This Is Not a Drill (11 page)

CHAPTER 20

JAKE

AWESOME. THE ONLY THING WE WERE
missing in this entire shit-storm of a day was a fake fire drill. Now my life is complete.

“It’s okay, dude,” I yell above Simon’s sobbing; he is in the middle of a balls-to-the-wall meltdown. “Look, no fire. No problems. It’s all good, man.”

He keeps up the noise, his howling blending with the echo of the fire alarm in my ears. What, were they trying to turn that thing up loud enough for the deaf kids to hear it?

“Everything’s okay, buddy. Uncle Jake’s on duty,” I tell him. Kenji has come over to Simon’s desk and he’s patting him on the shoulder.

Man, I feel for the little guy. I’ve been there. You’re in that really deep sleep and something wakes you up and you can’t figure out where the hell you are and then you remember something really terrible that happened to you that you forgot for just a little while . . . like your mom dying.

My mom died at three thirty in the morning, and for about three weeks after that, I’d wake up at three thirty every morning. It was weird. I’d be sound asleep—and then I wasn’t. And I knew without looking at the clock what time it was. It was like my subconscious was trying to warn me that something really bad happens at that time.

I pat Simon on the head and give Emery a helpless face so she’ll rescue me. Comforting hysterical kids is not part of my skill set. She comes over, sits beside him, and hugs him. He starts to quiet down as soon as she whispers to him, thank God.

Stutts goes back to his seat watching the door, but he looks majorly pissed—not a good sign. It takes Emery and me about ten minutes to quiet the kids down again. Amazingly, Kenji and Rose seem ready to go back to resting; their little brains must be worn out from all the crap they’ve put up with in the past few hours. Alicia keeps her head down, but she opens her eyes every now and then to make sure we’re still here. Simon joins the others, still sniffling, and eventually falls back asleep.

The truth is, I needed a break from playing cops and robbers with the local police on the computer, so the false alarm wasn’t all bad. I walk over to where Emery’s sitting. Her eyes have a faraway look and she’s twirling the piece of hair she always tugs on. I reach down and hold her fingers to stop her and she blushes. It’s nice to feel like I can touch her again without her pulling away.

“Sorry,” she says. “I don’t even know I’m doing it.”

“No problem,” I say. “I just don’t want you to wear all the shine off.”

She smiles.

I take her hand and pull her from her seat, motioning for her to join me in the back of the room. We sit on the floor, far enough from Stutts to talk with the ocean noise covering us, and lean against the wall. Stutts watches but doesn’t object.

“I sent a picture of the room to the cops,” I whisper below the seagull sounds.

“For what?”

“I dunno. In case they have to come in.”

“You mean, like, with guns? God, I hope that doesn’t happen.”

“If they don’t, how does this end?” I look her straight in the eye.

She shakes her head. “Maybe we can talk to him,” she says. “Get him to turn himself in. He has to know by now it’s his only choice.”

“Not his only choice.”

She looks at me like I’ve slapped her. Surely to God she’s thought through the possibilities.

“You don’t think he’d . . . ?”

“I don’t know whether he’d hurt the kids. He might. But I think it’s more likely he’d hurt himself.”

She looks stunned. “Oh no, he can’t do that. Not with Patrick . . .”

“I hope not, Em. I’m just sayin’ . . .”

“Jake, I saw a SWAT team suiting up outside,” she whispers, “and there were ambulances. You don’t think the cops’d shoot into a room with kids inside, do you?”

“Not unless they had to—but we don’t know what he’ll do. And Emery, you’re not gonna get anywhere trying to talk to him,” I tell her. “So just stay away from him, okay? There’s no way to know what will set him off.”

“Are you implying that I’ll say the wrong thing? I’m not stupid, you know.”

“Oh God, Em, I know you’re not stupid. You’re—hell, you’re the smartest person I know. That’s not what I meant.”

“Why can’t you just trust me a little?” she fires back at me. “That’s something you don’t know much about, Jake—trust.”

“There it is. Jesus, just shoot me!” I yell at her, frustrated that she’s back on
that
again.

I don’t even realize what I’ve said at first.

Emery’s staring at me in horror, Stutts glares at me, and Alicia sits up, her eyes on the gun in Stutts’s hand.

