Roman Wolfe 2: Classroom Terror Part Five

21

“Success in not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.”

Winston Churchill

Fang turned on the walkie-talkie, after closing the classroom door, then said, “Hey, Babe. Yuh listenin’?”

          Captain Lewis grimaced. “I’m here, Fang. Send the kids down now.”

          “They’ll be down soon,” responded Fang, as if trying to bait Captain Lewis.

          Lt. Hawkey looked concerned. He caught Captain Lewis’s eyes with his and mouthed a silent message to her.

          Captain Lewis looked alarmed. She placed her mouth to the walkie-talkie, again, and in a tone of voice, with a rough edge to it, she stated, “Fang, where’s the woman who delivered the pizza?”

          There was a momentary pause, then a chuckle, before Fang said, “Oh, I forgot ta tell yuh that Mrs. Wolfe suddenly decided ta stay an’ visit with her husband. A course we take good care a her. So, my Sweety-Pie, do yuh want some kids in exchange fer a helicopter? I got ‘em all lined up here an’ ready ta go, if yuh still want ‘em. But it’s a shame ta waste the pizza, or ta let it get cold, so I’ll let ‘em eat first. I’m a generous guy. No use starvin’ the kiddies. Fang was really grinding in the sarcasm. “Whaddaya say? The helicopter coming? We still gotta deal, don’t we, Babe?”

          “The deal was, you let half the kids come out, then I call for the helicopter.”

          “Wow, yuh should see ‘em devour that pizza. Yuh catch that word devour, Little Lady? Almos’ as impressive as repartee, don’tcha think? But yur so much smarter than me, so I has ta give up on dat contest.” Taunting, sardonic, loud laughter caused Captain Lewis to move her walkie-talkie away from her ear. “Damn brats sure is hungry. Can’t let ‘em go away hungry, now, can I? That be too cruel.”

          Captain Lewis turned off the walkie-talkie and looked at Lieutenant Hawkey. She said, “Now the bastard’s got Samantha, in addition to all those kids. Shit!” she cursed, “How the hell did he find out? Jesus, fucking Christ! Maybe Wolfe’s students knew what she looked like. Damn I was stupid. I never should’ve let her go up there.”

          Lt. Hawkey hooked the walkie-talkie to his belt, then raised both hands, palms together, like a church steeple, with his index fingers touching his nose and his thumbs under his chin. He closed his eyes and in frustration mumbled “Fuck!”

          Captain Lewis and Lieutenant Hawkey paced nervously. Then Bev asked Joe to check with his men. “Make sure they’re all in position.”

          As Joe did that, Bev looked at her men. Everything looked good.

          Captain Lewis then said, “As I see it, we still have to go along with the deal to release the kids in exchange for the helicopter. He’s playing with me by postponing the release, that’s all. He knows he has to release the kids before he’ll get the things he needs. Now that he has Sam, he can afford to release the kids. That shouldn’t be a problem . . . I hope. Of course we have to stop him, somehow, from getting away in the helicopter, but if it will get half the kids out, then we’ll have to go along with it. That’s twelve less kids who can get hurt if we have to go in there and take them by force. So, I’d better call the helicopter for him and consummate the deal. Do you agree, Joe? Don’t hold back on me. Whaddaya really think?”

          “Not much choice here, Bev. I agree.”

          Captain Lewis, showing her frustration, said. “Christ, Joe. This teacher’s your friend. What the hell’s he waiting for? We’ve been here all afternoon. Didn’t you figure he’d make a move by now?”

          “Yeah. Actually I did, but this situation is sort of like a mini-war, Bev. It’s hours and hours of horrendous boredom, interrupted by a few seconds of deadly terror. But that was Roman’s specialty. Sneaking into the blackness of the night jungle, prowling silently for hours, patiently waiting for his opportunity to kill the enemy without a sound. You gotta give him credit, though. He’s got a couple dozen kids to protect and it’s three against one. Maybe he doesn’t have a good plan. Maybe he has a plan, but is waiting for the right opportunity to put it into action. Of course, maybe he’s changed dramatically and we’re shit-out-of-luck hoping to get help from him, though I really can’t see that happening.”

          “Yeah, well maybe he’s just not the same person you knew. He could’ve sublimated all his violent Vietnam skills with his gentle teaching skills. Those are just little kids up there. I think maybe your friend’s lost it, you know?

          Lt. Hawkey smiled and said, “Maybe, Bev, but I doubt it.” Then, in a moment of self-doubt, Hawkey shook his head, saying, “Damn! I sure hope I’m right.”

          “From what you say, I know he earned his fearsome reputation, but it’s been a few years since you’ve seen him, right? People change, Joe,” added Captain Lewis, raising her eyebrows for emphasis. Then, “You know the saying, You don’t need to change friends as long as you realize that friends change?

          “Yeah. I know, but I’m not giving up on this guy, Bev. I guess you had to know him to know what I mean. Besides, just because he hasn’t acted yet doesn’t mean he’s turned chicken. Anyway, the Wolf  was never blood-thirsty, but always patient. He’s certainly not timid either and, by God, he’s no coward. He needs time to work it out himself. Something’s preventing him from acting and it’s probably that there are too many of them to risk being careless. Give him more time. He’s thinking of those kids. He’s looking for the right moment and it just hasn’t happened yet. Of course, now that his wife is a hostage, too, he’ll be even more careful about his actions. If it were only his own personal safety at stake, hell, this situation would have been over hours ago. Ease up on the guy, Bev. I vouch for him. We fought together. We had a deep connection, so if you trust me then you gotta trust him.”

          Captain Lewis smiled at Lieutenant Hawkey. There was a softness in her eyes now. They were less tense. She said, “I didn’t say anything about Mr. Wolfe being a chicken or a coward. I don’t think either one. But thanks, Joe. I’ll keep that under advisement and take your word about this guy. I just hope he doesn’t let you . . . us down.”

          Captain Lewis brought the walkie-talkie to her lips and called Fang. When he responded, she said, “Send the twelve kids down now and I’ll call for the helicopter as soon as the last one walks out the door. No tricks, I promise. Then I’ll give the command for the helicopter to be on its way here.”

          Fang, having a change of heart said, “No. Don’t think so. When I see the helicopter, I’ll send the kids, Honey.”

          Captain Lewis’s face flushed hot with anger. She spat. “That’s not the deal we had, mister. You stick to the original deal or I don’t even call for the helicopter at all. You understand?”

