through his notes and rattles off the number.

  “Why didn’t you look at the texts?” Swain asks, annoyed.

  “I didn’t know I even got them,” I explain. I try to keep the defensiveness out of my voice but fail. “Besides, I’ve been a little busy, Swain,” I say, not caring that I sound insubordinate. “The chief frowns on taking personal calls during a standoff.”

  “What’s it say?” the chief asks. The three men gather tightly around me and peer down at my phone.

  I read the first text out loud. “Barrett. Alone. 6:30 p.m.”

  “It’s six-twenty,” Swain says, glancing at his watch.

  “I’ve just thought of someone else,” I say suddenly. McKinney, Gritz and Swain look at me expectantly. “Matthew Merritt.”

  “Greta Merritt’s husband?” Samora’s incredulous, disembodied voice fills the air and I glance down at the speakerphone. I’d forgotten Samora was listening in.

  “Yes,” I say, shaken by the possibility. “I was the one who took the initial report. I was the one to convince the victim to press charges, I was the one who read Merritt his rights while Gritz cuffed him.” What I didn’t bring up was the news articles and interview that Stuart had done with the victim. No one knew that it was through me that Stuart found Jamie. If anyone had reservations that Merritt was a monster, all doubt was erased after reading the article Stuart had written. “Maybe Merritt is getting back at me this way. He definitely is a desperate man. He’s lost his wife, his family, his freedom and a chance at the governor’s mansion.” The men look at one another dubiously, but are considering the possibility.

  Before I even finished reading the news article I had Stuart on the phone. “How did you do it?” I asked. He knew exactly what I was talking about, didn’t even try to play dumb.

  “I heard you talking to her on the phone.”

  My mind whirred, trying to pinpoint the date and location of the phone call. When realization dawned on me all I could say was, “Oh.” Stuart had spent the entire night at my house only once since we met. Maria was at a slumber party at a friend’s house and wouldn’t return home until the following day. It was late when Jamie called me. Stuart and I had been sleeping, curled up together as if we had slept that way for years. His arms wrapped tightly around me, his chin on my shoulder, his hands resting on my stomach. We fit together perfectly. Or so I thought. When my cell phone rang, I eased myself carefully out of bed so as not to wake Stuart. Since I had taken her to the rape crisis center, walked her through the steps to pressing charges against Matthew Merritt and promised her that everything would be okay, she had trusted me. During that phone call she tearfully told me that she kept having nightmares, that she knew Mr. Merritt was going to get back at her. He had told her he would hurt her, hurt her family, if she ever told anyone.

  “Matthew Merritt will not hurt you again,” I reassured her. “I won’t allow it. You can do this, Jamie, and you have a lot of people who are here to help you get through this. I know it isn’t easy.

  “Do you want me to come over?” I asked after several minutes of listening to her quiet cries.

  “Could you?” she said hopefully. “Please?”

  I left a note for Stuart, just saying that I had to go out on police business and I would be back soon.

  That was the night Stuart learned that Jamie Crosby was raped by Matthew Merritt. He had his story. The biggest one of his career.

  “We’ll check on the Merritt angle,” Swain promises, “but I can’t imagine him going to this extreme.”

  My cell phone chimes, startling all of us, and two more high-pitched pings follow. “There are three more texts,” I say, and a wellspring of fear spreads through my veins. BANG, reads the second text. I press the button again with shaking hands. BANG. BANG.

  Chapter 87:

  Augie

  When I peek through the window I find a man staring back at me. His blue eyes send a shiver down my back. My heart leaps and I try to turn to run away but my stocking feet cause me to slip and, before I know it, the door opens and I’m being yanked into the classroom.

  “Who are you?” the man asks, still holding me by the arm and looking me up and down.

  I see P.J. with his back pressed against the blackboard. His teacher, Mrs. Oliver, who looks like she was hit in the head with a baseball bat, is standing with her arms around two other kids, a girl with black, messy hair and a short boy with a bowl haircut and braces.

  Everyone is looking at me with their mouths hanging open and I realize I must look like a crazy person. I don’t have any shoes on, I’m wearing a sweatshirt that is ten times too big for me and I’m peeking into a classroom where there is a man with a gun. “Who are you?” the man asks again.

  “Au-Augie,” I stutter. “That’s my brother.” I point to P.J.

  “Do you think I’m your dad, too?” the man asks, and my mind tries to make sense of his words. I look at P.J., who is staring down at his red Converse tennis shoes.

  P.J. He probably did think this nut job was his real dad. He is always looking at men on the street, staring at their faces. For a long time he would ask our mom question after question. What color was my dad’s hair? What color were his eyes? Was he tall or short? The only information he could get out of her was that when they met he was a marine and was heading to Afghanistan.

