She had to shove aside the instinct to go to her partner, pushed herself to the shooter.
“Shooter down.” Keeping her weapon trained on him, she pulled the pistol out of his hand, slapped her foot on the rifle he’d dropped. “Officer down. My partner took a hit. We need medical. God, multiple gunshot victims. We need help here. We need help.”
“Reports of another active shooter, possibly two or more in the mall area. You confirm one shooter down?”
“He’s down.” She scanned his lower body, the mass of blood. “He’s not getting up.” Even as she said it, the shooter’s harsh, rapid breaths went out.
He had a pimple on his chin. She stared at it until she could lift her head, until she could look at what he’d done.
Bodies, splayed in the aisle, slumped in the seats, crumpled in the narrow spaces between rows where they’d fallen or tried to hide.
She’d never forget it.
When a quad team burst through the theater doors, she held up a hand. “Officer McVee. Shooter’s neutralized. My partner.”
As she spoke, Barry coughed, moaned. She started to straighten from her crouch, swayed as her head swam.
“You hit, McVee?”
“No. No, just … No.” Bearing down, she went to Barry.
“Next time I bitch about how hot and heavy these vests are, slug me.” He hissed in a breath. “Hurts like a motherfucker.”
She swallowed bile, took Barry’s hand. “Would’ve hurt more without it.”
“You got him, Essie. You got the bastard.”
“Yeah.” She had to swallow again, hard, but she nodded. “I think he’s a kid. Barry, he’s not alone.”
More cops poured in, and medical first responders. While other police units rushed into the mall hunting for the other shooter or shooters, Essie worked with Barry to clear the theater’s bathrooms, storage area, lockers.
“You need medical,” she told him as they approached the ladies’ room.
“I’ll get it later. Nine-one-one caller.” He nodded toward the bathroom door.
Essie shoved it open, swept with her weapon, and caught a glimpse of her own face in the mirrors over the sink. Sickly pale, but better than the gray tone under Barry’s deep brown skin.
“This is the police,” Essie called out. “Simone Knox? This is the police.”
Silence echoed back.
“Maybe she got out.”
The stall doors stood open, but one hardly more than a crack. “Simone,” Essie repeated as she walked over. “I’m Officer McVee with the Rockpoint police. You’re safe now.”
She eased the door open, saw the girl crouched on the toilet seat, her hands pressed to her ears.
“Simone.” Hunkering down, Essie laid a hand on Simone’s knee. “You’re all right now.”
“They’re screaming. He’s killing them. Tish, Mi, my mom, my sister.”
“Help’s here now. We’ll find them for you. Let’s get you out of here, okay? You were really smart. You saved lives tonight, Simone, by calling for help.”
Simone looked up then, huge brown eyes drenched with tears and shock. “My phone died. I forgot to charge it, and it died. So I hid in here.”
“That’s good, that’s fine. Come on with me now. I’m Officer McVee. This is Officer Simpson.”
“The man, the man ran out, and fell. The blood. I saw—I saw—Tish and Mi are in the movie. My mom and sister are shopping.”
“We’re going to find them for you.” She put an arm around Simone, helped her down, helped her out. “You’re going to go with Officer Simpson. And I’m going to go find your mom and your sister and your friends.”
“Essie.”
“You’re hurt, Barry. Take the kid. Get her checked out.”
She led the girl down the corridor, past the theaters. The situation report on her radio claimed two more shooters were down. She hoped that was all of them, but she needed to be sure.
But when Barry took over, steering Simone toward the glass doors and the flashing lights of cop cars and ambulances, Simone stopped, looked directly into Essie’s eyes.
“Tulip and Natalie Knox. Mi-Hi Jung and Tish Olsen. You have to find them. Please. Please find them.”
“Got it. On it.”
Essie headed the opposite way. She didn’t hear gunfire anymore and somebody, thank Christ, had shut off the music. Her radio crackled about areas cleared, calls for medical assistance.
She stopped, stared at the mall she’d shopped in, wandered in, grabbed her first meal in for as long as she could remember.
It would take time, she thought, almost numb, to clear the dead, to treat and transport the wounded, to take statements from those who’d escaped injury—physical injury, she corrected. She doubted anyone who lived through this night would come through unscathed.
Paramedics poured in now, but there were so many beyond their help.
A woman with blood running down her arm cradled a man—beyond help—in her lap. A male in a Red Sox jersey lay facedown. She could see gray matter in his head wound. A female, early twenties, sat weeping in front of Starbucks, her apron spattered with blood.
She saw a little pink sneaker, and though she prayed the girl who’d lost it found safety, it wrenched her heart.
She saw a man—early twenties/late teens—stagger out of GameStop. His thick glasses sat askew over eyes as dazed as a dreamer’s.
“Is it over?” he asked her. “Is it over?”
“Are you injured?”
“No. I banged my elbow. I…” Those dazed eyes skimmed over her, then over the bleeding, the dead. “Oh jeez, oh jeez. In the—in the back room. I got people in the back room. Like they said to do if … They’re in the back room.”
“Just hold on a minute.” She turned away to use her radio, to ask if she could lead a group out, and to what checkpoint.
“What’s your name?” she asked him.
“I’m Chaz Bergman. I’m, like, the manager on duty tonight.”
“Okay, Chaz, you did good. Let’s get your people out now. There are officers outside who’ll take your statements, but let’s get everybody outside.”
“I’ve got a friend. Reed, Reed Quartermaine. He works at Mangia—the restaurant. Can you find him?”
“I’ll find him.” Essie added him to her list.
“Is it over?” Chaz asked again.
“Yes,” she told him, knowing it for a lie.
For everyone touched by the violence that day, it would never be over.
*
Reed had Brady on his hip when he spotted some of the Mangia crew. Some sat on a curb, holding each other. Rosie, still in her cook’s apron, covered her face with her hands.
Eat that pasta, she always said to him. Fatten you up, skinny boy.
“You’re okay, you’re okay.” Reed closed his eyes as he started to crouch down to her. She leaped up, wrapped her arms around him.
“You’re not hurt.” Rosie cupped Reed’s face.
He shook his head. “Is everybody okay?”
Rosie let out a sound, like something tearing.
“He came in and…” Rosie broke off as she registered the boy Reed held. “We’ll talk about it later. Who is this handsome fellow?”
“This is Brady.” Not everyone was okay, Reed thought. “We, ah, hung out together. I need to help him find his mom.”
And call his own, Reed thought. He’d texted her from inside, told her he was okay, not to worry. But he needed to call home.
“The good guys came. Reed said.”
“Yes, they did.” Rosie worked up a smile with tears flowing over it.
“I want Mommy.”
“I’m going to ask one of the cops to help.”
Reed straightened again, walked toward a cop—a girl cop, because he thought Brady might go with a woman. “Officer? Can you help me? This is Brady, and he can’t find his mom.”
“Hey, Brady. What’s your mom’s name?”
“Mommy.”
“What’s your daddy call her?”
“Honey.”
Essie smiled. “I bet she has another name.”
“Lisa Honey.”
“Okay, and what’s your whole name?”
“I’m Brady Michael Foster. I’m four years old. My daddy is a fireman and I have a dog named Mac.”
“A fireman, and what’s his whole name?”
“He’s Michael Honey.”
“Okay. Hold on a minute.”
Firefighters were among the first responders, so Essie tracked one down. “I need a Michael Foster. I’ve got his son.”
“Foster’s one of mine. You’ve got Brady? Is he hurt?”