The Third Victim (Quincy / Rainie)

  Two hundred and fifty little kids . . .

  “Turn back to channel three,” she told Chuckie. “Order the medics docked.”

  “But there’s a report of blood—”

  “Medics are docked until the scene is secured. That’s the drill.”

  Chuck did as he was told.

  “Get dispatch on. Request full backup. I’m sure the state and county boys have heard, and I don’t want there to be any confusion—we’ll take all the help we can get.” She paused, sifting through her memory to classes taken eight years ago in a musty classroom in Salem, Oregon, where she had been the only woman among thirty men. Full-scale mobilization. Procedure for possible large-scale casualties. Things that had seemed strange to be studying at the time.

  “Ask local hospitals to be on alert,” she murmured. “Tell the medics to contact the local blood bank in case they need to boost supply. Linda needs to request SWAT coverage. Oh, and tell the state Crime Scene Unit to be ready to roll. Just in case.”

  Dispatch returned before Chuckie could pick up the radio. Linda sounded shrill. “We have calls of shots still being fired. No information on shooter. No information on casualties. We have reports of a man in black at the scene. Shooter may be in the area. Proceed with caution. Please, please, proceed with caution.”

  “A man?” Chuck said hoarsely. “I thought it would be a student. It’s always a student.”

  Rainie finally hit the rural highway on the edge of downtown and opened the car up to eighty miles per hour. They were on their way now. Seven minutes and counting. Chuck picked up the radio and ran through the list of orders.

  Rainie started thinking of the other communities and schools she’d seen in the news without completely understanding. Even Springfield, Oregon, had seemed far away. It was a city, and everyone knew cities had their problems. That’s why people moved to Bakersville. Nothing bad was ever supposed to happen here.

  But you already knew better, didn’t you, Rainie? You of all people should’ve known.

  Chuckie was done with the radio. Now his lips moved in silent prayer. Rainie had to look away.

  “I’m coming,” she murmured to the children she could see clearly in her mind. “I’m coming as fast as I can.”

  ON TUESDAY AFTERNOON, Sandy O’Grady was trying hard to get some market-research reports done and was failing miserably. Sitting in a small corner office—a former bedroom of a converted Victorian home—she spent more time gazing out the window than at the stack of reports piled high on her scarred oak desk.

  The day was beautiful, not a cloud in sight. A true rarity in a state with so much rain that the locals affectionately referred to it as liquid sunshine. The temperature was mild too. Not as cool as it could be in spring, but not so warm that it started pulling in all the tourists and spoiling the mood.

  The day was perfect, a rare treat for all of Bakersville’s citizens, who endured all the other days too—the rainy autumns, the icy winters, the mudslides that sometimes closed the mountain passes, and the spring floods that threatened to destroy all the fertile fields. One good day out of a hundred, her daddy would have noted ironically. But he would’ve been the first to say it was enough.

  Sandra had lived in Bakersville all her life, and there was no other place she’d want to raise her family. Nestled between Oregon’s Coastal Range on the east and the Pacific Ocean on the west, the valley boasted lush, rolling hills dotted by black and white Holsteins and ringed by towering green mountains. The dairy cows outnumbered the people two to one. The family farm still endured as a way of life. People knew one another and took part in their neighbors’ lives. There were beaches for summer fun and hiking paths for fall glory. For dinner, you could have freshly caught crab, followed by a bowl of freshly picked strawberries topped off with freshly made cream. Not at all a bad life.

  In the end, the only complaint Sandra had ever heard about her community was the weather. The endlessly gray winters, the thick, pea-soup fog that seemed to weigh some folks down. Sandy, however, even loved the gray, misty mornings when the mountains barely peeked over their flannel shrouds and the world was wrapped in silence.