  P.J. finally gave up asking when our mother lost her temper, started crying and told P.J. she would tell him his father’s name when he turned eighteen and in the meantime he should realize just how good he had it even if it was only the three of us. “You could be stuck on a farm in Iowa having to do chores for three hours a day, shoveling cow shit!” she hollered before locking herself in the bathroom. I wonder what she’ll do on P.J.’s eighteenth birthday when he holds out his hand for the little slip of paper with his dad’s full name, address and phone number written on it. P.J. has a mind like an elephant. He nev
er forgets anything. Though my mom has never said these words, I don’t think she has any idea who P.J.’s father is.

  The man looks at me suspiciously but realizes very quickly that I’m too young and puny to be an undercover police officer or something. “Can we go now?” I ask, and P.J. starts moving toward me.

  “No, not yet.” The man shakes his head.

  “But you said,” P.J.’s teacher begins. Her face is black and blue and swollen and her words come out sounding like Buh you seh.

  The man holds up his hand like he wants her to be quiet. “Patience,” he says. “I need you for just a little bit longer, and if they do as I say, you’ll be free to go.”

  I wanted to ask who has to do what he says and what happens if they don’t do it. The little girl starts to cry, her shoulders shaking while the boy with braces is biting his lip, trying not to cry, and looking up at his teacher, waiting for her to tell him what to do next.

  “Take a seat,” the man says, and I watch P.J. carefully. He just looks mad. I’ve seen this look before. It’s the same look he gets whenever I push him too far or tease him too much. P.J. doesn’t get mad often, but when he does, watch out. I shake my head hard at him and give him my don’t you dare look. We all move to the front row of desks and sit down. “She should be arriving any time now,” the man says, and sits down on the teacher’s stool and closes his eyes.

  I might be able to take him, I think to myself. I’m fast when I want to be and all I have to do is leap out of my desk and land on top of him, knocking the gun out of his hand. I sneak a look at Mrs. Oliver and she is giving me the same don’t you dare look I gave P.J.

  “Who should be arriving?” Mrs. Oliver asks. The bruised side of her face is swelling up even more and looks deformed like something out of Phantom of the Opera. It sounds like she is talking through a big wad of bubble gum.

  “The person all this is for,” the man says, and spreads his arms out wide.

  “What if she doesn’t come?” Mrs. Oliver asks. “The police won’t let anyone in, we’re in lockdown.”

  “She is the police,” the man says with a mean smile.

  Chapter 88:

  Meg

  I look at the text messages and each bang on the screen drops with a thud into my stomach. “I’m going to call him,” I declare. “I’ll be able to recognize Tim’s or Travis’s voice, then we’ll know for sure.”

  The three men look at one another. “Do it,” Samora says, and I press the send button. The phone rings four times before there is silence. Call ended blinks back at me. A few seconds later my phone beeps signaling a new text message.

  I’m waiting, it reads.

  Let the kids go and i come in, I type.

  You have 5 min.

  Who r u?

  4 min.

  “He’s still got kids in there,” I say, looking at Aaron, Swain and the chief. “I’ve got to go.”

  “No way,” Chief McKinney says. His normally well-groomed mustache has drooped over his mouth, covering his lips.

  “I’m going in,” I say sharply, standing. “I need a vest,” I say, pointing to a bulletproof vest sitting in a corner of the RV.

  “Now wait a minute,” Swain says, standing also. He is as wide as he is tall and his bulk looms over me. He has a very calm, soothing voice that must come in handy as a hostage negotiator. “The minute he shoots someone in there, it’s all over for him. We’ll be inside in seconds. He must realize that.”

  “I don’t think we can take that chance,” I say, lifting the vest and threading my arms through, the solid heft a comfort. “If it’s Tim—and that’s a big if—I can talk him down. I’ll be able to get everyone out safely.”

  “There is absolutely no way I can authorize this,” Swain says.

  “What choice do we have?” I ask, looking him in the eye. “What if I don’t go in there and someone gets killed? That isn’t an option.”

  “Meg,” the chief says warningly. “Don’t even think about it.”

  We all look out the window at the same time, as a low rumbling sound slowly gathers volume like a stampede of spooked cattle. We move to the windows of the RV, framed by the mustard-yellow curtains, and watch with a mix of relief and apprehension. A sea of children spill into the parking lot.

  “Jesus,” Chief McKinney says as we all rush toward the RV’s door.

  This is my chance. While everyone is scrambling toward the mass of kids fleeing the building, I move toward it. I hear Aaron holler after me, but I ignore him. This is going to end, and end now.