          Fang laughed into the walkie-talkie. “Yeah, yeah, sure, Babe. Look, don’t get yur tits in a uproar, OK? Speakin’ a tits, I bet yur nipples are hard right now, right? Sure would like to have my mouth on ‘em. Can even taste them─

          “Stop talking like that in front of the kids!” Captain Lewis blurted.

          “Damn. You women get so ‘motional. OK, the kids’ll be comin’ down now, even though they not finished eatin’. Then yuh call that helicopter.”

          “When I see twelve kids out here in the parking lot, unharmed, then, and only then, will I make that call, so send them now,” she demanded, impatience in her voice.

          “Finally got yuh upset, hey, baby girl?” Fang laughed, then disconnected.

          The last thing Captain Lewis heard on the walkie-talkie was the sound of Fang’s taunting laughter.

          Captain Lewis’s face blushed, again. Her guts simmered like a teapot.

          Fang yelled, “Freddy! Get yur ass over ‘ere.”

          Freddy, who had wandered to the back of the classroom, walked to Fang.

          “Freddy, yuh bring these brats down ta the back door. Yuh don’t go out, just let the brats go ta the parkin’ lot. Then get yur ass back up ‘ere, pronto.”

          “Why me?” asked Freddy. “Why not Miller? I could get shot bringin’ the kids down there.”

          Fang grabbed the front of Freddy’s shirt and pulled Freddy’s face to within inches of his own face. Freddy not only turned his head aside from fear, but also away from his brother’s fetid breath. Fang growled, through clenched teeth, “Cause, I say so, yuh cowardly, wimp. When I tell yuh ta do somethin’, goddamnit, yuh do it. No questions. An’ when I say ‘jump,’ yuh oughtta be askin’, ‘How high?’ So jump damnyuh.”

          Freddy could feel the blast of fowl hot air and the droplets of spittle spray on his face. When his brother let him go, Freddy snuck a peek toward Roman.

          Roman had an expression on his face that Freddy read as disappointment. Then he saw Roman’s lips form the word, “Go” and knew exactly what was meant.

          Freddy looked at the floor as if he was ashamed of himself for defying Otto. He knew it would always be this way with Otto, always being intimidated and humiliated by him. He glanced at his brother and said, “Sorry. Sure, I’ll bring ‘em down whenever you say.” But, when he turned away from Otto, there was a satisfying curvature on his lips and a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. Roman noticed both and sighed with relief.

          “Move! Goddamnit,” spat Fang, his eyes still radiating flames of anger over a disgusted tone of voice. “An’ take the Teach with yuh, too.”

          Freddy, Miller and Sam were shocked by Fang’s statement. Roman knew that Fang had something evil on his mind. When Sam walked into the room, Fang had given Roman a broad, yellow-teeth, sadistic countenance as his snaggletooth caught on his upper lip. He knew then, but not when, Fang was going to do something unexpected, so Roman wasn’t stunned by Fang’s statement that he could leave with Freddie.

          Roman stared at Fang and calmly stated, “That’s out of the question.” Then tersely added, “ The remainder of my students, my wife and I will not be separated,” and he said it with such finality that Fang gave him a hot, second glance.

          Freddy interrupted, saying, “Otto….. um, Fang. Please believe me. This will get us all killed. Seek guidance from the Lord. ‘I sought the Lord and he answered me.’ Psalm 34:4.”

          “Yuh asshole. Yuh still spoutin’ that crap. I oughtta heave yuh out the window. I don’t understand yuh at all. Never have. Jesus, yuh piss me off.”

          “Isahia 7:9,” Freddy responded, “Unless you believe, you will not understand.”

          Roman felt empathy with Freddy. He definitely wasn’t the brightest bulb in the room, but at least he gave the effort to do the right thing. If false beliefs help a person to do the right thing, so be it. “Where knowledge ends, religion begins. Benjamin Disraeli,” Roman mumbled to himself.

          Fang had detected a minute change in Roman, like a storm cloud passing over his eyes or the way he cocked his shoulders. Whatever it was, it bothered Fang. It seemed to be a renewed anger and a growing confidence. There also seemed to be a reservoir of strength behind the teacher’s occasionally defiant voice and it made Fang feel uneasy. Being ill at ease was an alien feeling for him and he was irritated by it.

          Fang figured it was a psychological game; he could play that game, too. So, not letting his voice or face give him away, he said, “Shit, man. Yuh want ta stay, stay. It’s yur ass that’s in a sling. Yuh wanna keep it where it can get some extra holes? Be my guest. Knew yuh were a fool right from the get-go.”

          Roman stared at Fang without offering so much as one word in response, just a mysteriously ominous stare.

          Fang still felt strange about this teacher; he was becoming a major irritant, an unknown factor, a possible threat. Fang realized his frustration was mounting. Something odd was happening inside of him. Something was crumbling. He could feel it, like a brick wall with the mortar weakening. He looked at Sam, who was standing near Roman. Fang’s eyes darted to Roman who was still staring at him. Fang finally admitted to himself that those eyes had grown cold, though there was a flicker of searing hatred there, too. He asked himself, “What the hell’ve I got here? Some damn Jekyll an’ Hyde? That’s too exaggerated, he thought. Can’t be. The asshole looks like a classic wimp.” But his doubts lingered . . . and began to fester.

          Fang grew furious due to this unexpected source of intimidation. He felt like his insides were being gnawed, as if there was a hungry rat prowling around in his guts, biting off chunks of organs and intestines. Outwardly, he tried to remain calm, but Roman’s stare riled him and to make matters worse, he knew that Roman knew it. Fang tore his eyes away from Roman’s glare, slapped Freddy’s head, then ordered Freddy to leave the room with the kids, saying, “Take the Goddamn brats outta here. Jesus Christ! I can’t stan’ there pathetic whining an’ crying.”

          Freddy looked alarmed. “Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord Thy God in vain,” he said to his brother.

          “How can yuh keep vomitin’ that garbage, Freddy? Yuh know how stupid yuh sound?”

          “I sought the Lord and the Lord answered me. Otto…. ah, Fang, you must seek the Lord for answers, too.”

          “Yuh know I don’t believe that shit. It’s fairy tales little brother!” Fang screamed.

          “John 3:16, For God so loved the world that he sent his only begotten son and whosoever believeth in him shall have eternal life. You can still be saved, Otto.”

          “Oh, fuck yuh, asshole. Here’s my God,” he said, then looked at his straining biceps that were positioned like a body-builder might do at a contest. “That’s my God and here’s my Lord,” Fang uttered as he grabbed his crotch as if he were Michael Jackson.

          “God will understand and forgive your mistakes. God is fair. The Bible, God’s words, tells us that God wants justice and happiness for all his children,” Freddy pleaded.