  When she and Shep had been newlyweds, they would go on walks in the early morning hours, before he had to report for duty. They’d layer up in barn coats and black rubber boots and wade through dew-heavy fields, feeling the fog like a silky caress against their cheeks. Once, when Sandy was four months pregnant and her hormones were raging out of control, they’d made love in the mist, rolling beneath an old oak tree and soaking themselves to the bone. Shep had looked at her with such awe and wonder. And she had wrapped her arms tight around his lean waist, listening to his fast-beating heart and daydreaming about the child growing in her belly. Would it be a boy or a girl? Would it have her curly blond hair or Shep’s thick brown locks? How would it feel to have a tiny life nursing at her breast?

  It had been a magic moment. Unfortunately, their marriage had not seen many of those since.

  A knock at her door. Sandy pulled her gaze guiltily from the window and saw her boss, Mitchell Adams, leaning against the old bull’s-eye molding. He had his ankles crossed and his hands thrust deep into the pants pockets of a three-thousand-dollar charcoal-colored suit. Dark hair just brushed his collar in the back, and his lean cheeks were freshly shaved. Mitchell Adams was one of those men who always looked good, whether he wore Armani or L. L. Bean. Shep had hated him on sight.

  “How are those reports coming?” Mitch asked. In spite of Shep’s concern, Mitchell was one-hundred-percent business. He had not hired Sandy because she remained lithe and beautiful even at forty. He had hired her because he’d realized that the former homecoming queen had a brain in her head and a need to succeed. When Sandy had tried explaining this to Shep, he simply hated Mitchell more.

  “The meeting with Wal-Mart is tomorrow,” Mitch was saying. “If we’re really going to convince them to move into our town, we have to have our numbers in order.”

  “So I’d better get the numbers in order.”

  “How far along are you?”

  She hesitated. “I’m getting there.” Code for she hadn’t gotten a damn thing done. Code for she’d had another big fight with Shep last night. Code for she’d be staying late to get the reports done, and that would generate yet another argument with her husband, and she didn’t feel as if she could win anymore. But she was too Catholic to do anything different, and so was Shep.

  They just kept going around and around, and now Becky was spending all her time sequestered in her room with an army of stuffed animals she believed could talk, while Danny spent more and more time playing on the Internet in the school’s computer room. He’d told Sandy that he was earning extra credit from Miss Avalon. But both Sandy and Shep suspected that their son didn’t want to come home anymore. Then last month there had been the incident with the lockers. . . .

  Sandy was unconsciously rubbing her temples. Mitchell took a small step into the room, then caught himself and moved back.

  “By tomorrow morning,” he said quietly.

  “Absolutely. First thing in the morning. I know how important the meeting is.”

  He finally nodded, though Sandy could tell he wasn’t satisfied. She didn’t know what else she could say. That was her life these days. No one was completely satisfied—not her boss, her husband, or her kids. She kept telling herself that if she could just hang in there a little longer, things would work out. The meeting with Wal-Mart was something they’d been working on for nine months. Keeping late hours, burning the midnight oil. But if it went well, a lot of money would be pouring in. The commercial real estate company could finally hire more employees. Sandy would probably take home a nice-size bonus. Shep might finally notice she had real abilities and ambitions, just like him.

  One forty-five P.M. Sandy got up and closed the blinds on her window, hoping that would help her focus. She poured herself a glass of water, picked up a pen, and prepared to get serious.

  She’
d just started reviewing the market data when the phone at her elbow rang. She picked it up absently, one half of her mind still processing numbers. She was not prepared for what she heard.

  Lucy Talbot sounded hysterical. “Sandy, Sandy! Oh thank God I reached you! There’s been a shooting, at the school. Some man, they claim he’s run away. I heard it on the radio. There’s blood in the halls. Students, faculty, I don’t know who. People are running in from everywhere. You gotta get there quick!”

  Sandy didn’t remember hanging up or grabbing her purse or yelling to Mitchell that she had to go.

  What she remembered was running. She had to get to the school. She had to get to Danny and Becky.

  And she remembered thinking for the first time in a long time that she was glad Shep O’Grady was her husband. Their children needed him.

  TWO

  Tuesday, May 15, 1:52 P.M.

