Читать книгу Staying Alive - Debra Webb - Страница 10

Chapter 3

“Step away from the weapon!”

Claire huddled behind her desk, Peter in her arms, as three men dressed in SWAT gear faced off with the only terrorist left standing. As soon as SWAT had stormed the classroom, she and Peter took the closest form of cover.

The children were crying on the other side of the room. God, she needed to get to them. But she had been ordered to stay put. She understood that the one remaining terrorist was still armed.

She peeked around the corner of her desk. The smoke was slowly clearing. Two other guys in SWAT garb were trying to see to the children. But as far as Claire was concerned, the kids needed their teacher.

Moving wasn’t an option. She couldn’t risk getting in the way of the ongoing standoff. Staying put was the hardest thing to do, but reason told her that any distraction could have devastating consequences. So she resisted the desperate urge to go to the children.

The three men suddenly converged on the lone terrorist. When he was cuffed, Claire scrambled to her feet. “I need to go to the children now,” she said to no one in particular. Her heart pounded so hard she could scarcely hear herself think.

“Go ahead, ma’am.”

She waited until they had ushered their prisoner to the door and then she reached for Peter. “Come on, Peter, let’s go see about the others.”

“You are dead!”

A chill rushed over Claire’s skin at the savage sound of the prisoner’s voice. She turned toward the man who had issued the threat. He resisted being ushered out the door. His mask had been removed and he glowered at her with sheer hatred.

“You are dead!” he repeated, his tone imbued with violence.

Claire knew in that instant that, if given the opportunity, this man would kill her where she stood.

SWAT muscled him out of the room.

The children’s cries dragged her attention back to the matter at hand. She shook off the creepy feeling the man’s threat had evoked. He was going to prison just like his friend Kaibar. He wouldn’t be giving anyone else any trouble.

As Claire made her way past the nearest terrorist, lying in a pool of blood on the floor, a SWAT team member, in an effort to check ID, tugged off the dead man’s mask. Claire froze. Her gaze riveted to the face of the man she had killed.

Definitely Middle Eastern and probably no more than twenty or twenty-one years old.

Not much more than a kid himself.

A sick feeling churned in her stomach.

She had killed this man.

Her gaze moved across the room to the other two downed terrorists. It had scarcely been more than an hour since this horror began and four men had lost their lives. She looked back at poor Mr. Allen and she felt her own tears well up all over again.

Such a horrible, horrible way to die.

The sobbing pleas of the children continued to fill the air. They were shaken and afraid, they wanted their parents. She couldn’t let her own distress hold her back from providing the support her students needed.

Claire sucked up her courage and hurried across the room, weaving around chaotic fallout. She had to be strong for the children. She couldn’t think about anything else right now.

During the hour or so that followed, paramedics examined the children. Thankfully they were all fine. A few had received cuts from the flying glass and minor scrapes and bruises from having fallen or jumped off the window stool when the smoke canister blasted through the window above their heads. Some were treated for mild cases of smoke inhalation, but otherwise they were all amazingly unharmed and ready to go home.

“Ma’am, I’ll need to examine you now.”

Claire looked up as the paramedic approached her. “Don’t bother. I’m fine,” she argued.

She might have some bruises come tomorrow, but otherwise she was okay.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he coaxed, “but I have orders. I have to take a look. Make sure you’re uninjured. Sometimes a mild case of shock will veil other problems not readily visible.”

She was too tired to argue and he did have his orders. “Do whatever you have to.”

Claire leaned against her desk and let him do a quick screening. Her blood pressure and heart rate were a little high, but that was to be expected. The paramedic evaluated her from head to toe. He was kind and patient.

“You appear to be fine, ma’am,” he acknowledged. “But I would suggest that you see your private physician if you suffer any residual effects.”

She frowned. “What do you mean, residual effects?” She was tired and maybe even a little grumpy.

“You might require something to help you sleep for the next couple of nights. These things sometimes take a toll not always apparent in a routine physical exam.”

Counseling. He meant trauma counseling and sedatives. She’d been down that road before.

“I understand.” He was right. The children would certainly need professional help. Coming back to school would present a scary experience in and of itself. Perhaps Mr. Allen…

Claire swallowed hard, tried her best not to start crying again.