          Roman listened to Freddy and thought of Isaac Asimov who stated, “Properly read, the Bible is the most potent force for atheism ever conceived.”

          Roman asked himself, Hasn’t Freddy ever read the part of the Bible (Exodus 20:5) that states: “I am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers onto his children, to the third and fourth generations of those who hate me.” Roman shook his head in disgust, thinking, Now, is that a rational, just and fair God? Would a just and benevolent God punish innocent children for what their great, great, great grandfather’s thought or did? That’s not a benevolent God; it’s an absurd, fairy-tale demon buried inside the pages of a Marvel comic-book.

          Freddy turned toward the door, opened it, then looked over his shoulder at Roman before he departed with the twelve lucky kids who would be free in a few seconds.

          Roman knew what the smile meant, of course, but Fang was confused by it, disturbed by it, but his anger distracted him as it built like steam in a pressure cooker.

          As Freddy and the kids left the room, pizzas in hand, some of the other children started to cry. They wanted to go, too. Sam and Roman walked to the windows, where the other children were sitting and comforted them.

          Freddy brought the children down the stairs and to the exit door. The children walked out, single file, their pizzas flapping up and down like puppy ears. Their smiles red with tomato sauce, making them look like they were wearing sloppy lipstick.

          Fang looked displeased and agitated. He ordered Roman back to his desk. Roman refused, still comforting his students. Fang pulled the gun out of his belt and aimed it at Roman. Roman looked over his shoulder at Fang. Sam immediately grabbed Roman by the arm and pulled him back towards the desk. She could feel the ripple of tense, slender muscles, like thin steel cables. Roman reluctantly allowed her to steer him, never taking his glaring eyes off Fang.

          Miller, seeing the tension and worrying about a confrontation, withdrew his handgun as well, but not knowing quite where to aim it, he let the barrel hang at his thigh, towards the floor. Sam was talking soothingly to Roman, trying to get him to relax, when the walkie-talkie came alive.

          “Fang. This is Captain Lewis. Acknowledge, please.”

          Fang reluctantly broke eye contact with Roman and responded. “Acknowledge? Wow! Aint yuh something of a worksmith. I ack-now-ledge. Whaddaya want?”

          “Just wanted to let you know the kids arrived safely. And, the word is not worksmith, but wordsmith, with the letter d, instead of a k; word, not work.” She didn’t mention the surprise.

          “Screw yuh an’ them damn kids, Bitch. When’s the chopper gettin’ here?”

          “Soon,” she responded. “They have to refuel and go over a standard safety check list whenever they are about to take off. An hour, perhaps.”

          As soon as Captain Lewis had the kids, she asked Lieutenant Hawkey to call Trooper-One─ a Bell Jet Ranger helicopter. Lieutenant Hawkey used the mobile UHF radio and did as requested, while Captain Lewis ordered someone to bring all the children to the ambulance to be checked.

          She was thoroughly surprised when Freddy walked out behind the children with his hands up and no weapon visible. Freddy was then handcuffed and taken into custody by one of Captain Lewis’s men. But before he left, he told Captain Lewis to tell his brother to, “Go fuck himself because he never appreciated me and always treated me like shit and I don’t owe Otto anything, any more. I surrendered ‘cause what they’re doing is wrong. Like Job 28:18 said, ‘The price of wisdom is above rubies.’”

          Captain Lewis stared at Freddy, but didn’t respond.

          “The helicopter’s on its way. Should be here soon, Fang.”

          “Yuh better not be playing any tricks, Bitch. I still got twelve more kids, the Teach and his pretty wifey,” Fang said, with a slight, but ominous giggle in his voice.

          “Got a message for you, too, Fang. From your brother. Wanna here it?”

          “Yuh got my brother!” Fang screamed. “Yuh’ll pay dearly fer that, Bitch!”

          Captain Lewis grinned at the sound of Fang’s crackling, nervous and angry voice before saying, “You know the old saying, Fang? What goes around, comes around. You broke the deal by taking Mr. Wolfe’s wife and now we have your brother. Actually, we didn’t grab him, Fang. You’ll love this part. He just walked out with the kids and gave himself up. Said to tell you that you should go screw yourself because you never liked him, never treated him right or appreciated him. He says he doesn’t owe you anything any more. Damn!Your brother’s sure a lot smarter than you are.”

          “That’s a damn lie! Yuh don’t really have ‘im, do yuh? That’s a goddamn lie! I know it is. Freddy wouldn’t have the balls ta do that. He wouldn’t do that ta me.” Then Fang remembered the smile that passed from his brother to Roman, just before Freddy left with the kids. Christ, he thought, it was true. His own brother had deserted him. The thought of his own brother’s defiance made him nearly boil with rage.

          Something inside Fang snapped as he took a few quick steps, grabbed Alyson Boyd by her long hair, then told Sam to follow him out the door as Alyson screamed.

          Roman started walking quickly, straight at Fang.

          Fang quickly put the barrel of the magnum .357 to Alyson’s temple and said. “OK, hero. This one’ll be dead before yuh reach me . . . . Come on, asshole! Come get me! An’ watch ‘er die.”

          Sam screamed, then looked at Roman.

          Roman stepped backward toward Sam.

          Fang pointed to Roman and ordered, “Sit down.” Then Fang yelled at Miller. “Yuh shoot the bastard if he leaves that chair. An’ watch the rest a those brats till I get back. I’m headed fer the roof. I’ll show ‘em a thing or two. They’ll learn who’s boss real quick.”

          With the handgun in his left hand and dragging a screaming Alyson by the hair with his right hand, he departed the classroom.

          Alyson continued screaming and struggling to get free. She clutched Fang’s fingers, scratched them and tried to pry them apart.

          Sam yelled, “At least let her walk, or her screaming will force the cops to come.”

          When Fang ignored her, Sam went berserk and before Miller or Roman could react, Sam leaped on Fang like a lion on a gazelle. Sam slapped, kicked and clawed at Fang’s face as she screamed, “You bastard. Let her go!”

          Fang ducked his head to avoid the slaps and clawing, tucked the gun into his belt, at his belly, then viciously grabbed Sam’s hair, saying, “OK, bitch. You can come to the roof, too.” Fang dragged Sam and Alyson out the door.

          Fang’s brain was racing, distracted, preoccupied. His face was a ripe tomato; the blood vessels in his temple, throat and arms jumped with each pulse of his thumping heartbeat. He had only one thing on his mind and was so focused on it that he didn’t hear Sam and Alyson screaming as they were dragged by their hair.

