Authors: Patrick Kendrick
Acoustic Shadows
This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.
Killer Reads
An imprint of HarperCollins
Publishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published by HarperCollins
Publishers
2015
Copyright © Patrick Kendrick 2015
Patrick Kendrick asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
Cover layout design © HarperCollins
Publishers
2015
Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Ebook Edition © JUNE 2015 ISBN: 9780008139681
Version 2015-07-01
For Bill – I’ll see you on the ocean again, one day.
~PK
Contents
Erica Weisz strode up the sidewalk to the Travis Hanks Elementary School in the tiny town of Frosthaven, Florida, a bounce in her step. It was a sunny autumn morning, and Erica loved the weather and this rural area she’d moved to only six weeks ago.
Frosthaven was a rural town of less than 3,000 full-time citizens, surrounded by freshwater lakes and a diminishing citrus business that was losing ground to imported fruit. The groves stretched out over small hills that rolled on for as far as the locals wanted to see. The scent of orange blossom wafted in the air as Erica squinted at the surrounding citrus groves. From far away they looked green and lush. But, like the ‘FOR LEASE’ signs on the downtown buildings, the diminishing groves echoed the slow decline of a dying place. Most people living here were firmly ensconced in the federal poverty level. The only exceptions were the remaining citrus and cattle processing plants and fertilizer manufacturers, who employed nine-tenths of the town’s population.
Though Erica was not completely comfortable with her new job, she enjoyed working with the children at the town’s solitary elementary school. She felt she’d gone back in a time machine to an era when people were simple and friendly and communications not so obscure. She had been working
per diem
as a substitute for the past three weeks, coming in last minute when they’d call her in the morning. Then, just yesterday morning, Dr Linda Montessi, the principal, pulled her aside in the hallway.
‘Good morning, Erica,’ she said, her tone professional, as was her appearance; blunt cut hair that brushed her shoulders and framed an oval face that showed kindness weathered with caution. ‘Got a minute?’
‘Uh, sure, Dr Montessi,’ said Erica, her mind on other, more personal matters, as usual.
‘I recently got a budget item approved, one that allows me to hire a permanent substitute. I was hoping you might take the job?’
‘I…well…are you sure? I mean, I’d love to but…’
‘And we’d love to have you. So, you’ll accept the offer?’
‘Well, to be honest, I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying in Frosthaven.’
‘Oh?’ replied Dr Montessi, her eyebrows arching, as if searching for an explanation.
Dodging the unspoken enquiry, Erica said, ‘Gosh, I’m sorry. May I think about it and let you know tomorrow?’
Dr Montessi smiled warmly. ‘Yes, of course. That’s fine. Sleep on it, and let me know.’ She walked away and back to her hectic schedule.
Erica thought about the offer now, as she neared the school gates. She knew she should consider accepting it. The school was a nice place to work, and the best part was that it was within walking distance to her boxy, hibiscus pink, cinder-block home on Barney Avenue. It might be a poor community, but the people seemed genuine and welcoming, and this offer was just another example of that. For the first time in a long time, she had begun to feel comfortable with where she was. But, there was a persistent, creeping worry that loomed over every decision she made. If she stayed longer, her background check would come up clean, but how long could she keep her secrets from these people?
Dr Montessi was a warm, motivated educator who often dressed up in funny costumes to amuse the students, whilst making significant learning points. For Halloween, she had dressed up as a witch and shared the cautionary tale of the unfortunate Salem Witch Trials. She turned the story into a parable about people bullying others who held beliefs different from their own. The children adored her. She and Erica had hit it off right away. They both had backgrounds in science, and enjoyed similar pastimes such as cycling and CrossFit. Erica decided she wouldn’t allow her usual dark thoughts to trouble her this day. She would focus on the positive offer instead.
Like all schools in Florida, Travis Hanks Elementary had experienced budgetary problems. The facilities definitely showed years of use, but everyone worked together to keep it clean and tidy. Colourful banners were hung promoting positive affirmations and anti-bullying campaigns.
Striding through the main office, Erica said hello to the school nurse, Nora, who cared for children with sniffles or scraped knees or tummy aches. And to Sally Ravich, the front office lady with the purple, horn-rimmed glasses, who commented on Erica’s blue, flowered dress and matching, oversized purse.
‘That blue matches your eyes,’ she said in her lyrical, southern drawl. Then, noting Erica’s running shoes, added, ‘I saw some nice flats that would match your purse at Payless yesterday.’