At some point, an hour or so after the shoot-out, the children were allowed to go home with their emotionally fatigued parents. Claire stood at the entrance door to the fifth-grade wing and watched each shell-shocked parent pick up his or her child. She offered whatever reassurances she could, but there wasn’t a lot she could say that would make anyone feel better just now.

When the last of the children were gone, a man in a suit approached her. He didn’t look familiar, but she’d seen so many faces she very well could have met him already. “Miss Grant, I’m Detective Vince Atwood.” He showed her his official ID. “I need to ask you a few questions now.”

She followed him into the classroom across the hall from her own. As she passed her open door she caught a glimpse of the young man she’d killed being lifted into a body bag. She shuddered.

She’d killed a man today.

She had hoped that she would never have to feel this way again. That fate would not demand such a tragic act from her twice in one lifetime.

Detective Atwood ushered her to the chair behind her colleague’s desk, then he settled one hip on the desk’s edge. As she watched he removed a small notebook from his pocket and flipped it open.

“Miss Grant, I’d like you to tell me what happened, starting with the fire drill.”

Claire started slowly. Her thoughts were a little jumbled at first, but eventually she reconstructed the events leading up to the moment when the glass shattered and the smoke filled her classroom.

Detective Atwood explained that as soon as gunfire had been confirmed SWAT was given the order to storm the room. Sending in the smoke bomb had been about providing cover for their entrance. They had already infiltrated the room with audio and visual devices, using the ventilation system. SWAT had known exactly where the children were as well as where each terrorist stood before they entered the room, ensuring a surgical strike with, fortunately, no collateral damage.

“You understand, Miss Grant, that you may be required to answer questions several more times. In cases such as these where children are involved as well as threats to national security, there are a number of levels of accountability. Child Services may require a full report on the incident. Certainly, the state school system will need to understand what occurred in an effort to comprehend any needed steps that might prevent such an incident in the future. The Federal Bureau of Investigation and Homeland Security may require interviews as well.”

“I’m happy to do whatever I need to,” she assured him.

Detective Atwood closed his notebook and tucked it back into his jacket pocket. He heaved a heavy breath. “Miss Grant, I regret the need to bring this up, but it’s my job. We ran background checks on both you and Mr. Allen while we were…waiting and…well, I have just a couple of questions on a flag that came up on your history.”

Claire stilled. The past came barreling in to collide with the present. She should have seen this one coming, but she’d been a little busy and a whole lot terrified for the past couple of hours.

“Six years ago you were involved in another shooting,” the detective began, clearly hesitant to bring up the subject. “There was some confusion, as you’ve changed your name since.”

“That’s right.” The idea that anything related to that nightmare would come into play in this act of terrorism made her want to scream at the injustice of it. But she reserved judgment. As the detective said, he was only doing his job. “I kept my last name,” she said. “I wasn’t running from the law, Detective, I simply needed the anonymity of leaving Christina Grant behind.”

When Atwood didn’t immediately launch into another question, Claire decided to save them both any further awkward moments. “My younger sister married a jerk,” she said, cutting right to the chase. “He made her life miserable. He was both mentally and physically abusive. During the final months of her pregnancy she came to live with me to get away from him.”

“She was afraid for her life as well as that of her unborn child,” Atwood said, clearly regurgitating what he’d read in her official police record.

Claire nodded. “One night he broke into my house. He had a gun. When he tried to kill my sister, I charged him. We struggled. The weapon discharged and he died.”

Atwood nodded. “That’s what the report said.” His gaze met hers. “Word for word.”

Something like doubt flickered in his eyes and Claire resisted the impulse to defend herself further. She had done what she had to do that night…she’d done it again today. God knew she hadn’t had any choice in either situation. As far as she was concerned that was good enough for her.

She couldn’t regret the actions that had saved the lives of innocent people.

“Is there anything else, Detective?” She stood. Her legs were still a little unsteady, but she wanted out of here. The sooner the better.

Atwood shook his head.

When Claire was about to walk away, he said, “Just so you know, Miss Grant…”

Reluctantly, she turned back to him. She didn’t want this to be a warning not to leave town. She’d weathered far too much gossip and suspicion six years ago. She shouldn’t have to tolerate it now, especially considering the reason for today’s events.

“You did the right thing,” Atwood allowed. “Then and now.”

The sincerity of his words was reflected in his eyes. All signs of doubt or suspicion were gone.

