Lucy Alexander fell quickly, landing on the incline of her backpack.
Her head lolled back. Her legs splayed. Her shoes pointed up at the ceiling.
The little girl tried in vain to raise her head. She touched her fingers to the open wound at her neck.
Her mouth was moving.
Judith Pinkman ran toward the camera. Her red shirt was a dull rust on the screen. She had her arms back, out to her sides, like a winged creature preparing to take flight. She passed her husband, then dropped to her knees beside Lucy.
“Look,” Lenore said.
Kelly Wilson finally came into the frame.
Distant. Slightly out of focus. The girl was at the most remote reaches of the camera’s lens. She was dressed in all black. Her greasy hair hung around her shoulders. Her eyes were wide. Her mouth hung open. She held the revolver in her right hand.
Like I said, the gun was in my hand.
Kelly sat down on the floor. The left half of her body was out of the camera’s reach. Her back was to the lockers. The revolver stayed at her side, resting on the ground. She stared straight ahead.
Lenore said, “A hair shy of eleven seconds from the moment the bullet went into the wall.” She pointed to the time in the corner. “I counted five shots total. One in the wall. Three in Pinkman. One in Lucy. That’s not what the simulation had on the news. They said Judith Pinkman was shot at twice, missed both times.”
Sam let herself look at Lucy again.
Judith Pinkman’s mouth was open as she screamed up at the ceiling.
Sam read the grieving woman’s lips.
Help me.
Somewhere in the school, Charlie was hearing the woman’s pleas.
Lenore held up the box of Kleenex on her desk.
Sam took some tissues. She wiped her eyes. She blew her nose. She watched Judith Pinkman cradle her hand behind Lucy’s head. She tried in vain to staunch the wound that had opened the little girl’s neck. Blood seeped through her fingers as if she had squeezed a sponge. The woman was clearly sobbing, wailing from grief.
Charlie came out of nowhere, leaping into the frame.
She was running up the hallway, toward the camera, toward Lucy and Mrs. Pinkman. The expression on her face was one of complete panic. She barely gave Douglas Pinkman more than a glance. Her knees hit the floor. She was sideways to the camera, her face clearly visible. She clutched Lucy Alexander’s hand. She spoke to the girl. She rocked back and forth as she tried to soothe both of them.
Sam had seen Charlie rock this way only once before.
“That’s Mason,” Lenore said. She blew her nose loudly.
Mason Huckabee had his back to the camera. He was clearly talking to Kelly, trying to coax away the gun. The girl was still seated, but she had slid farther down the hallway. Sam could no longer see her face. The only visible parts of Kelly’s body were her right leg and the hand that held the revolver.
The butt of the weapon rested on the floor.
Mason went down to his knees. He leaned forward. His arm went out, palm open. He inched toward Kelly. Slowly, slowly. Sam could only imagine what he was saying. Give me the gun. Just hand it to me. You don’t have to do this.
Mason knew Kelly Wilson, had been her teacher, her tutor. He would know that she could be talked down.
On screen, he kept moving closer, and closer until, without warning, Kelly raised the gun out of the frame.
Sam’s stomach lurched.
Mason backed up quickly, putting distance between himself and Kelly.
“She turned the gun on herself,” Lenore said. “That’s why his hands are down instead of up.”
Sam’s gaze found Charlie again. She was beside Lucy, opposite Mrs. Pinkman. The older woman was looking up at the ceiling, eyes closed, clearly praying. Charlie sat cross-legged on the floor. Her hands were in her lap. She was rubbing together her fingers, staring at the blood as if she had never seen anything like it before.
Or perhaps she was thinking that she had seen something exactly like it before.
Charlie’s head slowly turned. She looked off camera. A shotgun slid across the floor, stopping a few feet away. Charlie did not move. Another second passed. The shotgun was scooped up by a policeman. He ran down the hall. His bulletproof vest flapped at his waist. He dropped to one knee and jammed the butt of the shotgun into his shoulder.
The weapon was pointed at Mason Huckabee, not Kelly Wilson.
Mason was on his knees, his back to Kelly, blocking the man’s shot.
All of this seemed lost on Charlie. She was looking back down at her hands, seemingly mesmerized by the blood. Her rocking had become less pronounced, more of a vibration moving through the body.
Lenore whispered, “My poor baby.”
Sam had to look away from Charlie. She found Mason still on his knees. Now, his back was to Kelly Wilson. The shotgun was pointed at his chest.
The shotgun was pointed at his chest.
Sam’s eyes skipped back to Charlie. She had not moved. She was still rocking. She looked to be in some type of fugue state. She did not seem to notice when a second police officer ran past her.
Sam followed the cop’s quick progress down the hall. As with the other officer, his back was to the camera, but Sam could see the gun in his hand. He came to a stop a few feet away from the other cop with a shotgun.
Shotgun and revolver.
Revolver and shotgun.
Mason Huckabee had extended his hand toward Kelly, reaching over his left shoulder, offering his palm. He was talking to her, most likely still trying to coax the gun away.
The cops shook their weapons. Their stances were aggressive. Sam did not need to see their faces to know that they were shouting orders.
In contrast, Mason was calm, collected. His mouth moved slowly. His movements were almost cat-like.
Sam’s gaze returned to Charlie just as she looked up. The expression on her face was heartbreaking. Sam wanted to climb into the film and hold her.
“She moved back,” Lenore said.
She meant Kelly. The girl was almost out of frame now. Only a patch of black from her jeans indicated Kelly was still there. Mason had moved back with her. His head, his left shoulder and left hand were completely gone. The angle of the camera had cut a diagonal line across his torso.
The cops did not move.
Mason did not move.
There was a puff of smoke from the cop’s gun.
Mason’s right arm recoiled.
The cop had shot him.
“Oh my God,” Sam said. She could not see Mason’s face, but his torso had only slightly twisted.
The cops appeared to be as surprised as Sam. They did not move, not for several more seconds, before slowly, they both lowered their weapons. They spoke to one another. The man with the shotgun unclipped the radio mic from his shoulder. The other turned around in the hall, looked at Charlie, then turned back.
He extended his hand to Mason.
Mason stood up. The second cop walked in the direction of Kelly Wilson.
Suddenly, the girl appeared on screen, face down, the cop’s knee in her back. She had been tossed over like a sack.
Sam looked for the murder weapon.
Not in Kelly’s hands or on her person.