“It’s on the news here,” Marlys said incredulously. “Gloria called me and I found a television in one of the family rooms at the hospital and Broken Branch School is right up there on the screen with police tape. They even had a shot of Jay Sauter’s RV in the parking lot. But they aren’t saying anything. They aren’t telling us who’s in the school and what they want. I don’t even know if they are theys. What’s going on?”
“You know about as much as I do, Marlys. I’ve heard everything from it’s an expelled student, a fired teacher, a terrorist. Verna even thinks it could be Ray.”
Marlys was silent for a moment and Will thought that perhaps she had hung up on him in order to get on the next flight back to Broken Branch. “I can see that,” Marlys said softly. “What should I tell Holly?” She paused. “I don’t even know if I should tell Holly,” Marlys said more to herself than to Will. “They have to get out of there okay,” Marlys finally said with vehemence. Will knew what she meant. They at last got to see their daughter, meet their grandchildren. Yes, it took a catastrophe for that to happen, but it did and this was their chance, Will’s chance, to make things right again with Holly. There was no way that he could walk back into her hospital room without the children she entrusted to him.
“Don’t say anything to Holly just yet, Marlys,” Will said. “I’m going to do whatever I can to find out exactly what’s going on. It won’t do Holly any good to worry. She needs to concentrate on getting better. I’ll call you with an update every hour, okay?”
“Okay,” Marlys answered, though she didn’t sound convinced. “On the TV it looks like it’s snowing pretty hard there,” she finished. Will allowed himself a small smile. If Marlys was talking weather he knew she had forgiven him.
“It’s snowing like a son of a bitch,” Will said with relief, then tucked the phone into the front pocket of his coveralls, pulled out onto the highway and began the twenty-minute drive over to the Cragg farm.
Chapter 56:
Meg
I try Randall one more time with no luck and Stuart keeps on sending me these inane text messages. I knew that Stuart was passionate about getting his story, going to extreme measures. A few years ago, the Des Moines Observer arranged for Stuart to travel to Afghanistan and join an Iowa Army National Guard Unit. He reported the undercurrent of terror as well as the mind-numbing mundaneness of day-to-day life in a war zone through the eyes of twenty-one-year-old Specialist Rory Denison. Stuart’s article focused on the unlikely love story between a young Afghani girl and Denison. It was a touching story and even brought tears to my jaded eyes when Stuart shared it with me early in our relationship. Sadly, Denison was killed by a roadside bomb, leaving the young girl pregnant and alone back in Afghanistan. After the article was published, Denison’s family tried relentlessly to find the young girl and their grandchild, but to no end. Stuart won the Pritchard-Say Prize, cementing himself as Iowa’s highest honored investigative reporter.
After recovering from the initial shock of reading Stuart’s latest investigative piece detailing the attack and rape of Jamie Crosby and his unapologetic explanation, I called her. I knew I had to handle the discussion carefully. From the tone of the article, it appeared as if Jamie was a willing participant in the interview, enthusiastic even. That wasn’t the Jamie I knew. Jamie was reserved, hesitant to share the painful details, but in the article little was left to the imagination. The crux of the story was accurate, but certain aspects just didn’t fit.
“I saw the article,” I said when Jamie answered her phone, careful to keep any judgment from my tone, though I was disappointed that she would talk to Stuart, any reporter. The article could come back to haunt her, compromising the case when it went to trial, if it even got that far.
“I know,” Jamie said, and I could hear the worry in her voice. “I didn’t say things the way he made them sound. It’s terrible. People will think I’m terrible.” She began crying.
“No one knows it’s you, Jamie.” I tried to soothe her. “The paper can’t release your name. It’s going to be okay,” I murmured, even though I had no right to tell her that.
I listened to Jamie weep for a few moments and then asked the question that I really didn’t want to know the answer to: “Jamie, why did you talk to the reporter?”
Jamie sniffled and cleared her throat. “He seemed so nice and he said you and he were really good friends. I thought it was okay.”
