Red Rain

  Pinto crossed his arms on his uniform shirt. He had a distant look in his eyes, as if he was willing himself away from this. Pavano raised his hands for quiet, but the shouts and frantic cries only grew louder.

  “We know how worried you are. But don’t do anything crazy. We’re going to take care of this. Your kids will be safe.” He told them what he thought they wanted to hear.

  He glanced up the lawn at the school building. The red morning sunlight glowed in the long row of classroom windows. No sign of anyone near the school or at the double doors of the entrance.

  Pavano let out a sigh of relief as, sirens blaring, a convoy of cars pulled onto the grass. He saw Franks in the first car, an old Ford Crown Victoria, black, with New York State Police emblazoned in yellow on the door. Followed by two more state cars and then the feds in three unmarked Escalades.

  The state guys went to work, pushing back the crowd, herding them off the lawn and toward the street.

  Jogging along the sidewalk, his brown suit jacket flapping around him, Franks waved both hands, motioning Pinto and Pavano toward the building. “Let ’em know we’re here.”

  As if the sirens weren’t a tip-off.

  Pavano trotted after Pinto, up the long stone walk to the front entrance, past the bare flagpole, past an abandoned red backpack in the grass, the flap open, obviously empty.

  “What’s the plan here?” Pavano said, a heavy feeling rising in his stomach as they stepped into the shade of the three-story school. “We just knock on the door and they come out?”

  “Beats the shit out of me.” Pinto picked up the abandoned backpack, inspected it, and tossed it back onto the grass. “Do I know what the hell is going on? Kids go missing on Friday and Saturday. All found in school on Monday? Does that fucking make sense? Why would kidnappers take a hundred kids to school? It’s fucking insane.”

  Pavano stared hard at his partner. Pinto was already red-faced and breathing hard, beads of sweat glistening on his broad forehead despite the coolness of the morning.

  “You read the reports from yesterday. Just about every parent said the same fucking thing. Their kids vanished without a word. No sign of violence. No break-ins. The kids were just gone.”

  “I read ’em all,” Pinto said, eyes on the entrance. “And what was that shit about blue arrows on their faces?”

  “Just like Sutter’s kids, remember? They said it was a school thing. The principal told them to do it.”

  Pinto grunted. “It’s an alien thing, Andy. The kids were all abducted by aliens. They’re slaves on another planet by now.”

  Pavano snickered. “Neighbors saw kids coming into the school this morning carrying laptops and TVs. No way they can be on another planet if they’re robbing every house in the neighborhood.”

  “Just sayin’.” Pinto didn’t smile.

  A shadow passed over them. Cawing birds swooping overhead made Pavano glance up. The clouds overhead were jagged and torn, as if a big cloud had been shredded into long pieces, the sky as frenzied and chaotic as everything down below.

  Pinto took the front steps two at a time. He tried one door, then the next. “Locked.” He raised both fists to the double doors and pounded against the wood. “Open up! Police! Open this door—now!”

  Before they could detect any response, Franks stepped up behind them, badge dangling on his suit lapel, followed by four federal agents with FBI stenciled in red on their gray flak jackets.

  Franks raised both hands in a halt signal. “Hold up. We’ve got to deal with these parents first. Make sure they’re out of the way—in case there’s trouble.”

  Trouble? Pavano wondered what the captain was expecting.

  Franks rubbed the scar on his chin. “If this is a mass kidnapping or a hostage situation, we might face weapon fire. There could be explosives—”

  The rest of his words were drowned out by the shouts of the parents. Ignoring the outnumbered state cops, they surged forward, stampeding to the bottom of the wide concrete steps.

  “We want our kids.”

  “How are you going to get them out of there?”

  “Who locked them in? Who brought them here?”

  “What are you doing? You’re just going to pound on the door?”

  The parents glared up at the officers, their faces frantic, voices shrill. In their utter confusion and helplessness, they all shouted at once, anger rising over their fear.

