Bloodshed Page 10

  About five feet in front of him, heading this way, I see Chase Dailey, a guitar case strapped to his back, his long, thick, curly hair bouncing a bit as he tries to maneuver around the other students moving more slowly than he’d prefer.

  I rush toward him, scenes from El Mariachi and Desperado flickering on the movie screen of my mind as I do.

  “Hey Chase,” I say. “Step over here with me for a minute.”

  I can tell he’s trying to figure out where he knows me from, but he complies and joins me next to the narrow flower bed beside the walkway.

  “What kind of guitar do you have today?” I ask.

  “Same as always,” he says. “I only have one.”

  “Can I take a look at it?”

  “Now?” he asks, his voice rising in surprise as he glances at all the activity around us.

  “Sure, I guess,” he says.

  He removed the strap from over his shoulder and carefully sets the case on the ground. Kneeling next to it, he slowly begins to unhasp the holders, his hands trembling as he does.

  Just before he opens it, he hesitates.

  “There some reason you don’t want to open it?” I ask.

  “Just don’t want anything to happen to it,” he says. “It’s all I got.”

  He slowly lifts the lid of the case but only enough to give me the slightest view of the instrument.

  “Take it out and let me see it better,” I say.

  “Really? Here? Like this? Why?”

  “Hurry,” I say.

  He does as he’s told.

  It’s just an acoustic guitar and there’s nothing else in the case.

  “Thank you,” I say, and rush off the rejoin the other cops out where the students are congregating.

  “We got nothing,” the spotter says. “No glint from the woods or on the roof. No movement. No nothing.”

  “Always nothin’ until there’s somethin’,” Merrill says.

  “Unless . . .” the spotter says, “there’s just more nothin’.”

  Which is all we have—both while the students are outside and once they re-enter the school and return to class.

  Nothing during lunch. Nothing in the afternoon. And after the last bus delivers its last student safely home for the day still nothing. Just more nothing.

  21

  We are ALL impacted by gun violence. You’re never too young to make your voice heard! #NationalSchoolWalkout #NeverAgain

  “How could we have been that wrong?” Kim asks.

  Kim, LeAnn, Merrill, and I are at a table in The Oasis.

  Once The Sports Oasis, Pottersville’s premiere drinkery had devolved from a sports bar into a dive since that last time I had been inside. Now just The Oasis, the large, second-story bar is dim and dingy and in disrepair.

  Of the three worn and warped pool tables in need of re-felting and restoration, only one is lit by the light hanging above it. Of the four dart machines, only one is plugged in and illuminated—but there doesn’t seem to be even a single set of matching darts.

  “It’s sweet of you to say we,” I say, “but the question is how could I have been so wrong?”

  On the jukebox, Little Big Town’s Better Man is ending, Drunk Girl by Chris Janson beginning.

  Though there’s not much in the way of country music I seek out, I’m constantly surrounded by it. It’s the soundtrack of small Southern town life. I’ve heard both songs before, and though I appreciate the sentiment behind both, I believe that Drunk Girl had the potential to be a great song, but needed more work before it was released.

  “I was so sure it was going to happen today,” LeAnn says.

  “We all were,” Kim says, looking at me and adding, “You weren’t any more wrong than the rest of us.”

  On the small, round table between us are three empty Bud Lights and a nearly full glass of flat fountain Diet Coke.

  “It’s my round,” LeAnn says. “John, you want something else besides that disgusting Diet Coke? Janna keeps O’Doul’s in stock for a friend of mine. Want one of those?”

  I nod. “Sure. Thanks.”

  Beside me Merrill tenses ever so slightly. It’s only the hint of a physical reaction really but the energy emanating from it is palpable. I ignore it.

  LeAnn steps over to the bar and buys another round from Janna Todd, the new art teacher at the high school who works here part time.

  “Wonder why she works here?” I ask.

  “’Cause teachers are so poorly paid,” Kim says.