          The classroom door slowly closed. Roman could hear the screams growing fainter and fainter, each scream feeling like an ice-pick in his heart. He didn’t feel brave any longer; he felt weak, helpless and tortured as Miller laughed at him.

          Roman stared at Miller, his contempt for the man was obvious. It’s not three against one now, he thought. He sat as his desk and continued to glare at Miller.

          Then he did something strange. He began stroking the air next to the arm of his chair. He buried his fingers into the invisible, thick, white fur. He looked downward and very softly he whispered, “Go to the roof.”

                  *

          Youth and inexperience breed over-confidence, arrogance and carelessness. Trooper Jones was young, inexperienced, over-confident and definitely arrogant. He saw how easily Freddy gave himself up, so Trooper Jones was convinced, without a shadow of a doubt, that these Fang and Miller characters couldn’t be nearly as much of a problem as the Captain and the Lieutenant seemed to think they were. And from what little he’d heard, when they talked to that prison psychiatrist, those two guys were just a couple of whackos, especially the one named Fang. Fang, he thought, jokingly, I’ll give the guy a tooth ache that he won’t forget. Why be so damn cautious with whackos and perverts? I could go in there and nail them to the wall with bullets and be the hero.

          Trooper Jones, being a megalomaniac himself, completely missed the fact that he was more like Fang than anyone else in this hostage situation. He seriously believed that it was his destiny to rise in rank to the top of the State Trooper power structure during his early career, as if it were written in stone tablets ages ago. He also believed that shortcuts were part of his destiny because shortcuts were the hallmark of ambitious people who’ve accomplished great success and this hostage situation was must be one of those short-cuts to his destiny. He had a high risk, high gain outlook on life.

          Trooper Jones decided that if he could single-handedly capture Fang or Miller, or both, then promotions would be easily gained. His path would not be a sidewalk to success; it would be a race track to success. He felt euphoric.

          He would be the pride of his department, the cream that had risen to the top. He would be the best and some day, not too many years away, he’d be running this department and using his power to punish or reward his officers. He could feel the temporary power surge through him. He was hungry for that power to become permanent.

          Jones’s eyes sparkled with pride and, breathing deeply, he felt his chest expand as if inflating with power─ his head expanded, also. He thought all he’d have to do is enter the school and capture Fang and Charlie before they had a chance to surrender, like Freddy did. He couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t let them surrender and have them trip him during his first steps toward destiny.

          He’d capture Fang first; Fang was the most dangerous. “Who cares about his size and meanness?” thought Jones. “Size and meanness can’t stand up to 9 mm bullets.” Jones had the equalizer in his holster. He would do what he had to do, what he was destined to do. When looking down the black hole of the barrel of a gun, the toughest men cringe and sweat. So would Fang and Charlie.

          Accordingly, Jones left his guard position, where he screened anyone who tried to enter the parking lot. He walked to the side entrance, located by the school cafeteria. It was an entrance used mostly by cafeteria personnel to bring supplies into or out of the cafeteria. The entrance was concealed by a large dumpster.

          The door was guarded by another rookie trooper named Jon Tuttle. Trooper Jones walked to Trooper Tuttle, with a friendly smile etched on his face, and his hand out for a handshake, like the two of them were brothers in law.

          “Hey, Jon,” Jones said. “How’s it goin’, man? Nice and quiet over here, huh?” Jones was doing his best to sound friendly as he shook hands with Trooper Tuttle.

          Tuttle seemed startled and stared at Jones. They hadn’t been friends during the past ten months as rookies. They graduated together, but weren’t really friends at the State Police Academy, either. “Yeah, Hi Casey. Not much happening here,” Tuttle said, smiling to cover up his embarrassment.

          “Look, the captain said we should change places so we don’t get bored. The change in positions’ll help keep us alert. I was guarding the entrance to the parking lot. All you do is screen anyone who wants to come in. You keep all the reporters out. If you got any questions about who can come in, you just ask Captain Lewis or Lieutenant Hawkey. An easy job, really.”

          Tuttle picked up on the word easy. He liked the way it sounded. Easy was good. “Oh, sure,” he said. “Hell, if that’s the way the Captain wants it, I got no problems with it. This little cubby hole’s all yours, Casey. Hope the smell of that dumpster doesn’t get to yuh If the garbage smells anything like the food they serve here, then we’ll be back here next week to guard the kids.” Tuttle laughed, but Jones only grinned, with effort.

          “No problem, Jon. You take it easy now, buddy,” Jones offered.

          “Yeah, sure. You too,” responded Tuttle, smiling. He didn’t realize that he and Jones were buddies. Jones had never been overly friendly as he was being now. As a matter of fact, thought Tuttle, Jones always had seemed to avoid him. “Wonder what that buddy-buddy stuff is all about?” he thought.

          Trooper Jones thought, That was easy.

          Trooper Jones watched Trooper Tuttle disappear around the corner, heading for the entrance to the parking lot. Then Jones walked to the cafeteria door and entered the school building without being noticed or authorized. Easy, he thought.

          He had seen a schematic drawing of the school. It was a pretty simple layout. There would be no problem getting to the classroom. The problem would be avoiding Lieutenant Hawkey’s SWAT team sentries. He wasn’t sure where they were posted, but he assumed they were at the ends of the second floor hallway, near any stairway, in order to block the normal exit routes. He would have checked but was afraid of bringing suspicion upon himself and his intentions.

          He was confident that he could avoid the sentries and get around them undetected. He wasn’t sure how, yet, but he knew he’d think of something when the time came. After all, he was smart and it was his destiny.

/-/…./.-/-/-.--/---/..-/…./.-/…-/./--./../…-/./-./

22

“The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary; men alone are quite capable of every wickedness.”

Robert Conrad

The scene was frantic. Roman stared in disbelief, for no sooner had Fang left the classroom, dragging Alyson and Sam by their hair, when Miller, like some long chained-up beast finally breaking free, erupted in a maniacal rage and the first thing he did was yank the classroom phone from the wall, rendering it useless. He threw it hard against Roman’s closet door and pieces fell to the floor.

 Miller’s bulging eyes showed the pressure of his rage, his lips stretched into a snarl. He stood in front of the class looking back and forth between Roman and the kids, deciding where to start first; his borderline civility now stripped away by Freddy’s and Fang’s absence. Blood rose to the surface of his flushed face. His tongue seemed wild inside his mouth, and saliva squirted out occasionally as if his tongue hand become a spitting serpent.

He turned toward Roman and shrieked, “Yur all mine now and so’re all the little bastards! All of yuh are mine.” His finger swept across the room pointing at all its occupants as he snarled like a rabid dog, exposing saliva froth and gnashing teeth.