  Pavano saw one of the state cops hand Franks an electric megaphone and Franks began to plead for quiet. “I need you to step back. Quiet, everyone! Quiet! Everyone, please be quiet and step back.”

  His requests were unheeded. The shouts grew angrier and more desperate. Pavano saw more SUVs pull up and more frantic parents running to the steps. A young couple tossed their bikes to the grass and came jogging to join the others.

  As Franks continued to plead, his voice washed back at him as if by a powerful wave. Two officers flanked him. They assumed a defensive position, their faces hard, and unholstered their revolvers.

  That’s what it took to quiet the crowd. Pavano let out a long whoosh of air. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.

  “What now? Their guns are drawn? They’re going to fucking shoot the parents?” Pinto murmured, close to his ear.

  Pavano shook his head. “Can’t blame the parents for being in a panic. If it was your kid in there . . .”

  Pinto spit in the grass. They stood just behind Franks. Pinto crossed his arms in front of him. Pavano stood stiffly, hands clenched into tight fists.

  “We have no information at this time,” Franks declared, his voice magnified like the voice of God, booming over the nearly silent crowd.

  The exact wrong thing to say, Pavano thought. What a fucking jerk.

  And yes, it ignited the parents again. Cries of alarm and a barrage of frantic questions.

  When the cops finally restored quiet, Franks took a different tack. “We are going to get your children out of there. And we will get them out safe and sound.”

  Some muttering, but the reassurance seemed to calm them a little. Gazing down at the crowd from the steps, squinting into the spreading glow of sunlight, Pavano recognized Lea Sutter. She stood near the back of the crowd, dark hair down around her face, arms crossed, wearing a pale blue sweater.

  Next to her, he spotted Sutter’s sister. Roz. She stood with her hands on the shoulders of her squirming little boy, leaning over him, trying to get him to stand still. Lea Sutter stared straight up at the school building, frozen like a statue.

  She has four kids in there. What must she be feeling? What horror is she going through? Four kids . . .

  Pavano had read the report taken by a state cop late Saturday night. The Sutter kids were reportedly in the guesthouse out back with some friends. And all vanished, kids and guests, leaving no trace. He pictured the twin boys she and her husband had adopted from that hurricane-devastated island. What a tough introduction to American life those poor boys were getting.

  He swallowed. Especially if their new father is a murderer.

  And then he couldn’t stop the gruesome images from playing through his mind. The young girl with her stomach burned open, lying facedown in a pile of her own intestines. If only he hadn’t seen that. And the boy with his head completely burned off. And . . . and . . . the man in the car . . .

  If only he hadn’t seen the three victims. Then he wouldn’t see them in his dreams. Or when he closed his eyes for a moment. Or when he woke up. Every day. He saw them every day.

  I’ll probably see them forever.

  And if Mark Sutter was the murderer . . . Pavano wondered if Mark Sutter was haunted by the murders, too. He claimed he thought about the first murder night and day. Really? Did he think about the victims and think about how he had burned them . . . burned them open like some kind of monster from hell?

  But Pavano knew Franks was wrong. He knew Mark Sutter wasn’t the murderer. Sutter didn’t have it in him. Pavano could read him. He did
n’t have the anger. He didn’t have the insanity. He didn’t have the balls.

  And there stood Lea Sutter, on the edge of the crowd of frantic, shouting parents. Silent and still. Standing so stiffly beside her sister-in-law. No kids and no husband.

  Your husband isn’t a murderer. I know it.

  So why did he decide to run?

  Pavano knew the cops were no closer to finding the murderer of those three people than they were to knowing how a hundred or more kids disappeared from their homes and, presumably, were locked in this school building.

  And thinking this, with Franks fading into the background of his mind, yammering on through his megaphone, Pavano suddenly felt the full weight of all his regret. It came so suddenly and as such a surprise, he felt his knees start to give as the heaviness swept down over him.