It was worse than I thought. Stuart not only located Jamie through me, followed me to her house the night she called me in a panic, but he had the gall to use my name to wheedle his way into her good graces. Making her trust him.
“Oh, Jamie,” I said softly. “I know him but he most definitely isn’t my friend. I swear to you I never, ever talked to him about your case, never mentioned your name, never suggested he talk to you.”
“I know.” Jamie swallowed hard, her voice thick with tears. “The thing is, he was so nice, but the story wasn’t even right. I didn’t say half of those things, not in the way he made them sound, anyway.”
“Jamie, I will get to the bottom of this, I promise,” I told her. “Don’t talk to anyone else. Everything will turn out okay.”
That conversation was two weeks ago and I had been digging around, making some calls, talking to some people, learning more about Stuart than I wanted to. When it came to his news stories, he was ruthless. This wasn’t the first time he wooed a victim into giving him the exclusive scoop into their ordeal. Their willingness to open up to him only really benefited one person. Stuart Moore.
Now not only did Jamie have to deal with the rape, but her brothers were locked in the school with a gunman with unknown intentions. How much more could one family take? We need to get the students out of the school before night falls. There are only a few hours of daylight left. I imagine all those kids in a pitch-black school, huddled in corners, not able to see what is going on. I hesitate for only a moment as I approach County Road B. I can turn right and go back to the school or turn left and head to the Cragg farm. “Left, it is,” I mutter to myself, and take a deep breath.
Chapter 57:
Will
The Cragg farm, like the Thwaites’, was a century farm. Will remembered Theodore Cragg, Ray’s father, as a serious, frugal man who lived for farming and had hoped that his four boys would also. Three of the Cragg boys left Broken Branch to pursue other ways of life and only Ray stayed behind to continue his father’s legacy. But while Ray was an excellent cattleman, loved his animals, loved the earth, he was no businessman. Rumors had been floating around town that Ray was on the verge of losing the farm that had been in his family for well over one hundred years. Two seasons of drought followed by a summer of record rains had put the Craggs heavily in debt. Theodore Cragg, who still lived with his son, was quite vocal regarding his son’s perceived mismanagement of the farm. There were several times while at Lonnie’s or while chitchatting with a group of farmers at the feed store, Will would witness Theodore berating his son in front of the others. Will now wished he would have stepped in, told the old man to shut up, that many farmers faced difficult years but somehow pulled themselves, their farms, out of the depths of ruin. Back in ’88 Will and Marlys sat on their front porch one afternoon and watched helplessly as the rich, golden yellow cornstalks bleached to bone-white from the unrelenting August sun. All farmers, it seemed, could be one step away from foreclosure, but he and Marlys persevered, as did the land; the following harvest was a humdinger.
Will parked his truck in front of the house. Will was struck by how lonely the property looked. The Craggs had two young daughters. There should have been traces of their presence, Easter decorations on the windows, sleds, toys, something that indicated children had been here. Verna had mentioned that Darlene and the girls had moved out, but Will had figured it was just for a few days, until tempers cooled. Will knew that the elder Cragg wa
s an old son of a bitch with a nasty disposition, but Ray seemed more easygoing, had more of a sense of humor. Not according to Verna. She described Ray Cragg as a violent, jealous man. Goes to show you, Will thought, how you never really knew what went on behind closed doors.
Will had been a guest in the Cragg house several times and he walked to the side entrance and knocked on the door that he knew led to the kitchen. No one answered but he could hear the sharp yips of the Craggs’ dog. He was just about to give up and head back to the café when he caught sight of the golden Lab through the door’s pane-glass window. The dog sniffed manically at something on the floor, alternately barking and whining. Will pressed his face against the glass to get a better look. Bright red droplets speckled the white linoleum of the kitchen floor. Blood, Will thought with a growing sense of alarm. He rushed back to his truck, flung open the door and got inside. He fumbled inside his coveralls for his phone and dialed a nine and a one before hesitating. A phone call to the police right now would mean that someone would have to leave the school in order to respond, leaving the already short-staffed department with one less police officer to assist the children trapped inside the school.