I am
such
a moron. I can’t believe I just said that. “Sorry, bad timing,” I say, holding up my hands in surrender. “I didn’t mean it.”

Stutts leans forward in his seat, looking at us like he’s about to tell us not to talk, then changes his mind and sits back.

I turn back to Emery and lower my voice. “Emery, you have to believe me.
You
are the only girl I’ve ever really cared about.”

“You should have thought about that when you were all over Stacey Jordan!” she snaps.

“It wasn’t what you think. The whole thing got blown out of proportion.”

“I can’t do this right now,” Emery says, moving away from me. “There are more important things to deal with.”

I grab her arm. “I know, I messed up. Sometimes my brain just takes a vacation.”

She pulls away from me. “Did you even read the note I wrote you?” I ask. “I meant everything I said about wanting you back.”

“Can we
please
change the
subject
?” she says.

Rose whimpers like a puppy; we look over, but she’s asleep. I can feel Emery breathing deep beside me to calm down.

“Truce, Jake. We gotta work together here,” she says. “This isn’t about us. It’s about them.” Then, for the first time, she sounds unsure of herself. “I was just trying to make a connection with Stutts. It seemed like a good idea.”

“What was he talking about?” I ask, trying to play nice again.

“Just how hard it is to come back home, how boring ordinary life is.”

“So he decided to hold up a first grade classroom for fun?”

“He’s scared, Jake. Scared of losing everything. He’s lost his wife and now she’s trying to take his son away. That’s what this is all about—she’s trying to get full custody of Patrick.”

“Well, he picked a shitty way to do it. If she didn’t have what she needed to take Patrick away before, she’s got it now.”

“I think he knows that. I don’t think he ever intended for this to happen. The situation just got out of control before he could stop it.”

She looks me in the eye. “Don’t you ever wish you could rewind something you’ve done that turned out to be so much worse than you thought?” she asks, but this time she looks more sad than angry.

I think for a minute about the best way to answer, and then I just say, “Yeah.”

She glances at Stutts. “I don’t think he . . .” She stops, like she’s figuring out what it’s like for him.

“What?”

“I don’t think he has complete control of his actions. And that’s what scares me. He does things without thinking.”

“Like the security guard.”

“Yeah, he just reacted instinctively,” she says.

“And his instinct is to shoot.”

“Jake, if he has post-traumatic stress disorder—from things he saw and did in Iraq—then he might really do it. He could really shoot us.” Her eyes shine with tears and she turns her head away.

I reach over and turn her chin to me.

“Hey—it’s gonna be okay,” I tell her. Her eyes meet mine, and then she drops her head.

“I actually feel for him,” Emery says. “God knows what he’s been through over there.”

“Listen to you, it’s like you’re on his side.”

“Why does there have to be a side, Jake? He’s on our side, remember? He went over there and fought for us so we didn’t have to.”

“And then he flipped out. Are you saying he should get to keep Patrick?”

“Not now. But would it have come to this if she hadn’t tried to take him away?”

“She was afraid of him. Aren’t you?”

“Yes, but maybe it didn’t have to be this way if he’d gotten the support he needed. You know, Jake, we all have problems. His is called a disorder, mine is called a syndrome, but both of us are dealing with the way emotional stress causes a physical illness. If I hadn’t found the right kind of help, I might be just as dysfunctional as he is.”

“Don’t compare yourself to him,” I snap at her. “Those two things are nothing alike.”

“It’s an extreme viewpoint, I know, but think about it, Jake. There are some parallels, and maybe that makes me more sympathetic to him. I know he’s become a monster—I’m terrified of what he might do. But he’s also a wounded soldier, and I can’t forget that.”

Kenji sits up and looks around, rubbing his eyes.

“So what do we do now?” she asks me.

“We wait. Together. We just wait.”

My stomach growls and I grab my belly and frown. Kenji grins.

“No, you know what? I’m tired of waiting,” I say in a normal voice. “I’m gonna drive down to Burger King and pick us up some hamburgers.” I stand up and reach in my pocket for my keys.

Emery gets this horrified look on her face; it’s like she thinks I’m serious. Kenji’s eyes open wide, clearly freaked out. Then Emery starts laughing.