  All the wrong choices he had made in his life suddenly confronted him, just as the crowd of parents confronted Franks. Such bad timing, but he couldn’t shake it off. If only you could command your mind to think what it should be thinking.

  But instead he thought of Sari and then back to Susannah, how he messed up his marriage. It could have worked if he had tried harder, if he hadn’t been such a fucking jerk. And Sari . . . Again Sari. What the fuck? What made him think he could step into the past and just claim her as if he hadn’t walked out on her before? Didn’t he move to the Hamptons to step into his future? Well, she fucking showed him you can’t go home again.

  All the wrong choices. All wrong. Every decision of his life.

  And now what?

  What was happening? A young blond woman with a red polka-dot bandanna around her neck had stepped forward and was talking to Franks. Their conversation quieted the crowd as the parents strained to hear.

  “You’re a teacher here?” Franks said, lowering the megaphone.

  “Yes. I’m Rhea Seltzer. I teach eighth-grade science. I arrived the usual time. A little before eight. With everyone else.” She gestured to some other teachers, who stood apart from the parents. “The door was locked. We tried shouting for the custodians. We thought it was a mistake.”

  “Then what did you do?” Franks asked, brushing a fly from the broad shoulder of his jacket.

  “We . . . didn’t know what to do. We looked for Mrs. Maloney. The principal. She usually arrives about the same time we do.”

  “But you couldn’t find her? Is she here?” Franks shouted into the megaphone. “Mrs. Maloney, are you here?”

  “We saw her car. It’s a white Camry. It’s in the teachers’ parking lot. But we couldn’t find her.” Seltzer pointed to a short man with a mane of curly black hair. “Mr. Munroe had her cell number. We tried it several times, but we only got her voice mail.”

  One of the cops leaned forward and said something in Franks’s ear. “Are the teachers always the first to arrive?” Franks asked.

  “No,” the woman answered. “The cafeteria workers get here first. They have to make breakfast for the meal-plan kids. They arrive before seven-thirty.”

  “Where are the cafeteria workers?” Franks demanded, shouting as if at a rally. He raised the megaphone. “Are you here? Please step forward.”

  “Their cars are here. But they’re not out here,” the teacher Munroe called out.

  “They must be inside,” Seltzer suggested.

  Pavano thought about it. The food workers arrive and are ushered in. Then the doors are locked. Are they hostages? Were they let in to cook for the kidnappers? For the kids?

  Franks had to silence the chatter of the crowd again. Pavano turned to the building and gazed along the row of windows. The morning sun, yellow now and slowly rising over the trees, reflected in the glass. He couldn’t see anyone inside the classrooms. The third window from the right was open, but no sound came out.

  “My son has a cell phone but he’s not picking up,” a man in a dark blue running suit said.

  “I found my daughter’s phone in her room. She would never leave the house without it.”

  “I’ve been trying to call my daughter all morning. No answer. I don’t understand it.”

  “My son is new in this school. Why did they take him?”

  “Are you going to get them out or are you going to stand there asking questions?”

  That shout made Franks’s face twitch. He was a big, imposing man. He radiated strength, athletic prowess, and power. But his stance wasn’t impressing this crowd of frightened parents.

  They wanted action. Why weren’t the police storming the building? Or at least trying to make contact with whoever was inside? It was obvious they thought Franks was stalling, that he had no clue what to do here.

  And they were right.

  Pavano’s eyes surveyed the crowd. He stopped at Lea Sutter, still standing near the back, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She hadn’t moved.

  Did she know where her husband was hiding? Sutter had eluded all three police departments for two days now.

  A man in a white T-shirt and khaki shorts came along the sidewalk, walking his French bulldog on a leash. He stopped in surprise and stumbled over the fat dog when he saw the crowd. “Is this a school event?”

  Some parents turned to set him straight on what was happening.

  “Has anyone received a ransom demand?” Franks boomed, sweeping the megaphone from one side of the crowd to the other. “Has anyone received a communication from anyone inside the school building?”

  The answer was a definite no.