  “I get that,” I say, “but it’s—it can’t be much money. Nobody’s ever in here are they?”

  “May be to display those,” Merrill says, nodding toward Janna’s big fake breasts, most of which are visible in her bright, too-tight sweetheart T-shirt.

  “Not exactly dress code, is it?” Kim says.

  “I don’t know . . .” Merrill says. “I saw a movie online about some naughty school girls and there was a teacher in it that dressed like that.”

  She laughs. “That’s a very different school.”

  LeAnn returns with our drinks and distributes them. We all clink the bottles and take a drink.

  The near-beer tastes far better than I expect and feels good going down.

  I’m surprised by how much I like it—especially since I’ve never cared much for beer. I’m also surprised by how much it makes me want a real drink.

  Kim looks at LeAnn. “Why do you think Janna works here? Can’t be for the money, can it?”

  “I think she does all right a couple of nights a week—Thirsty Thursday and Saturdays when they have a band—but I think it’s more for the company and socialization. New in town. Doesn’t know anyone. Tryin’ to find a man, maybe.”

  “Then she’s wookin’ pa nub in all da wong places,” Merrill says.

  We all laugh.

  We’re still laughing a moment later when Chip Jeffers walks in and over to the table.

  We offer him room at the table and tell him to pull up a chair, but he says he can’t stay, just doing his rounds and saw us.

  “What the hell happened today?” he asks.

  “We were just talking about that,” Kim says.

  “Question is,” Merrill says, “Did he not go through with it—lost his nerve or because we were there—or was there never going to be a shooting to being with?”

  “That is the question,” I say.

  “What’s the answer?” LeAnn asks.

  I shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “I thought for sure we were going to catch him today,” Chip says.

  “Am I the only one feels foolish?” Kim asks.

  I shake my head. “I feel a right prize idiot, now don’t I?” I say in my best British accent, which isn’t very good. “I’m the reason we were there today. The reason there were so many of us there.”

  “We had to be,” Merrill says. “It all fit. We couldn’t take a chance on something like that. There’s not a one of us who wouldn’t do it again tomorrow.”

  “That’s true,” LeAnn says.

  “Absolutely,” Chip says. “Well, I’ve got to go. Keep me posted if anything comes up.”

  “ Will do,” Kim says.

  He walks away, pausing to speak to Janna and her Barbie Doll breasts, before leaving. As he leaves, a few other small groups arrive—an older woman with a cast who walks like she’s already buzzed, two youngish men who look like they just finished shooting an episode of Swamp People, and a handful of football coaches. Ace Bowman, who’s with the coaches, waves when he sees us and walks over.

  “Long day,” he says. “We all deserve a drink or two after that.”

  “No doubt,” LeAnn says.

  Patting Kim on the back, he says, “We’re gonna have a quick one then I’ve got to get back to the school for a Pirate Booty meeting. Call you when I get home?”

  She nods.

  “Wait,” Merrill says. “We can’t just let that pass. You’ve got to get back for a what now?”

  “Athletic
supporters meeting,” he says. “I didn’t come up with the name, but the donors think it’s cute and they’re payin’ the bills.”

  Merrill shakes his head.

  “Thank you for everything you guys did today,” Ace says. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

  “We’re not done,” I say. “We’re gonna stay with it until we figure it out.”

  “Glad to hear it,” he says. “Our little school is lucky to have y’all.”

  When he drifts back over to rejoin his party, LeAnn looks at Kim. “Sounds like someone’s gonna get a pirate booty call later tonight.”

  We laugh again and I stand and declare it’s my turn to get the next round, though I’m the only one finished.

  “Not for me,” Merrill says. “I’ve got to go in a few.”

  “I’ve got nowhere to be,” LeAnn says. “And Kim doesn’t until she has to shiver Ace’s timber later, so set us up.”

  I move over toward the bar, purposefully positioning myself so that the older lady with the cast on is between me and our table.