He didn’t even know where the blood had come from. The dog could have an injured paw, old Mr. Cragg could have cut himself making a sandwich. Will snapped the phone shut and, without considering the consequences, grabbed his shotgun from the seat beside him and returned to the Craggs’ side door. He tested the doorknob, which swung open easily. The dog wagged his tail at Will as his paws skittered through the bright red droplets leaving scarlet streaks, like a toddler’s messy finger painting, across the floor.
“Go on outside, girl,” he urged the dog, pushing her gently out the door. There were a few dirty dishes in the sink, a half-filled cup of coffee on the kitchen table. “Ray!” Will called out. “Theodore! It’s Will Thwaite down here.” Will cocked an ear and listened for any response but was only met with silence. He made his way slowly through the kitchen to the living room where a large console television was turned to a soap opera, the volume muted. Will felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Surely someone must be home. He peeked inside the dining room and then the small bedroom that Ray used as an office. A computer filmed with dust sat on an equally dusty desk. Piles of mail, bills by the looks of them, sat unopened. Will backed out of the office and stood in front of the set of stairs that led to the second floor, knowing that if he ascended those steps he wouldn’t be able to exit the house easily. He took a deep breath and forced himself upward. Just as he reached the top step he heard a cry coming from below.
“Anyone there?” he called out, his breath quickening within his chest. “You okay?” Another moaning sound. Will went back down the steps and followed the noise to a closed door just through the office. A bathroom, Will thought, trying to remember the layout of the house.
“Who’s there?” Will called through the door. “Are you okay in there?” He felt his grip slip on the shotgun, transferred it to his other hand and wiped his palm against his pants. He pushed open the door with a quick movement and shuffled backward, afraid of what he was going to see.
Theodore Cragg was sitting on the floor of the bathroom, a wadded-up towel soaked with blood pressed against his head. “Theodore,” Will gasped, rushing toward the elderly man and kneeling down next to him. “What happened?”
Theodore pulled the towel away from his scalp, revealing a deep gash that would surely need stitches. “Ray,” was all he managed to weakly croak before his eyes fluttered closed.
Chapter 58:
Mrs. Oliver
Mrs. Oliver opened one eye, lifted her chin and found the gunman and P. J. Thwaite staring down at her. The man still looked concerned. P.J. did not. Mrs. Oliver rolled over onto her back and reached out her hand for the man to help her up. He shook his head and walked toward her desk and opened her purse. P.J. reached down and grasped Mrs. Oliver’s hand and braced his feet in order to pull her up.
When she was finally upright, she patted her hair and noticed sadly that more Bedazzler beads had fallen from her chest. “I’m okay, everyone.” She smiled encouragingly, but inside she was cursing. The man was at her desk, pawing through her purse. She wondered what he would do when he found her cell phone. Would he say, “Don’t believe in cell phones, huh?” and then toss it into the air like one of those clay pigeons and blast it to smithereens like they do in trap shooting? Or maybe he would just shoot her. She was seriously considering collapsing to the floor again when P. J. Thwaite sidled up next to her and she felt something drop into the large pocket of her jumper. P.J. allowed a small grin to creep onto his face and then returned to his seat. The man, finished with her purse, tossed it aside and looked at Mrs. Oliver.
“You going to make it?” he asked her in a manner that made Mrs. Oliver know that he really couldn’t have cared less whether or not she expired in front of her students.
“I’ll be fine,” she responded, comforted by the familiar weight of the phone in her pocket. “I’ll just sit over here and rest.”
“Good idea,” he said. “I’ve got a call to make.”
So do I, thought Mrs. Oliver to herself.