  One of the state cops said something to Franks, pointing to the school. Franks let the megaphone slide to the ground. He motioned Pavano, Pinto, and the other cops forward.

  “Can’t wait to hear his brilliant plan,” Pinto muttered. “He probably wants to blow the fucking school up.”

  “That would get us home in time for lunch,” Pavano replied, eyes straight ahead on Franks.

  Pinto stopped him. “Whoa, partner. You’re not developing a sense of humor, are you? Did you forget? I’m the sarcastic one?”

  “Sorry,” Pavano murmured. “The strategy just seems kind of obvious to me. I mean, there’s an open window, right? So . . . we fucking go in and see what we find in there.”

  “And if the kidnappers start shooting?”

  “Pinto, do you really think there are kidnappers? Kidnappers who grab a hundred kids, take them all to school, and make no demands?”

  Pinto shrugged. “What else could it be, shitbrain?”

  “We’re going in,” Franks announced. “Weapons in hand.”

  The weapons order drew loud howls of protest from the crowd. Franks motioned toward the open classroom window. “Ignore the crowd. If you see someone holding the children, shoot first. Just don’t hit any kids. Shoot anything else that moves.”

  What movie did he get that line from?

  Guns drawn, the feds in the FBI flak jackets strode to the open window. Pavano had to squint. The windows all gleamed as if the sunlight was coming from inside.

  Pavano, Pinto, and three other local cops followed, almost as an afterthought. Pavano glanced back at the street and saw Big Pavano in his blue-black captain’s uniform standing by himself. His cap was tilted over his head. His gun was holstered. He was shaking his head as if he disapproved of the whole thing.

  “Where the hell has he been?” Pavano asked.

  Pinto spit on the grass. “The captain likes a big breakfast.”

  “Franks probably hasn’t kept him in the loop,” Pavano suggested. “It’s a miracle the feds are letting Franks run with this.”

  “Waiting for him to hang himself,” Pinto muttered.

  They were approaching the open window. Pavano still couldn’t see any sign of life inside. He felt his chest tighten. Each step made him feel a little more tense and a little more alert.

  What kind of madman kidnaps one hundred kids? What is he doing to them in there?

  He pictured the boy with his head burned off.

  Oh, God. What are we going to find?

  “Here we
go,” he muttered without realizing it.

  Pinto leaned close. “I’ve been in some tough situations,” he said softly. “I always think of a line from a country song I heard.” He poked Pavano. “You’re a country music guy. You probably know it.”

  Pavano didn’t reply. He waited for Pinto to tell him what song.

  “‘God is great, beer is good, and people are crazy.’”

  Pavano grinned. “Yeah. I know that song, Pinto.”

  “It ain’t a song, Andy. It’s my Bible.”

  Pavano heard the French bulldog start to bark, as if warning them away from the window. Franks stepped up beside the feds. Cautiously, he raised his head to the window and shouted inside. “Can anyone hear me? We’re coming in!”

  Pavano and Pinto tensed their weapons.

  “We’re coming in!” Franks shouted again. “Police! We’re coming in! Police!”

  Pavano could see only the back of Franks’s head. From his vantage point, the classroom was a sunlit blur. Was anyone in the room? Or even nearby?

  Weapon in hand, Franks motioned for the feds to let him go in first. He started to raise himself over the window ledge.

  Something caught Pavano’s eye. He turned in time to see the front doors of the school building swing open. He heard parents gasp and shout in surprise.

  “They’re coming out! The kids are coming out!”

  65

  Lea leaned close to Roz, her hair brushing her sister-in-law’s cheek. “It’s all my fault,” she whispered.

  Axl let out a cry and tried to break free from Roz’s grasp. But she had him securely by the shoulders, and he only succeeded in pitching himself off the grass, his tiny sneakers kicking air.

  “Lea, what? I can’t hear you.” She lowered her arms around the little boy’s waist and held him tight. “Take it easy, Axl. Be a good boy and I’ll buy you some candy.”