“You do that, Biscuit,” she says. “Mustard, ketchup, and a pickle for me. Hold the onions.”

“Would you like fries with that?” I ask.

Before she can answer, there’s noise from the street. It sounds like someone talking on a bullhorn, but it’s so muffled, I can’t make it out. Stutts stands up and yells at me. “You—turn on the TV. I wanna see what they’re saying.”

Shit, this sounds like a really bad idea, but I roll the TV on its cart from its spot in the corner and plug it in. I hit the power button and quickly turn down the volume so it won’t wake up the kids who are still managing somehow to sleep.

Immediately we’re looking at the front of the school. Great. Adrienne Alford, a local reporter, is talking straight into the camera in an end-of-the-world voice that creeps me out.

“What we have here is an active shooter,” she says. “A first grade classroom at Lincoln Elementary has been taken over by a gunman who is considered armed and dangerous. As you can see, the area is roped off, and police are on the scene.”

It’s pretty weird hearing someone say it on TV. I glance at Stutts, but he doesn’t react.

“Officials tell us the building has been evacuated—with the exception of four classrooms in the hall where the incident is taking place. That section of the building is on lockdown. We’re told the children are locked in their classrooms with their teachers, and they are reported to be safe at this point.

“If you are a parent of a child in the school, you are asked to stay out of the area. Police need your cooperation to ensure the safety of the children. Parents should report to the back parking lot of Mountain Creek Baptist Church near the school for information and instructions. I believe that’s on Dogwood Drive.”

Stutts watches the screen, and I wonder what’s going on in his head.

“The gunman has been identified as Brian Stutts.”

Stutts’s picture suddenly appears on the screen with his name below. Stutts grunts disapprovingly.

“Police are questioning the gunman’s wife, Silda Stutts, and also a man named Tucker Braden, who has contacted the police after seeing the incident on the news. We are told that Braden served with Stutts in Iraq.”

“Aw, Tucker,” Stutts moans. “What are you doing? Stay out of this.”

“And if you’re just tuning in, I’ll repeat, one man is dead—a security guard named Michael Higgins, and a teacher has been injured.”

The security guard, Michael Higgins, is dead!

I knew it on some level, but it slams into me like a Mack truck. I see his face—how it went blank as he gripped his chest and stumbled backward. He looked surprised, and hurt, and confused—all at once.

Stutts goes crazy. “I didn’t touch that teacher! You tell them. I didn’t lay a hand on her!”

Damn, it’s like he didn’t even hear that the security guard is dead.

Stutts’s loud voice wakes Patrick up. The poor kid grips his pillow and starts rocking.

“Willa Campbell, a first grade teacher at Lincoln Elementary,” the reporter continues, “has been taken to Hensonville Hospital. We do not currently have information regarding the extent of her injuries.”

“Did Mrs. Campbell get shot?” Rose asks. She’s slipped from the back of the room and is standing behind us, listening.

“No, sweetie, that’s a mistake,” Emery tells her. “You saw Mrs. Campbell when Jake carried her out. She’s fine. She’s not injured.”

“Damn right, she’s not injured,” Stutts rages. “Those people always get it wrong. You tell ’em—” He breaks off and goes to the door. “You tell them I didn’t hurt that teacher,” he yells out into the hall. “Make them stop saying that.”

He paces back and forth in the middle of the room—the perfect target if sharpshooters have the right angle from the doorway. A part of me wishes they’d take him out now—stop this bastard from hurting anybody else. But I look at the face of his kid and I know I don’t want Patrick to see that.

They wouldn’t try it with all these kids in the room, would they? Anything seems possible when
you’re
the breaking news.

Emery moves to stand close to me, her face pale. I put my arm around her waist and she lets me.

CHAPTER 21

EMERY

Michael Higgins. He had a name,
and maybe a girlfriend, or a wife and a kid, a family who will never see him again because he came to help us and Stutts killed him.

He was probably some guy who thought he’d work a cushy job as a security guard at a little elementary school where nothing ever happens. And now he’s dead.

Brian Stutts is a murderer—not just someone who’s killed in the heat of battle in Iraq, but a murderer who shot a man in cold blood in front of a room full of first graders. He killed a man who was just doing his job—trying to protect little kids from danger.