  BAKERSVILLE’S K–8 LOOKED LIKE a scene out of bedlam. As Rainie came to a screeching halt half a block away from the sprawling, one-story building, she saw parents running frantically across the parking lot while children wandered the fenced-in schoolyard, crying hysterically. Fire alarms were ringing. Walt’s 1965 ambulance siren as well, damn him. More cars came careening dangerously around the residential streets, probably parents called from work.

  “Damn,” Rainie muttered. “Damn, damn, damn.”

  She could see teachers gathering up their charges into small groups. A man in a suit—maybe Principal VanderZanden; Rainie had met him only once—took up a post by the flagpole and seemed to be trying to organize the chaos. He wasn’t having much luck. Too many parents were running from group to group trying to find their children. Too many children were circling aimlessly in search of parents. A young boy with blood-soaked jeans staggered away from the whirling madness and collapsed on the sidewalk. No one seemed to notice.

  Rainie jumped out of her car and ran. Cunningham was right behind her. As they cut through the sea of people, pushing toward the school’s glass front doors, Rainie spotted Shep’s patrol car, strategically parked to block off the west entrance of the parking lot. The sheriff himself, however, was not in sight.

  The front doors had been thrust wide open. Rainie could just make out Bakersville’s two volunteer EMTs, Walt and Emery, hunched down at the end of the wide hallway, where they were already ministering to a victim.

  “Dammit,” she swore again. The two men had no business being in the building before it had been secured.

  A parent came running up, heading straight for the open doors. Rainie grabbed his arm just as he tried to push by, and she shoved him back forcefully.

  “My kid,” he started.

  “Into the parking lot,” she yelled. “No one enters the building! Hey you, you there in the suit. Come here.”

  Rainie snagged the younger man in mid-run. He had a look of authority about him, his olive suit nicely tailored and his black shoes freshly polished. He was frowning at Rainie, clearly anxious and in a hurry.

  “Are you from the school? What’s your name?” Rainie demanded.

  “Richard, Richard Mann. I’m the school counselor, and I need to get to the students. We’ve had some injuries—”

  “Do you know what happened in there?”

  “There were shots. Then the fire alarm sounded; then everyone was running. One minute I was in my office doing some paperwork, the next minute it was chaos.”

  “Did you see who was shooting?”

  “No, but someone said they saw a man run out the west side doors. I don’t know.”

  “What about the students? Is everyone out?”

  “We followed basic evacuation procedure,” Richard Mann replied automatically. Then his face fell. He lowered his voice so only Rainie could hear. “Two teachers said they saw some students down in the halls. They had to attend to their own classes, though, so they didn’t feel they could stop . . . and they didn’t want their kids to notice. I’ve also seen some wounded children out here. I tried to grab the EMTs, but they were already heading into the building.”

  “Do you have any medical training?”

  “I learned CPR from the Y.”

  “Good enough. Here’s what you’re going to do: Form a first-aid station on the school lawn. Gather up all the injured kids—I just saw a boy collapse by the sidewalk, so you need to send someone over there. Then ask among the parents. There’s gotta be other people here who have some sort of training—CPR, animal husbandry, camping first aid, I don’t care. Have them assist the kids and hold the fort the best they can. Walt looks to have his hands full inside, and we probably have another good ten or fifteen minutes before Cabot County’s ambulance arrives.”

  “I’ll do my best. It’s just so hard to be heard above the noise.”

  Rainie pointed a finger at Shep’s patrol car. “See that? In the backseat is a bullhorn. Knock yourself out. Now, once you get a first-aid area set up, I have another job for you. Are you listening?”

  The young counselor nodded intently. His face was pale, and his upper lip was beaded with sweat, but he seemed to be paying attention.

  “See all the people clogging the parking lot?” she said. “We need them all moved across the street. Tell the teachers to line up their classes and conduct a head count. When they’re done, they can match up students with parents. But everyone except the wounded clears this parking lot, for safety reasons, okay? And nobody goes home until they’ve been dismissed by the police. Got it?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Did you see Sheriff O’Grady?”

  “He ran into the building. I think he was looking for his kids.”

