Henry stooped in front of Archie and picked up the phone he had dropped and stood up and handed it to him. Archie took it and looked at Henry and nodded.
Then Henry turned back to Susan. He squinted and wiped some sweat off his forehead with the flat of his hand. Susan could taste the smell of vomit in the back of her mouth.
“Don’t get shot,” Henry said.
CHAPTER
22
William Clark Elementary School was 1.4 miles from the house. Archie had trip-metered it once. Ben had insisted. Something to do with a bet with a friend about who lived nearer. One point four miles. It seemed farther. It was twenty minutes if you walked it. It took eight minutes to drive in the morning. Six minutes in the afternoon because traffic was lighter. With the lights and sirens on, it took four. That was what lights and sirens bought you: two minutes. One hundred and twenty seconds.
It could make a difference.
Archie knew the protocol for locking down a school. Students were instructed to stay in their classrooms. To push desks into the center of the room, and to stay away from the windows. Hallways were cleared. To control access, every door was locked except for the front door. Teachers turned off their classroom lights and instructed students to get down on their hands and knees. Just another day of public education. It made the old duck-and-cover drills seem quaint.
Archie imagined Ben and Sara in their respective classrooms, terrified, and he hated himself. His phone rang and he snapped it open, his heart sinking a little when he saw the number. He had hoped it would be Gretchen.
It was Debbie.
“Are you safe?” he asked.
“I’m at your office,” she said, her voice steel. “Are you at the school yet?”
He glanced out the window. A school zone sign warned motorists to reduce speed to twenty miles an hour. Henry was ignoring it. “Almost.”
“You protect them, Archie,” Debbie said, choking on the words. “You kill her.” Her voice was a desperate whisper. “Promise me.”
“I’ll protect them,” Archie said.
“Kill her,” Debbie pleaded.
The car squealed to a halt, jumping the curb in front of the school. Eight squad cars were already there, their lights on, sirens eerily quiet. “We’re here,” Archie said. The school, built in the nineties, was a modern one-story brick-and-glass structure that looked more like a junior college than an elementary school. It was a privileged suburban district, a refuge for parents fleeing Portland’s cash-strapped schools. A safe, enviable alternative.
Until today.
Archie snapped his phone shut and unholstered his gun. Henry was already out of the car, his badge out, barking orders, shouting at the uniforms to enter the school. Archie turned the safety off on his weapon and got out of the car. The adrenaline made the pills work faster, and Archie felt the soothing tickle of codeine in his shoulders and arms.
Just in time, he thought.
CHAPTER
23
Archie didn’t remember putting on the bulletproof vest from the trunk of the car, but he must have, because he and Henry were both wearing them as they moved toward the school. He didn’t usually like the way those vests felt, the weight pressing against his sore ribs, but today he didn’t notice.
In a school lockdown drill, the police secure the premises. They do not enter the building until the perpetrator in question has been located and the situation assessed. Schools, by definition, come with a couple hundred potential hostages and you didn’t want kids shot because you rushed it. Of course the drills presumed that the mad gunman was another kid. Kids are unpredictable. Kids with guns are extremely unpredictable. And no one wanted to have to shoot a kid, even one with a gun. So, secure, assess, wait.
The drills did not take into account Gretchen Lowell. She was predictable. She would kill until someone stopped her.
“We go in,” Archie said.
“Yeah,” Henry said.
The responding Hillsboro patrol cops had made contact with someone in the administration office. She was afraid but calm. The school was quiet. Lockdown procedure was in place.
A plaque above the front doors read EDUCATION IS NOT THE FILLING OF A PAIL, BUT THE LIGHTING OF A FIRE.
“Yeats,” Archie said.
“What?” said Henry.
“Nothing.”
They drew their weapons and, followed by six flushed and unsettled suburban cops, they entered the school.
The front doors opened onto a wide carpeted hallway. A life-sized papier-maché tiger, the school’s mascot, stood in mid-stride, facing the doors. It was painted burgundy with orange stripes. A sign next to it read DO NOT CLIMB ON ME.
Archie had been to that school a few hundred times. Ben was in second grade. Sara was in first. Both children had gone to kindergarten there. There had been parent-teacher meetings and art shows and fund-raisers and PTA meetings and basketball games and drop-offs and pickups.