Jake pulls me to him and I lean into his side. Then he turns the sound off on the TV, which has returned, unbelievably, to regular programming. He rubs his hand lightly across my lower back and my whole body responds to the familiarity of this slight touch.

Poor Simon’s actually asleep again. Rose reaches up and hands Lamby off to Jake. She motions for him to come closer and whispers something to him, and he walks back to the front and passes the stuffed animal to Patrick. Patrick grabs it eagerly and hugs it. Jake gives Patrick’s head a playful tousle and goes back to sit with the kids.

There’s a low buzzing noise, and Stutts reaches into his pocket. He looks at the phone, swears, and throws it across the room. It hits the wall with a bang that makes everyone jump, except Simon, who sleeps on. Jake frowns and opens his mouth to say something, but thinks better of it.

I walk over and pick up the phone. It’s remarkably undamaged. I walk back to Stutts and hand it to him. He puts it back in his pocket without looking at it.

“Your wife?” I ask.

“No.”

“Tucker?”

He ignores me, still watching the door.

After a long pause, he says, “Tucker needs help. I got nothing to give him.”

He looks up at the clock. 12:26.

“I’m tired of being Tucker’s mama. He’s got problems.” At first he doesn’t seem to see the irony in this comment. Then: “Yeah, we all got problems.”

“What happened to him—over there?”

He reaches up to wipe sweat from his forehead. “You wouldn’t understand,” he says.

“I want to. To understand.”

I glance at Jake. He’s sitting on the floor against the back wall near the kids, pretending to doze, but I know he’s watching us. The girls whisper to each other.

“People want you to tell it straight, but it doesn’t happen straight. It comes at you from all sides, like a tornado. There’s no way you can describe it. It’s like a bad dream.”

I listen without speaking.

“Tucker’s not right. Not since that night it happened. It was Tucker. Tucker was the one . . .” He says something I can’t hear.

“Tucker was the one who what?”

“Tucker was the one who shot her.”

“Who did he shoot?”

“He didn’t mean to. It was a mistake. We all make mistakes.”

I wait for him to continue. The sun goes behind a cloud and the room turns chilly. And then he begins in a low, urgent voice.

“We were on a cordon and search mission to find the insurgents who attacked our forward operating base the night before. A group of ’em hit our FOB with rockets and mortars, and one of our guys was killed. Gates—he was eighteen. Nice kid, but clueless. Only been in Iraq a few weeks; about as useful as a screen door in a submarine.” He shakes his head. “The newbies—they show up in full battle rattle thinkin’ they’re ready to fight. They’re babies.”

Stutts glances at the babies in the room like he’d forgotten about them until he said the word.

“That night Gates was killed, he’d left his cell phone in the tent where we bunked, and it rang all night long. Caller ID said
Home
. We knew we couldn’t answer. His family had to be notified officially through channels—and if we turned it off, it’d be like telling them. None of us slept at all, listening to that damn phone just ringing and ringing.

“So we were already tired when we headed out. Our platoon leader said we had a pretty good idea of where the attack came from, so about thirty of us rolled out just after midnight. The late night surprise factor gives us the advantage—plus, when it’s 110 during the day, you work at night. In our vehicle, it was me and Tucker, a guy named Pitts, and a guy named William P. Jones we called Wimpy.”

Stutts is speaking almost normally. It’s like he’s traveled backward in time to a saner version of himself.

“What makes the heat so bad is you’re wearing seventy pounds of gear—body armor with front and rear ceramic plates, 210 rounds of ammo, first aid kit, strap cutter, radio, a seventy-ounce camel pack of water, food, spare batteries, you name it. It’s like wearin’ a goddamn minivan. Add knee pads and boots, and you don’t go anywhere without your weapon; it becomes another appendage. And believe me, once you see a guy lose a chunk of his skull, you’re gonna wear that ACH—advanced combat helmet—which is also hot as hell. Tucker used to get his wife to send those girlie minipads to stick inside his helmet for sweat guards.”

He smiles at the image, and I smile, too.

“We secured the area that night—about a half a city block—and moved in. Our search of the first two houses turned up nothing but a bunch of scared, angry Iraqis in their pj’s.” His tone becomes defensive. “Don’t look at me like that. I don’t like bustin’ in people’s homes in the middle of the night, but it’s the price they pay for freedom. If we want to flush out insurgents, we have to go in where they’re hiding, and sometimes that means people gotta lose a little sleep. People besides me.”