Any resentment or irritation she’d felt ebbed away. She nodded and resumed her retreat. She wanted to go home. She was completely exhausted. A long hot bath and sleep were the only two things on her agenda.

Darlene waited for her in the hall. “Are you okay?” She rushed up and hugged Claire. “God, I was so scared.”

Claire held on to her friend, thankful to be alive. “I can’t believe this happened.”

Darlene drew back and gave her a smile. “You did good, girlfriend. You saved those kids. Don’t let anybody tell you differently. I was out there.” She jerked her head toward the front of the building. “They didn’t know what the hell they were going to do to save you guys. No one thought there would be any survivors.”

Claire’s knees buckled this time. Her friend caught her. “Let’s get you home,” Darlene suggested. “I’ll get your car to you later.”

“I need my purse.”

Darlene banged on Claire’s classroom door and had one of the officers bring her purse out of the room. Her classroom was now a crime scene awaiting thorough forensics investigation. When her purse was in her hand, Claire wasn’t surprised to find that it had been thoroughly searched. But what came next was something else Claire should have seen coming but didn’t.

Reporters. Hundreds of them.

The police had cordoned off the school at the drop-off point, but beyond that there were literally hundreds of reporters. Dozens of television vans.

Claire lost count of how many teachers praised her for holding her own in an unwinnable situation. She tried to keep her smile in place but it wasn’t easy.

A couple of officers showed up and escorted Claire and Darlene through the crowd. It seemed as if half the community had come to observe the events. The children had all been picked up, but most of the teachers remained. Several were openly mourning the loss of their beloved principal.

Camera flashes seemed to punctuate the questions hurled at her. She ignored them all. She had nothing to say. Not to the media anyway.

Darlene opened the door of her racy red sports car for Claire and then hurried around to the driver’s side while the police kept the reporters at bay.

As they drove away, Claire stared at the school growing smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. Nothing would ever be the same there. Today’s horrendous events would forever leave a mark on the teachers as well as the students.

And for what?

She just didn’t get it.

Why couldn’t someone stop the terrorists, their senseless demands, their murder of innocent people?

She laid her head back against the headrest. Maybe because they were all like her, sitting back leaving it to someone else. She wasn’t sure she would ever be able to watch the news and feel the same way again. Maybe that was the problem with the world today, everyone passed the buck, put the dirty work off on someone else. She would never again take for granted the efforts of her country to fight terrorism.

Firsthand experience was a ruthless teacher.

Her eyes closed in a futile attempt to erase the image of the man she had killed today. An image from the past abruptly superimposed itself over his.

She forced the painful pictures away. She would not regret what she had done. Both of those men deserved to die. She hated that she’d been the one forced to stop them, but it was done.

There was no going back.

“You want to stay at my place tonight?”

Claire cleared her head of the disturbing thoughts. “Thank you, but I think I’d feel better in my own bed.”

She closed her eyes again and focused on making her body relax. First that tight band of tension around her skull, then the aching tendons reaching down her neck. She let her shoulders slump downward. She was so tired. So exhausted.

Claire hadn’t realized she’d dozed off until the car stopped moving. She hadn’t exactly been asleep but she’d floated in that place between asleep and awake.

“You’re sure you’re okay, Claire?”

She faced her friend and produced a smile. “I’m okay. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Darlene shook her head. “No school tomorrow. Maybe not the next day.”

Of course there wouldn’t be any school. The investigation would need to continue. Her classroom would need repairs. And Mr. Allen. God, poor Mr. Allen. There would be arrangements for his memorial service.

“I’ll talk to you later then.” Claire opened her door but hesitated before getting out. “Thanks, Darlene. I don’t think I could have driven home after…”

Darlene placed her hand over Claire’s and squeezed. “I know. Call me if you need me, no matter the hour.”

Claire emerged from the car and waved as she watched her friend drive away. She felt a little numb. She hadn’t noticed that before. Maybe the reality of the last few hours was only now beginning to catch up with her.

Glancing down the block, first left then right, she was immensely glad no reporters had found out where she lived. She doubted that would last, but at least they weren’t here now.

She turned and faced her small bungalow. It wasn’t much. Just a one-bedroom, one-bathroom fixer-upper she’d spent the last five years transforming, but it was home and she loved it.