‘Thanks, Sally,’ said Erica. ‘I’ll stick to my running shoes.’
When Sally asked what she kept in a purse that big, Erica replied with wide, exaggerated eyes, ‘Everything.’
Lynn LaForge, the assistant principal, another excellent educator, who doubled as soccer mom and cheerleader coach for her daughter’s middle school team, also greeted Erica.
‘You have Mrs Miller’s class again, today, Erica,’ said Lynn. ‘Still has the flu. Did you perm your hair?’
‘No,’ said Erica, absently putting her hand in her shimmering, black hair. ‘I left the house with it damp, and it curls if I don’t blow it out.’
‘Is that your natural colour?’ asked the inquisitive administrator.
Erica’s cheeks turned red. Her hair was as dark as a coal bucket and though she was a brunette, with natural sun-kissed highlights, she dyed her hair the lustrous black it was now. When she was a child, she’d been hit in the head by a swing and had to get sutures. It healed fine, but the hair over the scar turned white. Such an anomaly was too distinct, too memorable, and she couldn’t risk standing out.
Lynn smiled. ‘I’m sorry, hon. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. You look great,’ she said, then cautiously added, ‘Still haven’t met any locals?’
Erica turned the corners of her mouth down. ‘If you mean men…no. But, I can’t say I’ve really been looking.’
‘I’ve got a brother-in-law…’
Erica smiled benignly and shook her head. ‘I’ll let you know.’ Changing the subject, she asked, ‘Do you know if Mrs Miller left me any new lesson plans?’
‘Sure,’ said Lynn. ‘She emailed them to me, and I ran off a hard copy for you.’
‘Thanks,’ said Erica.
‘I think she’ll be out the rest of the week,’ Lynn added. ‘She’s pretty sick.’
‘Oh, okay,’ said Erica, sorting through the plans Mrs Miller had sent her. ‘Thank you, Miss LaForge.’ First names were fine at this school, but Erica did not need, or want, people to know her that well, so maintained a friendly, but slightly aloof manner.
The janitor, Mr Swan, was ambling down the hall, his gait slightly hitched from the prosthetic leg he’d earned in Vietnam. He was carrying some fluorescent replacement bulbs, wearing a worn leather tool belt around his waist, as he dodged children running for their classes.
‘Slow down,’ he admonished, ‘or someone’s gonna get hurt.’
‘Hey, Mr Swan,’ said Erica. ‘How are you today?’
‘Oh, hi, Erica,’ replied the old handyman, beaming. ‘Couldn’t be better. And how are you?’
‘I’m very well,’ she said.
‘Good, good, good. Well, have a great day, young lady,’ he said, grinning, a tooth missing from his smile.
Erica continued to class. She had about eight minutes to prepare for the day – not nearly enough time – before the children started pouring in. Many of them were children of Guatemalan field workers, or welfare kids, their tattered second-hand clothes hanging from their thin frames like battle flags. She welcomed the third graders, and told them Mrs Miller was still sick. They were going to make jack-o’-lanterns today, with construction paper and paste. But, first, there was a reading lesson they needed to finish:
The Legend of Sleepy Hollow
.
‘You’ll like it,’ Erica promised. ‘It’s scary.’
After a few moans and groans and shuffling of papers and books, pencils being sharpened and whispers hushed, the children fell silent and began reading to themselves.
Erica was in the back of the room, looking for the orange construction paper that was supposed to be in the closet, when she heard the first popping sounds.
Firecrackers?
Inside the school, or from the nearby woods?
It was 8:20 a.m.
One of the little boys in the class asked, ‘is that fireworks?’
More popping sounds.
Erica knew, now, they weren’t firecrackers.
Acoustic shadows
, she thought.
That’s what he had called them.
She went to the window near her desk and looked out through the blinds, sweat breaking out on her neck. The school was in the shape of a giant ‘U’, so the view from any window yielded a view of the other side of the building. She caught a glimpse of a man dressed in black, suited up like a SWAT team member, carrying an assault rifle, bands of ammo wrapped around his torso, pistols on his belt. A late model van was parked in the pick-up lane in the parking lot, its doors left open, puffs of oily smoke coming from the tailpipe.
‘No,’ Erica said to no one, her heart now in her throat. ‘Not again.’
‘What do you see, Ms. Weisz?’ asked Rachel, a little girl with an almost comical mop of blonde curls.
Suddenly, there was a sound of shattering glass, more popping sounds getting louder. And screams. Erica froze, considering her options; her training had never taught her how to protect anyone other than herself. Now, she wasn’t sure she could even do that.