  Janna, just returning from delivering the coaches’ drinks to their table, comes up behind the bar and says, “Give me just a minute, sweetie.”

  “Take your time,” I say.

  She then serves the two Swamp People men and the older woman without having to ask what they’d like. Using my finely honed detective skills I deduce that they are regulars who are very regular.

  While she’s doing this, I glance back at our table to see if any of them are looking over here or could see me if they did.

  “Okay, sweetheart,” Jann says, stepping up to me, “what can I get you?”

  “Two Bud Lights, an O’Doul’s, and a shot of vodka.”

  “What kind of vodka would you like?”

  “Whatever’s closest,” I say. “I’m not picky.”

  She smiles and locks eyes with me. “I like that in a man. Coming right up.”

  When she returns with the drinks, I have the cash waiting for her. While she turns to the register behind her to make change, I quickly knock back the shot of well vodka.

  22

  Most of the seniors at Marjory Stoneman Douglas weren’t alive when the Columbine massacre happened. How is it that nineteen years later nothing has changed?

  My body responds to the tequila like the old friend it is, nearly overwhelmed it has been so long.

  When Janna gives me my change, I leave several dollars and the shot glass on the bar and return to the table with the three beers.

  “Thank you, kind sir,” LeAnn says.

  “My pleasure,” I say.

  “I noticed she delivered the coaches’ drinks,” LeAnn says.

  “They’re in here all the time and tip well,” Kim says, “and, well, they’re coaches.”

  As I talk I try to stay as far back as possible so none of them will smell the liquor on my breath, hoping that the near beer will help mask it.

  “Hey,” Merrill says, “I thought I remembered that O’Doul’s has a small amount of alcohol in it. I just Googled it and it does. It’s a very, very small amount, but it’s there.”

  I shake my head. “Then it shouldn’t be called non-alcoholic beer.” I place the bottle down on the table and slide it away from me.

  “I’m sorry,” LeAnn says. “I didn’t know.”

  “It’s no big deal,” I say. “No problem at all.”

  “You good?” Merrill asks.

  I nod. “All good.”

  He studies me for a moment. I look away.

  A forty-something woman with longish black hair and dark circles beneath her black eyes walks in and sits at the bar, giving a little wave in our direction as she does.

  “You recognize her, don’t you, John?” LeAnn says.

  I shake my head. “No, don’t think so.”

  “Do you, Merrill?” she asks.

  He shakes his head.

  “Sure y’all do,” Kim says. “That’s Inez Abanes.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “You know,” LeAnn says, “Inez Abanes. She’s our biology teacher.”

  “Okay,” I say, not knowing where they’re going with this.

  “She swears up and down that she went to school with us,” LeAnn says. “But we don’t recognize her. Do either of you?”

  We both shake our heads.

  “She acts like we hung out and shit, but we have no idea who she is,” LeAnn says.

  “You’re feeling bad for her, aren’t you?” Kim asks.

  “Well,” I say, “I’m sure she’s just trying to—”

  “I’ve searched through every yearbook of our era,” she says. “She’s not in them. Not in one.”

  “It’s bizarre,” LeAnn says. “She’s so earnest and convincing but she did not go to school with us. Anyway . . . just wanted to see if either of you recognized her. Okay, back to shit that matters.”

  “Let’s figure out what happened today,” I say. “And what we’re going to do about it.”

  “It’s impossible to prove a negative,” Merrill says, “so we’ll never know, but . . . what we did may be the reason there wasn’t a shooting today.”

  Kim nods. “That’s true. Very true. No cop gets credit for the crime she prevents from happening. How much media coverage do our intelligence and law enforcement agencies get for stopping a terrorist act before it happens?”

  “If we stopped it today,” I say. “If that’s what happened . . . did we stop it or just delay it? And if we delayed it . . . by how long?”

  “We need to keep the school on high alert,” LeAnn says.

  “Yes, we do,” Kim says.

  “Do you know even after all the shootings we’ve had . . .” LeAnn says, “our school still doesn’t have a real plan and has never done a drill?”