          Roman envisioned the rabid coyote that had attacked him and Grace in the Adirondack Mountains. He wished he had his trusty Ka-Bar. His attention was immediately refocused when Miller aimed his AK-47 at him and gloated.

          The classroom boomed twice from the noise of the shots, almost deafening its occupants and assaulting their noses with the overpowering, pungent smell of cordite.

          The children covered their ears and screamed in pain as the shock waves battered their ear drums. They started crying in unison as Miller laughed. And the louder the children’s cries, the louder Miller’s laugh became. It was a diabolical sound, a piercing cacophony like one might expect to hear coming from a torture chamber in Hell. But it was not a laugh born of fear, but rather from pleasure, the pleasure that comes from achieving ecstasy from someone else’s pain. It was the sound of satanic sadism.

          The two holes in Roman’s desk were closely spaced due to the minimal recoil of the AK-47. The bullets had ripped through the thin metal at the side of the desk leaving nearly identical holes with curled and twisted shards of blossoming metal protruding where the bullets exited. Meeting little resistance from the thin metal, the bullets continued their unimpeded path through the other side of the desk, then penetrated the bottom of the metal filing cabinet which stood beside the desk. If Roman had had his knees under his desk, one or both would have been shattered by the bullets.

          The bark of the AK-47, the crazed look on Miller’s face, and the smell of gun powder terrorized the children.

          Roman’s hands and feet tingled from overly stimulated nerve-endings. It was an edgy readiness, not controlled by the emotional eruptions of rage. It was steadily taking control of every cell, fiber, sinew, bone, and muscle in Roman’s body. The pressure of it was increasing geometrically, like the pressure inside an active volcano. It was time to act, Roman demanded of himself. Can’t wait any longer. It was time to save his students, Sam and Alyson. Roman remained seated, glaring at Miller, feeling as if every brain cell had erupted into flames.

          Miller walked to the opposite end of the room, near the wall of windows, where the kids were. He set the rifle down, then grabbed Steven by his shoulder length red hair. Miller unsheathed his knife. Roman leaped up, like a Jack-in-the-Box, ready to confront Miller. Roman paused when he saw Miller’s intentions. Miller’s knife sliced cleanly and without effort through a thick lock of Steven’s carrot-colored hair.

          Steven screamed. The children near him screamed as they attempted to squirm away. Miller threatened them. “Stay put,” Miller shrieked at them, “or I’ll cut yur throats!”

          Miller kept cutting more and more of Steven’s hair and each cut brought a grimace to Steven’s lips as he looked at Roman with watery, terrified eyes.

          Miller glared at Roman, balefully, each time he threw another lock of Steven’s hair to the floor.

          The room grew cold, which seemed quite strange to Miller. The kids didn’t appear to be cold, but all of a sudden Miller felt a chill. He ceased cutting Steven’s hair.

          Roman walked─ in spite of Miller’s protests─ to the closet, near his desk and removed the broom and dust pan. Then he walked toward the windows, toward the students, toward Miller, toward Miller’s blade. He was steady, though disturbed─ the kids were now in immediate danger, their lives depended on him.

          Half-way to Miller, Roman said, adding a tone of meekness and fear to his voice, “Gotta sweep the hair off the floor. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, you know.”

          Miller thought Roman was having a nervous breakdown, or that Roman was simply not playing with a full deck. He laughed at Roman and figured him for a wimp, a fag or both, who got away with too much bluffing. That’s why Miller hadn’t reached for his rifle. He had the .357 magnum tucked into his belt and the knife in his hand. He felt safe. He concluded that the wise-ass teacher was faltering under the stress of the situation.

          Roman saw the tears streaming down Steven’s cheeks. Steven’s whole body was trembling as Roman said, “It’s just hair, Steven. You’ll be OK. Do you trust me?”

          Steven gave a slight, affirmative nod.

          But the other children panicked, cried and hugged each other when they saw that Mr. Wolfe didn’t do anything to Charlie. All the confidence and reassurance that he had tried to instill in them now looked fake. Seeing Mr. Wolfe’s inaction, most students concluded that their teacher couldn’t save them, so they were, once again, paralyzed by their fear of Charlie and their disappointment with Mr. Wolfe, their useless guardian. Mr. Wolfe had been their hope, but now he looked hopeless.

          Roman glanced at Steven, winked, then placed the broom bristles on the floor as if to sweep up the hair that was a couple of feet away from Miller’s legs.

          Miller watched him, with a hint of silent laughter, his knife held at waist level, pointing at Roman. Now I’ll humiliate this mouthy teacher, he thought.

          Miller’s knife was ready to slash at Roman, but reading Miller’s intentions, Roman stepped on the end of the broom snapping off the bristled bottom, leaving the five feet long, green, wooden handle. Now it was a karate bo─ a long, solid, wooden staff used as a combat weapon. Roman had used the bo over and over again during his years of karate training. He was as familiar with it as he was with his own arms.

          The bo suddenly became a blurred shaft of lightening as it slashed through the air, crashing into Miller’s right wrist. Miller’s blade immediately popped free of his fingers and dropped to the floor with a dull thud. Roman kicked it away as Miller retreated a few steps, grabbing his painfully injured wrist.

          Miller, trying to use his numb wrist, reached for the handgun that was tucked under his belt. Roman rammed the jagged end of the bo deeply into Miller’s solar plexus. Air exploded from Miller’s lungs; he gasped for air, still tugging at the handgun.

          Miller’s fear enshrouded him in a cold sweat when he felt the bo slam onto his thigh, with the sound of a wooden spoon slapping raw hamburger. Miller’s fear increased exponentially when he could no longer get his right leg to move. He tried, but it was as if his leg was dead─ the bo had struck a confluence of nerves, temporarily paralyzing the leg. Then the searing pain gradually seeped through the numbness, making Miller’s leg burn as if it was in boiling oil.

          Miller pulled the pistol free from his belt when another green blur of lightening passed before his eyes, filling them with shock from the anticipation of further pain. The bo, once again, slammed onto his right wrist, this time breaking bones. Then that terrible green blur broke his nose as blood and tears inundated his face. Miller fingers could no longer grip the gun and the gun fell to the floor as he screamed in agony. He staggered backwards, leaning on the blackboard for support─ leaving a greasy slick on the board where his hair had touched it─ his face contorted into a twisted grimace, blood and tears painting his face into a gruesome mask with grunts of intense pain ejaculating through his clenched teeth.