  Richard Mann took off for Shep’s car. Rainie eyed the sprawling white school building, which she gathered was still unsecured, then looked at her rookie, who was nervously stroking his gun.

  Rainie took a deep breath. She had only classroom training in these things, and that had been years ago, but she didn’t have any other choices. Walt and Emery were already in the school. Shep too. She and Chuckie might as well join the fray.

  She turned to him. “Walk right behind me, Chuckie. Eyes open, hands off your gun. Walt’s acting without authority, but he still doesn’t deserve to be shot.”

  Chuckie nodded dutifully.

  “There are just three things to remember at a crime scene: Don’t touch a thing. Don’t touch a damn thing. Don’t touch a goddamn thing. Okay?”

  Chuckie nodded again. Rainie glanced at her watch. 1:57 P.M. The parking lot was still a mess, and it was hard to think over the din of sirens and crying children. It was hard to look too closely, because now she was noticing the red spots on the sidewalk, the unmistakable trail of blood from the school into the yard. The injured children fleeing for their lives. And the others? The ones Richard Mann said the other teachers had seen?

  Rainie couldn’t think about that yet.

  She had her Glock in her right hand and her backup .22 holstered at her ankle. She hoped that was enough. She gave Cunningham a reassuring nod, and entered the building with her walkie-talkie in her left hand.

  The noise was louder in the building, the long hallways funneling the relentlessly pinging fire alarm and raining the sound down upon their heads. “Dispatch,” Rainie yelled into her walkie-talkie. “One-five calling dispatch. Linda, come in.”

  “Dispatch to one-five.”

  “Get me Hank on the wire. I need to know how to turn off the damn fire alarms.”

  “Ummm, okay. One moment.”

  Rainie and Chuckie paused in the front lobby, wincing against the steadily increasing noise.

  Ahead of them, the main hallway was surprisingly clean. No backpacks scattered, no books thrown across the vast white-tiled floor. To the right loomed the admissions office, where the glass windows were covered with pastel cutouts of paper flowers and the cheery word Welcome! Rainie still didn’t see any signs of violence.

  The walkie-talkie crackled to life. Rainie held it up against her ear to catch Linda’s instruc
tions. Inside the main office. A master panel. Rainie eyed the closed door. No telling what was on the other side. And impossible to hear. That was the whole problem.

  She motioned Chuckie to the side. No time like the present.

  Ducking low. Leading with her gun. Kicking open the door and rolling inside. Coming up . . . Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Office secured.

  She crossed to the main control panel, and a second later the fire alarms abruptly broke off.

  Chuckie blinked sharply. The silence was stunning after the noise. Stunning, and eerie.

  “That—that’s better,” Chuckie said after a moment, working on sounding confident when his face had turned the color of parchment.

  “Major learning from Columbine,” Rainie muttered. “The fire alarms obscured all sound. Made it impossible for the SWAT team to pinpoint where the shooters were in the building.”

  “You’ve been trained in school shootings?” Chuckie asked hopefully.

  “No. I read Time magazine.” Rainie jerked her head. “Come on. Keep your head on straight. Use your ears. You’ll be okay.”

  They returned to the main hall, both of them holding their sidearms and moving gingerly. After the office, rows of blue lockers began, the doors closed. The shooting must have happened after all the students were back in class after lunch, Rainie decided. She wondered if that was significant. Then she wondered what she would find in the classrooms.

  She noticed a few misshapen slugs on the floor as they moved farther in. Probably stray shots from the main area of incident, or maybe debris kicked into this area when people stampeded out. She stepped carefully around all the objects, though she had no illusion about the situation in front of her.

  An officer’s first priority when approaching any crime scene was to preserve human life. The second objective was to apprehend the perpetrator, if still in the vicinity, and secure the scene. Third was to detain witnesses and protect the evidence, for it was always the officer’s job to look beyond the tragedy of the moment. In the days to come, the people of Bakersville would be clamoring for answers. They would want reconstructions of the day, who did what to whom. What had gone wrong. Who was to blame.