  “Really?” I ask.

  “The only thing that’s been done,” she says, “is Tyrese had each teacher submit to him what they would do in the event of an active shooter situation—like three possible plans. That’s it. That’s all the superintendent asked for. Tyrese has tried to get them to do more, but so far . . . they haven’t.”

  “Unbelievable,” I say.

  “No one ever thinks it’s going to happen to their school,” Kim says. “We’re a small school in a small town. We know these kids and their families. No one would do something like that here.”

  “Exactly,” LeAnn says.

  “And statistically,” Kim says, “they have a good chance of being right—or lucky. But . . . That wouldn’t be enough for me.”

  I nod. “Me either.”

  We fall quiet a moment.

  “I keep hearing about students and teachers sleeping together,” I say. “How pervasive is that?”

  “Not very,” LeAnn says. “Probably about like it was back when we were in school—an occasional, pretty rare kind of thing. There are lots of rumors, of course, but actual sex between teachers and students is rare. And actually, there’s a downward trend in teen sexuality now anyway. Teens are having less sex. They have more anxiety and depression, but less sex.”

  “I ain’t no psychiatrist or nothing,” Merrill says, “but that shit could be related.”

  “I hear a lot of different teachers’ names,” I say, “including the buxom bartender, but—”

  “Was I one of them?” LeAnn says.

  “Sorry, no,” I say.

  “Damn,” she says. “Gots to work on my rep.”

  “Lots of teachers,” I continue, “but the same few students come up over and over—including the Dupree twins.”

  “Well, with them you never know,” Kim says. “I wouldn’t be too quick to dismiss anything you hear about them.”

  “That’s because you’ve got the suspicious mind of a cop,” LeAnn says.

  “Doesn’t make me wrong,” Kim says.

  “Hate to be the asshole who points this out,” Merrill says. “But did any of you notice how similar some of what was in the play was to the journal fragments the custodian fo
und?”

  “I worked real hard not to see or hear any of that dreadful drivel,” LeAnn says.

  “I was blocking it out too,” Kim says. “Why?”

  “I just wonder if the notes the custodian found were part of the play—either from research or an earlier draft or something.”

  I shake my head and let out an exasperated sigh. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that,” I say.

  “Can’t think of everything,” Kim says.

  “It would’ve been easy enough to ask Tristan or Denise,” I say, still shaking my head at my amateurish mistake. “I just didn’t think about it. If I had everyone do all that we did today over some discarded pages from a play . . . I need to retire right now.”

  “Look,” Kim says. “I hope it is. I’d rather us have done all we did for nothing than . . . the alternative. Right?”

  We all express our agreement.

  “Okay,” Merrill says, standing. “Got to go.”

  “Thanks for everything today,” I say.

  “You good?” he asks me, his eyes locking onto mine.

  I nod. “I am. Thanks.”

  “Y’all figure out what’s next and I can help, let me know,” he says.

  Kim and LeAnn both stand and give Merrill a hug.

  “I’m gonna step over to see Ace,” Kim says. “Be back in a minute. Next round’s on me.”

  She and Merrill leave and LeAnn and I are left alone.

  Neither of us says anything for a moment.

  Eventually she says, “I know the circumstances have been . . . but it’s been nice getting to hang out with you. Don’t see many of our old class very often. Except Kimmy and a couple of others.”

  I nod. “I’ve really enjoyed hanging with you too.”

  “I think this calls for some eighties music,” she says, withdrawing a few dollars from her phone case. “Hold my beer. I’ll be right back.”

  When she stumbles over to the jukebox, I reach for the O’Doul’s.

  In another moment I Melt with You by Modern English begins to play. Before the song is over, the bottle is empty.

  The Call’s Everywhere I Go is next and by Fascination Street by The Cure playing when LeAnn and Kim make it back to the table.

  “Great choices,” I say to LeAnn. “Appreciate you playing some lesser-known songs.”