          Roman had quickly and easily disarmed Charlie. Roman immediately took the rifle, the pistol and the knife, then set them on a student’s desk. He unbuckled Charlie’s belt, pulled it free, then picked up the knife sheath and placed Charlie’s knife in it. He attached the knife to his own belt, then ordered the kids not to touch the rifle and pistol.

          With Miller disarmed, Roman saw no further need for the bo. He winked at his students, who looked on in stunned amazement. Then Roman went to Steven, whose fear and tears had suddenly abated. Roman leaned the bo against the counter where Steven and the other children were sitting.

          Roman kept an eye on Miller, who remained leaning against the blackboard, moaning and holding his wrist. Roman placed an arm around Steven’s shoulder and gently hugged him while rubbing Steven’s sliced hair in a fatherly gesture.

          The other children peered at their teacher’s compassionate smile and ceased crying.

          “It’ll all grow back, you know,” Roman said to Steven. “You give it a couple of months and you’ll have another head of long hair again.” Then Roman glanced toward Miller and added, “And that creep will be back in prison.”

          Miller, unable to stand the pain, begged, “Help me. Help me . . . please.”

          Roman ignored Miller’s plea, then spoke to his students. “Hang in there kids,” he whispered, sympathetically. “Don’t be afraid any more. It’s almost all over now.” He approached them, held their hands briefly, rubbed a few shoulders, tousled some hair, wiped away some tears and gave hugs to the needy. Roman returned to Steven.

          While reaching into his pocket for a tissue to give to Steven, Roman saw movement from Miller who was off to his left side. Steven started to warn Roman just as Roman’s left leg snapped out sideways, burying the ridge of his foot─ from the outer side of the heel to the little toe─ deeply into Miller’s solar plexus. The resulting “whoosh” sound came, as all the air in Miller’s lungs explosively exited in one sudden gush, like air escaping from a kid’s party balloon. Miller was automatically doubled over at the waist by the powerful kick.

          Then Roman was startled by another movement to his right, a high movement, coming quickly towards his head. He reacted instinctively, his nervous system sending chemical-electric impulses to his synapses, then on to his muscles within milliseconds of their origin. He turned immediately to face the yet unknown danger while raising both arms over his head, crossing them at the forearms to form an “X” block.

          But the bo swished passed his arms and came crashing down on the back of Miller’s head while he was doubled over from Roman’s previous sidekick. Miller toppled to the floor, unconscious and lying at Roman’s feet.

          Roman brought his arms down, then looked from Miller to Steven with both laughter and amazement. Steven, too, was smiling as were the rest of the children. Roman noticed that Steven had held the bo as if it were a baseball bat; he grinned at Steven. The tears and crying had completely vanished as everyone stared at Miller’s prone and unconscious body.

          “Guess that’ll teach him not to mess with us,” Steven said with bravado and a sly smile, as he looked at Miller’s inert body. Some of the other children added enthusiastic “yeahs” in support of Steven; their smiles growing larger with each “yeah,” and with each further “yeah,” their tear-stained cheeks dried as quickly as desert rain.

          “You sure taught him,” agreed Roman. “You handled that bo like a real pro. That was a heck of a hit, Steven. Couldn’t have done a better job myself. He’ll be out cold for quite a while and he’ll have a nice goose egg, or we hope so, right?”

          A chorus, the kids answered, “Yeah!”

          Roman felt the tissue in his hands, looked at Steven’s proud, smiling face and put the tissue back into his pocket. He took the bo from Steven and set it in the corner.

          Then, collecting his thoughts, he suddenly spun around and ran to his desk, grabbed his sturdy, high-backed chair, went quickly to the door and wedged the chair up under the doorknob tightly and securely. Roman used the wooden door wedge, normally used to keep the door open, and wedged it under the door, thus, effectively locking the door so that Fang wouldn’t be able to enter if he came back too quickly. Then, quickly, Roman took tape and construction paper and blocked the narrow door window.

          Roman fought off a feeling of panic. His thoughts returned to Alyson and Sam who were on the roof with Fang. What if Fang went berserk like Miller did? What would he do to Alyson and Sam? Roman had to get on the roof, but not until he got his students to safety. This conflict of interest was agony for him. His frustration rose dramatically.

          Then, suddenly, a noise came from the door. He snapped his head in that direction. Has Fang returned? he asked himself. If so, he knew Fang would be heavily armed.

          Quickly Roman placed his right index finger to his lips in the universal sign for quiet. Roman whispered, “Get down. Hide.” The children fell to their hands and knees, hiding behind the desks.

          The room became as still and quiet as a buried coffin. Roman slipped off his shoes to prevent noises. He picked up the .357 magnum handgun, stuck it down the back of his pants so that his belt held it there, at the small of his back. He grabbed the AK-47. He stood next to the door, perfectly still, aiming the AK-47, from his hip, at the door. He checked the rifle’s safety. It was already in the “off” position. He said to himself, “Charlie, you dumb-assed, shit-head.”

          But now the door was still. No movement of the knob, no rattle, no sound of a key. Had he imagined the noise? Perhaps he had been mistaken. Maybe, Roman thought, his nerves were getting a little frayed and his ears were picking up nonexistent sounds.

          Roman reset the safety latch to “on,” then lowered the AK-47 and leaned it against the wall, near the door. Roman then gagged Miller, while he was still unconscious, with one of the tennis balls that the kids used at play, then put loops of duct tape over the ball and behind Miller’s head. When he had retrieved the tape from the bottom desk drawer of his desk, he also had grabbed a roll of copper wire that he used for electrical experiments for the students. He tied Miller’s hands behind his back with the copper wire. He used the wire to tie Charlie’s feet, also

          He checked the handgun to see if it was fully loaded. It was. He tucked it back into the back of his pants─ he knew better than to stick it into his pocket where the hammer would catch on cloth as he pulled it out, or to stick it down the front of his pants where it could blow-off his dick. He reached for the AK-47, but decided it was too cumbersome and unnecessary. Also, he didn’t want Fang to have a chance to get at it. He decided to throw it out the window. He told the children to come to the front of the room, near Miller. He gave the bo back to Steven and said, pointing downward, toward Miller, “If he comes to, don’t let him get up.” Roman looked at the other students. “And if Steven needs help, then you people help him. Don’t let him up off the floor. You can kick him.”

          Steven gladly took the bo and stood guard over Miller. Steven’s helpers seemed to have itchy feet, wanting to treat Miller like a soccer ball.

