That was a lie.
Debbie had been to the school a few hundred times. The nature of Archie’s job kept him away. He had to work early and stay late, so Debbie dropped the kids off. Debbie picked them up. Debbie went to PTA meetings. Archie tried. He attended as many events as he could. He had never missed a parent-teacher meeting. But he had not tried hard enough. He would, he promised himself now, try harder. If they were still alive, he would try harder.
“Ben’s in room six,” Archie said to Henry. “That way.” He pointed past the tiger. “At the end of the hall. I’ll get Sara.” He turned to the patrol cops. “The rest of you move in pairs, secure as much of the school as you can.”
The patrol cops stood motionless for a moment, looking at one another. The only woman among them cleared her throat. She was young. She’d probably been a cop for only a year or two. “What should we do if we find her?” she asked.
“Shoot her,” Henry said.
“No,” Archie said quickly. “She’s dangerous. Don’t confront her. If you see her, you radio me.” He touched the walkie-talkie on his hip.
Henry motioned with his fingers at two of the patrol cops, the woman and a middle-aged man whose age bespoke a decided lack of ambition. “You two go with him,” Henry said. “And if you see her, shoot her.”
They split up and Archie led his small posse away from the grinning tiger, left down the hall, in the opposite direction Henry headed to go to Ben’s classroom. Sara was in room 2. It wasn’t far. Just past the hall wall display of construction-paper dioramas of beach balls and sailboats and sun. Summer break was days away and Sara had already started begging to go to horse camp. They came to her classroom door. Beyond it Archie could see a pint-sized drinking fountain against one wall. A Spider-Man backpack lay unattended on the ground next to it.
God, it was quiet.
Archie tried the doorknob. It was locked. He pounded twice on the door with his fist. “It’s the police,” he said, his voice startling in the silence. “I need you to open the door.”
He heard movement inside and the door opened. Mrs. Hardy, Sara’s first-grade teacher, stood in the doorway. She had been a teacher for thirty years and her red hair had only recently started to fade to a light gray. She held a copy of Green Eggs and Ham clutched to her sweater.
Archie lowered his gun, but kept his finger where it rested on the trigger guard. His center of gravity was shifted forward on the balls of his feet. He was relaxed. They taught you that. Keep your breathing steady. If you’re relaxed, you shoot better. There was a moment, when two thirds of the lung’s capacity had been exhaled, when you were most steady. It was called the “natural respiratory pause.” During normal breathing, you had a window of about two to three seconds, but it could be stretched to up to eight seconds to allow time to aim and squeeze the trigger before lack of oxygen began to affect aim.
If you breathed slow enough. If you didn’t think about your children. If you stayed relaxed.
“I’m Detective Sheridan,” Archie said, looking past the teacher. “My daughter, Sara, where is she?”
“I know who you are, Mr. Sheridan,” Mrs. Hardy said. She stepped aside and turned on the classroom lights and Archie could see the kids sitting in a circle in the center of the room. They were motionless, eyes on him, faces pale.
Archie didn’t see Sara. He stepped farther into the room, toward the children. “Sara?” he called. The panic he had been fighting surged. His heart raced. He felt the heat rise under his skin. His throat constricted. He took another step toward the children.
Stay relaxed.
He felt Mrs. Hardy’s hand on his elbow, stopping him. “The principal came and got her,” she said. “To keep her safe.”
Archie gasped, a strangled sigh of relief that nearly doubled him over.
Mrs. Hardy tightened her grip on his arm. “You’re frightening the children, Mr. Sheridan,” she said.
He saw himself then. The bulletproof vest. The weapon. The patrol cops at the door. His daughter’s classmates stared at him silently, a few lower lips starting to tremble. They weren’t scared of the lockdown. Or of Gretchen Lowell.
They were scared of him.
He lowered his weapon.
“Has anyone else been here?” he asked the teacher. “A blond woman?” Archie searched for some other word to describe her and came up with nothing. “Beautiful?”
“No,” she said.
Archie took a step backward toward the door. “I’m sorry,” he said stupidly.
A little boy in an Elmo sweatshirt stepped forward. He reached out his hand. “Can I hold your gun?” he asked.
Jesus Christ, thought Archie. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s okay, everyone. I’m sorry.”
The patrol cops followed him back out into the hall where Archie immediately peeled off his vest and let it drop to the floor. It fell on the carpet with a thud.