As she took her time advancing along the sidewalk, she focused on the details of her home. Anything to clear her head of the ugliness. She loved the Craftsman-style bay window that looked out over her front yard. She’d just planted lots of flowers last weekend. With April coming to a close the colorful, lush annuals were starting to bloom, the reds, yellows and purples brilliant against the pale green of her house and the rich brown of the eucalyptus mulch.

She had a white picket fence, a detached garage and her own little garden toolshed in the back.

So far, she had done good, if she did say so herself.

Stepping up onto the covered porch, she admired her swing. She’d layered it with comfy cushions. She loved sitting out here reading with a cup of coffee on Saturday mornings. Her house faced east, so she could watch the sunrise as well.

It was perfect for her. Felt like home in every way.

That was something she hadn’t expected when she moved here. She had missed Alabama so badly, but she’d needed a fresh start. When she’d found this place, it had been in pretty sad shape. Like her.

Claire unlocked the door and went inside. She’d spent all summer that year transforming the exterior into a showcase of curb appeal. Then, during those long dreary winter months that followed, she had, inch by inch, revitalized the interior. From the period crown molding to the rustic tile in the light-filled kitchen. She’d had to hire someone to do the wiring update. Most older homes didn’t meet the current code.

But that overwhelming kitchen renovation was all that had gotten her through her first Christmas alone.

“Enough.”

Claire sat her purse on the table next to the door and engaged the dead bolt. She allowed the familiar smells and textures of home to soothe her as she walked toward the bathroom, shedding her clothes as she went. By the time she reached the bathroom she’d stripped down to her panties and bra.

While the original claw-foot tub filled with steaming hot water, she fashioned her unruly blond curls into the closest thing to a bun she could manage in this condition.

Big, dark smudges beneath her brown eyes made them look sunken. The first trace of bruises on her upper arms and throat had begun to surface. Good thing the weather was still cool enough for a long-sleeved turtleneck. Otherwise she’d look…just like her sister used to. She shivered at the images that resurrected.

Banishing the memories, Claire poured her favorite scented oil into the tub and inhaled deeply as the luxuriant lavender essence infused the rising steam.

She stepped into the tub and slowly lowered herself into the welcoming embrace of the hot water. After turning off the tap, she leaned back and let the neck-deep water do its work.

It felt so good. The heat penetrated her muscles and urged them to relax. The steam filled the room, creating a cozy cloud of thick, damp silence.

She didn’t need any music or candles. Just this glorious heat and the blessed silence.

The phone rang, the muffled sound reached beyond the barrier of the door, cut through her cozy cloud, but she refused to open her eyes. She was way too exhausted to care who might be calling.

Probably some of the other teachers checking up on her. The teachers were her family now. They had accepted her as one of their own. She received an invitation to every birthday, every wedding and funeral just as if she had always been here.

This was home.

The past was over and done with. No going back.

No looking back.

That was the hardest part. When things happened to provoke an old memory…like being forced to shoot that man today…she couldn’t help wondering. But going back was detrimental to her well-being. She could not think about the past and continue to be happy in her present.

End of story.

And just like that, the images of the terrorist she’d killed flashed one after the other in her head. His harsh words. His unflinching brutality. He would have killed little Peter Reimes with no compunction at all. How was that possible? How could anyone feel their cause so strongly that they would take the life of a child to further their own agenda?

It was insane. Beyond insane.

She forced the thoughts from her mind. This bath was supposed to be about relaxing. She didn’t want to think anymore. She wanted to relax and just lie here in the water and soak up the incredible heat.

Eventually she drained some of the water and used the hand-held spray attachment to wash her hair. When she’d rinsed and conditioned and felt clean and relaxed, she climbed out of the tub, drained and rinsed it, then dried her skin. She took her time and completed all the usual grooming rituals, including clipping her nails and slathering her skin with lotion. Mostly she wanted to make sure her whole body was free of any hint of the evil she’d encountered this day.

By the time she wrapped herself in her ancient terry-cloth robe and emerged from the bathroom, she felt like a new woman. She gathered her dirty clothes, opted not to try and salvage them and tossed the whole lot into the garbage. She never wanted to see those clothes again, much less wear them.

In the kitchen she considered scrounging around for something to eat, but she didn’t really have an appetite. Her stomach still felt a little queasy from all the stress. Instead she poured herself a brimming stemmed glass of wine.