          Roman took the AK-47 to the window, then suddenly changed his mind, thinking that if he threw it out the window, it may discharge when it hit the ground. A split-second after he had turned away from the window, he saw and felt the window shatter, heard the report of a high powered rifle, then felt himself crash to the floor. The classroom looked blurry to him. In the background he thought he heard screaming. When it was quiet, Roman, still dazed, told the kids to crawl away from the windows. The windows were four feet higher than the floor, good concealment for little bodies or a prone adult body.

          Roman stared at the white, rectangular ceiling tiles, each with myriad holes. He suddenly became aware of the pain in his back and then the feel of the warm flow of blood streaming down his back, to his waist, getting dammed-up by his belt and spreading horizontally along the contour of his waistline.

          A voice kept repeating, “Mr. Wolfe? Can you hear me?”

          Roman’s dazed thoughts flashed to his previous action. So stupid, he thought. The sniper thought I was one of the bad guys. My fault.

          Steven and three other boys tried to help him up, once he had moved away from the windows. As he rose off the floor, darkness and weakness began to claim him. He felt weak-kneed and momentarily lost his balance. He fell to his knees. The sounds of screaming children were distorted, as if coming from a tunnel. He felt the hard floor against his knees. Then he was on a fours supporting himself. He felt dizzy, then collapsed onto his chest, feeling his head bouncing off the floor, but he felt no pain. Just before his mind went completely black, he had a vision of his daughter, Grace. After that, the only thing he was aware of were tiny, flickering lights, as if he were looking up at the nighttime sky, seeing billions of twinkling stars. His mind, in a dream-like state, drifted to Arlington National Cemetery where so many of his Vietnam comrades and buddies were buried. He saw a freshly dug grave with a casket hanging over it, waiting to be lowered into the ground. His dream-self walked to the casket. The casket was open . . . he saw himself.

          He thought, So this is what it had felt like just before his friends had died in Nam. He felt no pain. He saw dark clouds overhead then a squeaky sound, from the casket hinges, he supposed, as the casket was closed. He could feel the casket rocking as it was lowered into the hole. An obsidian blackness engulfed him, as if he were being lowered into a tar pit.

/--/./…/---/--/..-/-.-./…./…./.-/.--./.--./../-././…/…/

23

“The greatest fault is to be conscious of none.”

Robert Carlyle

Trooper Jones carefully peered around the corner and saw one of Lieutenant Hawkey’s men guarding the hallway. Jones knew he couldn’t get by the guard without being seen. He also knew he could lie and tell the guard something that would sound very convincing, something that would get him down the hallway and up the stairs to the second floor where the classroom was. But the guard had a walkie-talkie and could easily check his story. Of course, by then he could be all the way down the hallway. And what’s the guard going to do? Shoot me? He asked himself. Yeah, he could do it that way, but it would be better if, somehow, he could sneak past this TWAT snob─ jealously of the elite SWAT team caused him to denigrate that team.

          Jones nervously waited, wondering what option to take. Then he got lucky. He heard the familiar crackle of the SWAT guard’s walkie-talkie. The guard walked a few paces around the corner, swung the strap from his Heckler and Kock assault gun over his shoulder then removed the walkie-talkie from his belt hook.

          Jones smiled. His continued good fortune was holding firmly. Then he realized that it wasn’t luck at all. This was fate helping his destiny. Luck was just a random collection of positive circumstances, while destiny was preordained. These events were meant to happen like solid links in the chain of his life. His destiny was coming to him and he had to wait and let it happen. Things would fall into place for him, with an occasional push or prod to speed things up.

          Quickly he used this opportunity to slip out from his hiding place and hurriedly made his way down the hallway. His silent strides enabled him to overhear the message on the walkie-talkie.

          Hawkey said he was going to make his rounds with all the SWAT members who were guarding the school escape routes. But as Jones progressed farther down the hallway he could not make out any more of the message’s details.

          Lt. Hawkey was being thorough and careful. Jones arrogantly thought that he was doing his job just as well. This was meant to be. He was meant to be here, to be a hero, to walk undetected down this hallway, to rescue the innocent children and capture the gunmen. It was his destiny to gain early promotions and to enjoy the rewards of his heroism. His chest puffed up with pride.

          When he reached the middle of the hallway, he found the stairs that led to the second floor. Before starting up the stairs, he looked back down the hallway, toward the guard. He heard the faint sounds of the walkie-talkie, but didn’t see the guard.

          He wasn’t surprised that he had succeeded. He felt as if he were being guided. It was like he was doing God’s work, just as his domineering mom had always told him. “Do God’s work to help others,” she would say, “and rewards will be plentiful for you.”

          Trooper Jones’s confidence was like a pathological parasite spewing poison into his brain or, perhaps, a virulent virus eating away at the logical part of his brain. His vision of his destiny overpowered any reasonable thoughts and actions. He wasn’t capable of seeing the remarkable similarity between the effects of that parasite and virus─ overpowering logic, reasonable thoughts and actions─ to religious beliefs.

          He withdrew his handgun─ Glock-21, .45 cal. (Psalm 21:45?)─ from its holster and bounded up the stairs. Immediately he felt beads of sweat rolling down his forehead. His handgun felt slippery in his sweaty palm. He removed his hat and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He placed the handgun into his left hand and dried his right palm by wiping it on his pants. He wondered why he was sweating so much as he placed the gun back into his right hand, then cautiously proceeded up the stairs. His holy arrogance dissolved slowly, as if his own salty sweat was washing it away.

          His head tilted upward, looking upstairs for any warning of danger. He saw none, heard none. He grabbed the railing to steady himself. His legs felt weak, rubbery. He began sweating more heavily. Again he wiped the sweat off his brow, not being aware, yet, that he was in the tight grip of stress and fear which were slowly overwhelming him. His high level of arrogance could not match his low level of logic.

          He reached the landing between the two floors, turned right and proceeded up the second flight. At the top, he placed his sweaty back against the wall to make himself less of a target. He wiped sweat from his eyes and silently cursed the salty sting.

          He peeked around the corner and saw that the hallway was deserted. Each end of the hallway had large windows, so, in all probability, Captain Lewis had spotters, with binoculars, keeping track of the hallway. Big deal, he thought. They couldn’t do anything about him now, especially since he had already turned off his communication radio. He knew he had good instincts, but he had to be cautious. He swiped more sweat off his brow and held his handgun close to his chest, gripping it as if it were a crucifix that offered supernatural protection. He heard faint noises coming from the first room on the left, then it was quiet again.

          He noticed that there was a high barrier of desks precariously piled on top of one another. Some desks tipped down so that the writing surfaces filled-up most of the space between the legs of the front row of desks which formed a somewhat haphazard and unstable barrier.