Chapter 59:
Augie
The hallways are so quiet that it’s hard to believe that there are any students or teachers even in the building. For a second I wonder if maybe I’m the last one left in here, if everyone else is already at home saying to one another, Whew, that was a close one. If maybe Grandpa came and picked P.J. up, stopping off at Lonnie’s for a cheeseburger and fries before driving home. P.J. might wonder about me, stop in the middle of slurping on his chocolate shake and say, I wonder what happened to Augie? And Grandpa would shrug and say, Well, she did make life interesting around here for a while. Of course I know this wouldn’t really happen, but if there ever was a third wheel in a group, I’m it. I guess I can kind of understand how P.J. felt whenever my dad came over to our house to pick me up and we shared all these inside jokes that P.J. knew nothing about. Grandpa and P.J., from the moment they met, were best buds. And it completely irritated me. Here I had given up living in my hometown, being with my friends, being near my mother, all for P.J., and he was ditching me for an old man and his farm. Whenever Mom talked about her father there was an edge to her voice. Be thankful for having me as a parent, she would say. All I did was work, work, work on that farm growing up. She told us all about how she could never take part in after-school activities or spend time at her friends’ houses because of all the work Grandpa had her doing. And the smell, she would say, pinching her nose.
Even before we met our grandparents, P.J. and I had already had a long discussion about what we thought our Grandma and Grandpa Thwaite were going to be like. And together we decided we weren’t going to like them. But within an hour P.J. had two new best friends. This shouldn’t have surprised me, P.J. likes everyone. He’s like a puppy dog that way, almost begging people to love him. But at least I was being loyal to our mother. Saying goodbye to her was the worst. You’d think that a person would feel comfortable leaving someone with their own mother, but I didn’t. Grandma Thwaite is a stranger to me. To my mom, really. They haven’t seen each other in over fifteen years and only talk a few times a year. So I was very surprised to see my mom’s eyes tear up when Grandma walked into the hospital room. Mom, she said, like it was candy on her tongue. I blame the drugs. I wanted to say, Are you kidding me? This is the lady who you said never stood up to your father, she let him make all the decisions, made her a shadow of a woman. Funny thing is, Grandma Thwaite looks nothing like a shadow woman. She is big and round with pink cheeks and has a loud, happy laugh.
So even though my brother and my mother decided to act like everything was all sunshine and roses, I decided to take up where my mom left off. There was no way I was going to let that man walk all over me. Still, though, every day before we left for school in the
morning, he tells me to look after my brother, and as much as I’d like to tell the old man to shove it, I do look out for P.J. Not because Grandpa tells me to, but because I always have.
Chapter 60:
Mrs. Oliver
Mrs. Oliver covertly fingered the cell phone in her pocket. She knew how to text others but her fingers seemed so large and clumsy against the tiny keys she rarely attempted it. She thought about just pressing some numbers and hitting the send button, but who knew who would receive the call. Then there was the problem of actually speaking. She didn’t know how she would be able to hide a conversation from the gunman. She wondered if she could create another diversion. She looked over at P. J. Thwaite, who was looking back at her and raising his eyebrows at her as if to say, Make the call already. Mrs. Oliver raised her eyebrows in response. P.J. scratched his head and began stretching out his neck, dipping it to one side and then the other in a strange snake charmer sort of way. He continued on in this way until the man glared at him in irritation.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked P.J.
“I was just trying to see what color of eyes you have,” P.J. answered innocently.
“Preparing to pick me out of a lineup?” the man asked with a snort.
“No, I…” P.J. looked at his teacher in confusion.
“You won’t have to worry about lineups,” the man said, and Mrs. Oliver felt the pills that she swallowed creep back up into her throat. “Blue,” the man snapped at P.J. “My eyes are blue,” he said shortly, and then reached into his backpack for a bottle of water.
“P.J., don’t,” Mrs. Oliver said.
“Are you sure you’ve never been to Revelation, Arizona?” P.J. asked, ignoring his teacher. “It’s just outside of Phoenix.”