tight against the chilly breeze, pressing his elbow against the Glock, just to make sure it was still there. God, what a beautiful day! He figured it for sixty degrees; way too pleasant for the business at hand.
He walked quickly down the steep concrete steps toward the school-the ones that were off limits to kids, according to a flyer sent home last week. Seems a little girl tripped, and now they were too dangerous for everyone.
Once at the bottom, he cut across the deserted playground, then paused for a few seconds to look back up at the van, before finally disappearing around the corner.
J. E. B. Stuart Junior High School-named, like all things in the Deep South, for one of the Confederacy’s heroes-was a sprawling, one-story structure, not yet five years old. Constructed of a hideous brown brick, the school was built for energy efficiency, allowing only one window per classroom, which could not be opened, except in an emergency. With an active PTA and an upperbracket population, Stuart fared better than most South Carolina schools in the standardized tests that measured whether it was getting the job done.
As he approached the school, Jake realized for the first time that their escape plan had never addressed Travis’s schooling. Yet another hole.
Shit.
As a tutor, he felt confident enough that he could hold his own against the academic challenges of the eighth grade, but there still remained the question of textbooks and curricula. How could they have overlooked something so obvious?
How ironic, he grumped, that after years of planning and simulations, walking through a million what-if scenarios, the first major weaknesses were becoming obvious even before the plan was fully executed. Damn.
His eyes scanned continuously as he approached the front doors, searching for signs of anything out of the ordinary. If the police had staked out the school, they’d done a fine job of staying out of sight. Again, he pressed his elbow against the Glock.
Please, God, forgive me for what I might do. A contingent prayer, hedging his bets with God. The sheer audacity of it made him smile.
Two sets of double doors brought him into the lobby of the school, colorfully decorated for Fall Festival, with splashy banners hanging from the suspended ceiling. They couldn’t celebrate Halloween in the school anymore because some religious zealot with too much time on her hands had discovered that Halloween was a pagan holiday and as such violated the constitutional separation of church and state.
Behind him and to the right, colorful ribbon bows had been placed behind the pictures of three children, arranged under a tasteful sign in Old English calligraphy that read “In Memoriam.” The sight saddened him. In Jake’s day, kids didn’t die.
The school’s main office lay just ahead and slightly to the right. Through the glass walls, he noted a group of five staffers clustered around the end of the four-foot counter just inside the door, one man and four women. They appeared animated, concerned. The man, in particular-whom Jake recognized as Principal Menefee-seemed especially bothered, a deep scowl creasing his forehead. The subject under discussion was clearly a burdensome one, and Jake was willing to bet he knew exactly what it was.
He made eye contact with one of the women through the window as he reached for the doorknob. Her mouth dropped open, and her face drained of color as she tapped Menefee’s shoulder. He watched the man’s face harden and felt his own stomach fiip. The principal’s expression was one of resolve, not fear, and it occurred to Jake that Menefee might turn out to be a problem. He paused just long enough to unzip his coat before pushing the door open and stepping inside.
Conversation ceased instantly, and he realized in that moment how tired he’d grown of uncomfortable silences. “Hi, folks,” he said as cheerily as he could. “I’m here to pick up my son.”
No one said a word. All four women turned their eyes to their boss, who himself seemed unprepared to respond. “I–I’m afraid we, uh, we can’t, um, do that for you,” the principal stammered.
Jack smiled patiently. Obviously, the guy knew about the morning’s events, and he was stalling for time, probably to protect Travis from what he saw as a threat to his safety. In his heart, Jake admired the balls it took for Menefee to stand up to him.
“Actually,” Jake said as softly as he could, “that wasn’t a request. It was a statement. I’m here to pick up my son.” When no one moved, he added, “Now.” As he spoke, he placed his right elbow on the counter, pulling his jacket away from his side. Whether he moved enough to expose the Glock, he didn’t know, but certainly, Menefee interpreted the movement for the threat that it was. “I think you’ll find him in English class about now.”
Menefee turned to one of the ladies. “Mrs. Harris, would you please page Mrs. Hawkins’s room and tell her that Travis Brighton’s father is here to pick him up?”
Mrs. Harris started to move, but Jake made her freeze with his words. “Actually, Mrs. Harris, I’d like you just to tell Mrs. Hawkins to send Travis up to the front office. You can leave out the part about me being here. That’ll be a surprise.” Then, as an afterthought, “If you don’t mind, tell him to bring his books and his jacket with him, too.”
Mrs. Harris nodded obediently and scooted quickly to the P.A. console. As she did, another woman, this one wearing a white nurse’s smock, ducked quickly into another room.
“Stay here, please!” Jake called after her. He darted over to the doorway she’d just entered. It was the same woman who’d looked so frightened through the window. Now she stood frozen in the middle of the nurse’s office, twitching her eyes as if expecting to get hit. A little girl with a blond ponytail-she looked less like a student than a student’s little sister-sat on the edge of a cot along the back wall. Although clearly scared to death, the girl posed no immediate threat, and Jake ignored her. “Please,” he urged again. “Let’s just talk together out here in the lobby until Travis arrives.”
The nurse raised her hands as she walked, making Jake smile. “You can keep those down, ma’am. I’m really not here to hurt anyone. I’d just like everyone to stay together.”
“Did you really kill people, Mr. Brighton?” asked the ponytail girl out of nowhere.
The suddenness of the question caught him off guard. He regarded the girl cautiously, looking for something he didn’t find. She seemed just genuinely curious. “No, honey,” he said. “I’ve never hurt a soul.” He moved a little closer, then bent down to look her straight in the eye. “And that’s the absolute truth.”
Seemingly satisfied, the little girl smiled. “Good,” she said.
He patted her head, taking care not to rumple the hairdo, then turned his attention back to the adults in the office. “Have you made your announcement yet, Mrs. Harris?”
“N-no,” she said. “I–I thought you wanted to hear me do it.”
“That’s very thoughtful.” He made a special effort to show a smile. “Okay, then, let’s get to it. I’m listening now.”
Mrs. Harris punched a button on the console. “Mrs. Hawkins?” she asked.
The open mike on the other end sounded hollow, distant. “Yes?”
Mrs. Harris glanced back at Jake before continuing. “Would you send Travis Brighton to the office, please?”
In the background, the open mike picked up a group “Ooooo” from the class. A trip to the principal’s office was never good news. “Class! Hush!” At Mrs. Hawkins’s command, her room fell silent. “Okay,” she said to the microphone. “Anything else?” Clearly, she was waiting for a reason.
“Make sure he brings his books and his jacket with him.” Mrs. Harris looked back at Jake and seemed pleased by the smile she got in return.
“Which books?” Mrs. Hawkins asked.
Mrs. Harris deferred to Jake, who merely shrugged.
“All of them,” Mrs. Harris said.
“All of them?”
Mrs. Harris fired another look to Jake, who made a rolling motion with his fingers, urging her to move things along. She turned back to the microphone, clearly at a loss for what to say, then gave up and turned the system off.
Her solution struck Jake as funny. “Nicely done, Mrs. Harris.” She seemed proud of herself.
“Why get your son wrapped up in all this, Brighton?” Menefee asked. His tone had the hard edge of a father scolding his son.
Jake’s smile disappeared. He glared at the man for a long time, deciding whether or not to answer. Finally, he