A couple of glasses of wine and she would feel totally relaxed. She padded into the living room and checked her machine. The red light on the message machine was flashing. Might as well see who had called. As the machine prepared to play the one message, she shuffled over to the sofa and dropped into the corner spot where she always sat.

“Miss Grant,” the male voice recorded on the machine said, “this is Paul Reimes.” A moment of silence passed. “I just wanted to thank you for saving my son’s life. I wanted to say this in person…” His voice quavered. “But the authorities felt I should stay with my family just now, and letting you know how much I am in your debt simply wouldn’t wait. Thank you. It’s not nearly enough…but it’s all I know to say.”

Claire grabbed a tissue and swiped at her eyes. And she’d thought she was going to be able to relax. She pulled the throw up around her and grabbed the remote. Time to vegetate with a program that had nothing to do with guns or killers. She skimmed through the channels, avoiding the stations where news would be showing. She wasn’t ready for that yet.

A game show captured her attention and she watched mindlessly for a while. She didn’t want to think—not about anything right now.

After watching three game shows in a row her stomach started to protest the lack of attention. She kicked off the throw and moseyed into the kitchen. Another glass of wine was first on the menu. She sipped the second glass as she surveyed the contents of her fridge.

A heat-and-serve frozen dinner just wasn’t going to do it tonight. She needed real sustenance. After prowling through all her usual hiding places, she found a chocolate bar and munched on it until she made a decision.

Her decision was that there simply wasn’t anything in the house that spoke to her taste buds. There was only one thing to do. Call for takeout.

That was one of the things she loved about urban living. Practically every restaurant in the area would deliver. Tonight, she had Italian on her mind. A nice salad, pasta and marinara along with garlic bread. Heaven on earth.

While she waited for the food to arrive, she finished drying her tangled hair and spent what felt like forever straightening it. Her arms felt weak after so long holding up the straightening iron.

She glanced at the clock. Thirty-five minutes had passed since she’d ordered. The food should have arrived by now. Nobody got lost in Fremont. If the driver offered that excuse she might just have to skip his tip.

She scrounged in her purse for the money, then peeked out the window. There were three cars at the curb in front of her house. One, the one in the center, was marked with the name of the restaurant she’d called. The other two were generic looking sedans.

The guy in the delivery car had gotten out and stood with his hands braced on top of his car. A man behind him started to pat him down.

“What in the world?”

There were four men in all, all dressed in suits, swarming around the delivery guy.

Before her brain had time to override her reaction, she’d stalked to her front door and jerked it open. She stormed out onto the porch and yelled, “What’s going on? That’s my dinner he’s delivering!”

Two seconds after she’d bellowed the words, she realized that only a “large” girl would go nuts when her food delivery was threatened. She rolled her eyes and wanted to kick herself. But, hey, she’d been through literal hell today. She deserved a decent meal.

Two of the men strode up the sidewalk toward her. For the first time since she’d barreled out onto her porch an inkling of uneasiness trickled through her. Maybe rushing out here hadn’t been such a good idea.

“Ma’am.” The first guy to reach her steps flashed a badge. “I’m going to have to ask you to step back inside the house.”

She looked from him to his companion who displayed his badge as well.

“What’s going on?”

“We’ll explain everything, ma’am,” the first guy said as he escorted her back to the door, “just as soon as you’re inside.”

Inside, Claire threw up her hands stop-sign fashion as the two older men came in and closed the door. “Just a minute. Why are you two here? Why are you shaking down my delivery guy?”

“Calm down, ma’am,” the second guy said. “We have orders to ensure your safety.”

“My safety?” She looked from one to the other. “What are you talking about?” The idea that somehow, something about today wasn’t over yet nagged at her, but she refused to consider the notion. Three of the terrorists were dead. One was in custody. Everything was okay now. It had to be. She was too tired to deal with anything else.

“Ma’am, the prisoner, Bashir Rafsanjani, taken from the scene today, killed two police officers and escaped during transport. We’re not exactly sure what happened. We feel you may be his next target.”

“He escaped?”

You are dead!

The words echoed inside her head.

The man who had uttered them so vehemently had escaped from the police. Her brain finally wrapped around the words echoing inside her head.

He would want his revenge…on her.