I wait for him to continue.

“You learn pretty quick not to trust anybody. Old man in the market, kid with a soccer ball—anybody can be hiding a weapon. They’ll smile in your face one minute and fire on you the next. I tried to tell Tucker that. He was buddies with all the kids—they came around all the time to see him. I kept tellin’ him one of them was going to lob a grenade in the mess hall one day while they were shootin’ baskets in that ghetto goal he rigged up.”

He runs his hand across his short hair.

“Third house we got to was dark and shadowy, with a small courtyard in front of it. Wimpy said he didn’t like the look of it.

“‘C’mon, boys, gotta go out on a limb,’ Tucker told us, ‘’cause that’s where the fruit is.’ Tucker’s always saying crazy stuff, like if a bug hit the windshield of the jeep, he’d say, ‘Bet he doesn’t have the guts to do that again.’ If he caught some guy picking his nose, that was ‘digging for gold.’ He loved the dumb joke about being stuck between Iraq and a hard place.”

Stutts leans forward, focused on his story.

“There were eight in our squad; the other four were in the vehicle ahead of us. Two guys headed around the house to check out the perimeter, and Wimpy, Tucker, Pitts, and I waited for the other two to create the opening. There were some pop shots nearby, so we were jittery—that and no sleep. When they busted down the door, we entered the house.

“Tucker and Pitts took the kitchen, and Wimpy and I moved in fast to the other rooms and rounded up five people—an old man, a teenage boy, a woman, a little kid, and a baby.

“We brought the family in the living room with their hands on their heads. The old man and boy didn’t make a sound, but the woman was crying and jabbering at us, and the baby she was holding was screaming. I asked them if they spoke English but got no response.

“Most Iraqis in the villages
don’t
speak it, but even if they do, it’s almost impossible to get information, because they know what’ll happen if they talk. The insurgents need to hide in the villages, so they run their own night raids. They’ll go in and kill a family member—sometimes even a child or grandmother—to show their brutality and insure cooperation.

“We shoved them all in the bathroom so we could search the house for weapons. We’ve done so many of these raids, we can wrap them up pretty quick. You move fast, but the whole time you’re ransacking the house, you know that any place you search could be booby-trapped.

“Tucker yelled for me to come in the kitchen. Pitts was holding a plastic food container he’d pulled out of the refrigerator full of wires and plastic pieces. I took the container over to the bathroom, where Wimpy was watching the family from the doorway. ‘Who does this belong to?’ I yelled at them.

“The teenage boy looked away, and the mother started crying hysterically, dropping to her knees and hanging on Wimpy’s pants leg. ‘Tie the kid up,’ I said. ‘We’re taking him in.’

“When I got back to the kitchen, Tucker was digging through the trash. He looked up at me to say something, and all of a sudden he wheeled around and aimed his weapon at the open door.

“‘Shit!’ he yelled, lowering his gun when the red dot of his sight landed on the forehead of a young girl in the doorway. She smiled this big toothy grin and said, ‘Hello . . . Tucka . . . USA.’

“‘Nahlah, what the hell? You can’t just show up like that. You’re gonna get killed.’

“‘Put your hands on your head,’ I yelled at her.

“‘It’s okay,’ Tucker said. ‘I know her.’

“‘You know all of ’em,’ I said. ‘Doesn’t mean shit.’

“Tucker ignored me and said to the girl, ‘Do you live here?’

“‘I am living this house,’ she said, pointing next door. ‘I hear sound while I am sleeping.’

“‘Well, go back home,’ Tucker told her. ‘You don’t need to be in the middle of this.’

“‘You know the boy who lives here?’ I asked. ‘About fifteen. Little guy.’

“‘Farid, he is my cousin. Farid is good boy,’ Nahlah said. ‘We are peaceful family. Go USA.’

“‘Yeah, well, your peaceful cousin’s been building some bad stuff.’ Tucker held out the wires.

“‘No. These are good people,’ she insisted. ‘We are peaceful family.’