The PA system came on. The class stared at the old box speaker on the wall as it brought them terrifying noises. There was a humming, then the sounds of things banging and shuffling. A rough voice, indistinguishable, then Dr Montessi’s voice, pleading. ‘Please don’t hurt the children.’
‘We’re not going to hurt them,’ declared a high-pitched, male voice that ended with hysterical laughter. ‘We’re going to
kill
them!’
‘Just kill
them
,’ said another voice, calmer, in control, and the shooting resumed. Rapid and, loud,
blam, blam, blam
. The firecracker sounds replaced by unmistakable, up close, booming gun blasts.
Then silence. A groan. The meaty sound of a body hitting the floor, hard. And the gun blasts started again. A door slammed. Steps growing fainter. Silence.
They’re coming here
, Erica thought, fear briefly immobilizing her. Inside her chest, her heart beat so fast she thought it might burst. The children stared at her, quietly expecting
something,
but Erica’s eyes locked on Rachel’s. The little girl’s lips began to quiver, and a tear sneaked down her cheek. More kids began to sob. ‘I’m scared,’ said one of them. One little girl urinated as she sat at her desk, crying silently, a puddle forming at her feet. None of the other children noticed.
Gunshots echoed in the hall.
Pa-tow, tow, tow
.
Pa-tow-tow-tow
. ‘You sons of…’ came Mr Swan’s voice, then more gunshots, louder and closer.
Erica couldn’t breathe as she listened, adrenaline sharpening her senses.
Silence again. The giant clock above the teacher’s desk
clicked
as it turned to ‘8:23’.
Footsteps coming down the hall; now closer.
More screams. More gunshots.
Finally, Erica found the courage to move. She ran to the door and locked it.
‘Quick, class. Everyone to the back of the room. Now!’ she ordered.
The children scurried to the back like bait fish fleeing a predator. Erica heard a thud and glanced at the window in the door to the hall. Suddenly, Lynn LaForge appeared in the frame, her face a mask of horror. She peered in the window for an instant, her eyes wide and wet with terror. Her hand rattled the door urgently. She opened her mouth when a bullet ripped through her face, blood spattering the window, and she was gone. That fast. Alive one second, gone the next.
‘Inside the closet,’ Erica ordered, trying to calm her voice.
The kids began pushing and shoving to get inside the small space.
It would not hold them all.
Erica packed in as many as she could and closed the door, her mind racing, her breath ragged. She sprinted to the front of the class again, grabbed her purse, then hurried back. She began frantically piling desks into a barricade.
The doorknob rattled, then violently shook. A masked face appeared in the bloodied window. The gunman banged his rifle butt against the door handle, once, twice. Erica turned to the kids who couldn’t fit into the closet; they were huddled behind the overturned desks, whimpering, fear transforming their faces. She put a finger to her mouth to shush them. She clutched her purse and tried to squeeze in with them behind the makeshift barricade, but couldn’t quite conceal herself.
An abrupt burst of gunfire sent parts of the door flying, glass spraying. The smell of sulphur crept into the room as the barrel of a rifle came into view where the door had been, slowly revealing a black, gloved hand on its grip. Then, the man was in the room. A ski mask covered his face but his eyes were wide and wild through the openings. The weapon he wielded was an Armalite AR-15, semi-automatic. With a thirty-round clip, it weighed only 8.8 lb. It was light, manoeuvrable. Deadly.
Erica could see his eyes hone in on the pile of desks where she and the children were hiding, and realized her leg was sticking out.
‘C’mon outta there,’ he commanded. She reached for her purse, her heart now in her mouth. She stuck her head up.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘I…I sent the kids out to the playground…’
‘SHUT THE FUCK UP!’ he screamed, wincing, as if he were in pain. He stared at her and pulled his mask up, sweat running down his face, his breathing hard, laboured. He was in his forties maybe, with a blunted, street-worn face: twisted nose, cauliflower ears, scarred brows. He squinted at Erica. ‘What’s your name?’ he hissed, sweat dripping off his nose.
She stared back at him over the top of the overturned desks ‘Wh…what?’ she asked.
A whimper issued from the closet, followed by some rustling. The door began to creep open. The gunman swung the rifle in the direction of the noises, aimed high, and pulled the trigger. Flames spat out the barrel as bullets sprayed across the room, splintering wood from the closet door and bursting the windows, sending glass flying through the air like thrown diamonds. The noise was deafening. Now hysterical, the kids screamed.