  Chapter 89:

  Mrs. Oliver

  Mrs. Oliver struggled to keep her eyes open. It wasn’t that she was tired, though that was true. She felt like she could lie down and sleep for a week straight and decided that was exactly what she was going to do once she got home. Her head ached so badly that the only relief she felt was when her eyes were shut, but she didn’t dare let the man out of her sight. He was nearly trembling with anticipation now, though Mrs. Oliver couldn’t determine if it was an eagerness filled with fear or excitement. Maybe both. According to the man, a police officer was on her way up to the classroom right this minute, but the confusing thing was that the man had requested her presence. It made absolutely no sense. The only female police officer she knew was Meg Barrett, Maria’s mother.

  Mrs. Oliver tried to focus the eye that wasn’t nearly swollen shut on each of the children. They all appeared to be on the edge of losing it and her heart welled with affection. For Charlotte, who was now crying piteously into her hands, her one mistake was bending down to retrieve a scattering of jeweled beads that had been yanked from Mrs. Oliver’s jumper as she exited the classroom. And poor Ethan, because he was so small for his age, his short strides and the fact that his desk was located in the corner of the classroom farthest from the doorway, he, too, was still there. P.J., on the other hand, could have been one of the very first children out of the classroom, but for some reason he hung back and waited for Mrs. Oliver. Now both P.J. and his sister, Augie, were trapped in the classroom with the madman. She wondered what Will Thwaite was thinking right now. Most likely all of the other children who had raced out of the classroom were reunited with their families. She pictured Will standing outside in the sharp wind waiting for his grandchildren to emerge. She thought of Holly Thwaite, remembered her as a vivacious child, full of mischief, her body always vibrating in anticipation of the possibilities the world had to offer. Mrs. Oliver always knew that Holly would leave Broken Branch and she wondered if Holly, recovering in Arizona, had any knowledge of what was happening today to her own children in the town where she was born, in the classroom where she dreamed of a different life.

  Holly’s daughter is eyeing the door, and Mrs. Oliver knew what she was thinking. She tried to tell Augie to hold still, but her mouth hurt too much and all that came out was a weak gurgling sound. Augie, a look of determination on her face, rushed the man and tried to swat the gun from his hand, but he raised his gun above his head and deftly stepped aside. As she stumbled, he grabbed Augie by the scruff of her neck and began to drag her across the room.

  “Hey!” Augie protested as P.J. tried to pull his sister from the man’s grip. Impatiently the man pushed P.J. to the ground and pulled Augie toward the closet.

  Mrs. Oliver limped toward the man, figuring that this was it, he would surely kill her now, but she couldn’t stand by and watch him manhandle these children. “Stay there,” he ordered, and something new in his voice caused Mrs. Oliver to freeze and watch helplessly, while for the second time that day he shoved a child into the closet and then locked the door.

  Chapter 90:

  Meg

  Ignoring Aaron and not daring to gl
ance back, I dash across the snowy parking lot. The sky is bruised-looking and is getting darker. It has stopped snowing and the wind has died down as if it is holding its breath to see what will happen next. My heart is pounding as I make my way toward the school, stepping in the well-trod paths that the fleeing students created as they ran from the building and toward the gym entrance where I encountered Augie Baker earlier. Using my flashlight I smash the glass in the door in order to let myself in.

  I think of Maria and what I would have done differently if she would have been in school today. Chief McKinney probably would have sent me home with the explanation that I was a victim, that I couldn’t be professional, objective, knowing that my daughter was being held by a gunman. I wonder if I would have followed his orders or would have refused. I say a silent prayer of thanks that Maria is miles away from here, safe and sound with Tim’s parents. I feel a wave of doubt wash over me and consider for a moment the possibility that Tim is upstairs in Maria’s classroom with a gun, holding children and a teacher hostage, demanding my presence for some unknown sin I’ve committed. Was it because I refused his invitation to spend spring break with Maria and him? I can’t believe that’s true. While Tim and I have had our moments, haven’t always liked each other, we’ve always loved each other in our way. I brush away the thought and mentally prepare for one of four scenarios. One, the man upstairs is someone I arrested in the past, someone with a grudge. Maybe I sent him to jail for drugs or domestic abuse, or driving while under the influence. Two, it’s my ex-con brother. Three, it’s Matthew Merritt, the rapist. The fourth and most unlikely scenario is it’s my ex-husband, the man I married, the man who is a wonderful father to my daughter, and in some deep spot in my heart someone with whom I believe I still might actually end up growing old.

  I know that my four minutes to get up to the classroom have already come and gone so I try to move more quickly, my eyes and flashlight darting from left to right, each shadowy corner concealing something sinister. I approach the set of stairs that lead up to the classroom, a walk I’ve made several times with Maria, open-house night, parent-teacher conferences, the winter program. I can’t help thinking that I may step into that room and end up coming out on a stretcher.