“Then suddenly the living room erupted in gunfire. And then we were under fire from outside the house. Tucker threw himself on the girl and I hit the floor. He pulled her out of the doorway as I crawled toward it, aiming my rifle around the corner of the frame.

“‘Aw, Jesus, she’s hit,’ I heard Tucker say. I could see people running outside, and there was shouting.

“We heard Pitts yell ‘Fuck’ from the other room, and Tucker left the girl to crawl toward them. I fired on an attacker fleeing the scene, but he got away. I looked over at the girl. Her eyes were closed, and a dark stain was spreading across her shirt. I thought that she was gone, but then I heard her groan.

“When I got to the main room, Pitts was standing beside Tucker, who was crouched over Wimpy, lifting the upper half of his body and saying, ‘Aw man, aw man, no,’ over and over again. A dead Iraqi man was lying near the door.

“The bathroom door was open. All of them were dead—most of them shot in the head, execution style. I turned away from the baby, and I felt the vomit rise in my throat. I moved to Tucker’s side. He was talking to Wimpy nonstop. ‘Come on, buddy, stay with us. You can do it. Hang in there, Wimpy. I got you, man. You’re gonna be okay.’

“‘Tucker.’ I tried to make him hear me. ‘Tucker!’ He kept on. ‘Tucker, he’s gone!’ Tucker finally looked up at me, then back at the piece of Wimpy’s head that was missing.

“‘Come on, Tuck. Pitts, help me carry him out,’ I said.

“I could hear gunfire farther down the street where the rest of our platoon had gone, but things had gone quiet on our end, which could be a good sign or a bad one. They carried Wimpy while I covered them. The rest of our squad appeared, and I motioned for them to load Wimpy in their vehicle. I told them I was going back in for the girl and sent Pitts to go find our platoon leader to request permission to take her to a hospital.

“‘Nahlah,’ Tucker said and turned to go with me.

“‘No, man, you stay here. I need you guys to cover me while I bring her out.’

“I crouched low and reentered the house. The girl opened her eyes and looked up at me as I lifted her. She weighed almost nothing, even though she was probably nine or ten years old.

“‘It’s okay, we’re gonna get you some help,’ I told her. I’d made it out the front door and was halfway to the vehicle when Tucker opened fire, aiming at something behind me. I wheeled around just in time to see a woman crumple to the ground. Nahlah saw her, too.

“For the rest of my life, I’ll hear that scream: ‘Ma-maaaa!’

“And then she went limp in my arms.

“I laid the girl on the backseat and ran over to the woman on the ground. I rolled her over and slipped off her head scarf. Sightless eyes stared straight ahead—a beautiful young Iraqi woman. Tucker’d shot her through the neck. I reached for her hand under her skirt to check her pulse and something fell out—a candlestick.

“She was holding a goddamn candlestick. The flame had gone out. All Tucker saw was the glint of moonlight on metal.

“And then Tucker was there beside me, staring at the candlestick. ‘She had a gun! She woulda killed you! I saw it! I swear to God, it was a gun . . .’

“I just looked at him. There was nothing I could say. I reached down and closed the dead woman’s eyes. Tucker dropped to the ground beside her, with his hands over his head, rocking back and forth and crying, ‘Oh God, I killed her. I killed Nahlah’s mother.’

“‘Tucker, we have to go,’ I said, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘You didn’t know, man. I would have done the same thing. You couldn’t take a chance. You were covering me just like I woulda covered you.’

“It was like he didn’t hear me at all.

“‘Come on, man,’ I said. ‘We’ve got to get the kid to a medic.’ There was a US hospital not far away.

“Pitts came around the corner just then with our platoon leader and about a dozen others. ‘Nahlah,’ I said, trying to get Tucker’s attention. ‘We’ve got to help Nahlah.’

“Tucker got up and stumbled, glassy-eyed, to the Humvee and climbed in beside the girl. When he moved next to her, she opened her eyes and started screaming hysterically. As our four vehicle convoy moved out, the yelling turned to whimpering, and at some point she lost consciousness.

“When we got to the hospital, the others carried Wimpy to the morgue and Tucker carried Nahlah’s limp body in. The blood had seeped through, covering most of her shirt. Her face was grayish. The doctor took her back. Tucker was a wreck. The doc came out after just a few minutes, shaking his head, to tell us she was gone.”