          Jones guessed that the two gunmen must have anticipated the SWAT snipers and built the barrier across the hallway in order to obstruct the snipers’ view, plus give a warning noise if the desks were tampered with and fell.

          As Jones stood at the top step he could hear the faint sounds of another walkie-talkie at the end of this second floor hallway. Lieutenant Hawkey must still be talking to his team.

          Jones felt pain in both hands; it seemed like they were in a vice. He gazed down at them. He had been gripping the Glock so tightly that his knuckles and fingers had turned white, not just pale, but white, as if spray painted. His left hand, in a tightly knotted fist, was the same. He holstered the Glock, then clinched and loosened both hands repeatedly to gain flexibility and easy the cramping. Then he asked himself, “Why am I getting so fuckin’ nervous? It’s my fate. It’s God’s plan for me. I’m protected.”

          Jones closed his eyes, breathed deeply through his nose, then exhaled through his mouth to relax himself. His mind drifted to his mom’s favorite psalm. He could hear his mom reciting Psalm 23:4. He mumbled, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me . . . .” No time for that now, he concluded.

          He squatted, then crawled on all fours to the barrier of desks. Quietly and carefully he pushed one tipped-over desk out from between the leg of an upright barrier desk, nothing fell. He crawled under the desk then replaced the desk where it had been. Not much of a protective, warning barrier, he thought.

          He saw the name Mr. Wolfe on the first door to his left. He turned the doorknob. It was locked. He peeked into the door’s window; it was covered. “Fuck,” he mumbled.

          He put his ear close to the door, but heard no noise. How could that be? Did they leave? No. There must be another explanation. He looked around and found what he thought was the answer. He saw the open, hallway door leading to the roof. The door was ripped off its hinges, bits and pieces of scattered, shattered wood lying on the floor. So, the gunmen took everyone up to the roof, he surmised. Not a bad plan. Having the high ground gives an automatic advantage. “But it won’t help them,” Jones mumbled. God was on his side. His mom had pounded that into his head since he was a kid.

          His head jerked toward the door. He heard yelling noises coming from the roof doorway. He ignored the classroom door, stood up, crossed the hallway and proceeded up the stairs to the roof. He could see another open doorway at the top of the stairs. He could feel the cool, refreshing air wafting down the stairway and he could see the clear sky as if, it too, had a doorway to heaven. This stairway was steep, but he would be on the roof quickly. He began thinking of the stairway as symbolic of his quick rise to fame, rewards, promotions and power. He thought these steps would bring him closer to his destiny. He was still cautious enough to move up them slowly. He felt joyously giddy at the thought of being a hero.

                  *

          Fang pulled Alyson and Sam by their hair and dragged them along the roof top. The roof was weak in certain places. It shook and rumbled under Fang’s massive weight, as if it were the last days of Pompeii. Fang pulled Sam and Alyson toward the edge of the school roof. Alyson screamed from pain and the terror.

          Alyson grabbed at Fang’s right wrist trying to loosen his fingers as she screamed, “Let go, you ugly jerk! You’re hurting me! Let me go!”

          Sam was digging into Fang’s left forearm and kicking Fang’s legs with no effect.

          Fang wished he had had some of his stash of ketamine hydocloride─ a veterinary sedative, sometimes used as a date-rape drug. That would calm them down, loosen them up and their legs would spread like warm butter across toast, Fang thought.

          Fang marched to the edge of the roof so everyone below could see him and Alyson. Then, suddenly, he picked Alyson up by the hair and held her over the edge of the roof, effortlessly, even though Alyson was kicking and screaming in mid-air. Alyson was smart enough to grab Fang’s forearm with both of hers, allowing her to relieve the pressure and pain of hanging by her own hair.

          As soon as Sam saw this, she stopped scratching and kicking, not wanting an accident to happen to Alyson. She did try to pull Fang away from the edge of the roof with no success. Fang left fist suddenly let go of Sam’s hair, then backhanded her in the face, the force causing her to stagger-step away from Fang and crash to the roof in a daze.

          “Now yuh pigs ,” Fang growled, “take a shot at me. Come on yuh brave assholes. I dare yuh!” he shouted through twisted lips and with a crazed look in his eyes.

          The state policemen on the ground stared up at the rooftop, not believing what they were seeing: a muscular madman holding a fourth grade girl over the edge of the roof with one outstretched, massive, right arm. Some troopers aimed handguns at him.

          Lt. Hawkey was not present. He was still making the rounds with his team members, checking their situations, making sure all the exits were covered.

          Captain Lewis ran, carrying a bullhorn, to a spot that was closest to, in front of and under Fang’s position on the roof. As she ran, she thought, sarcastically, Yep. That pervert is just a big, sweet, cuddly Pooka.

          “Otto, this is Captain Lewis,” she shouted into the bullhorn, “pull the girl back onto the roof. We can talk.”

          “Yuh took my brother, Bitch!” he screamed. “As worthless as he is, he still my brother, an’ yuh took ‘im. Now I got this liddle girlie, here.” He moved his right arm slightly, making Alyson swing in the air like a pendulum, then said, “We don’t negotiate nothing, liddle lady. Yuh do what I say or I drop this liddle brat an’ then we all watch ‘er go splat on the blacktop.” Fang shouted the word splat. “Sounds like it be fun, right? Used ta do it with watermelons, when I’s a kid. Has ta be much better when using a real head, donecha think so, Cappy-tan?”

          Alyson was holding tightly onto Fang’s forearm, as if she were attempting to perform a chin-up exercise. She realized that struggling only made matters worse for her. She looked down and could see how far up she was. She was scared of heights so she closed her eyes, squeezing out teardrops and trembling with fear.

          “Pull her back in, Otto. I’ll get you whatever you want.”

          “Yuh take me fer a fool, Missy? I pull ‘er in an’ one of yer boys’ll shoot me right through this big ol’ head o’ mine,”

          Captain Lewis turned the bullhorn to her men and shouted, “Men, lower all the rifles and holster all handguns. I don’t want any weapons aimed at Otto. No one is to shoot without my order.”

          All her men complied, so she turned around to face Fang.

          She said, “OK, Otto. There’re no weapons aimed at you any longer, so pull the girl back onto the roof.”

          “Did I hear a please, Cappy-tan?

          “Please, Otto,” Captain Lewis added, with controlled impatience.

          Fang’s right arm pulled Alyson into his chest, then his left arm grabbed her around the waist. He positioned her against himself like a bullet-proof vest, just to be cautious. He yelled, “This is as good as I can do fer yuh, Sweetheart. I don’t trust yuh. I know yuh got snipers ‘round here, so if I get shot, she dies, too. Remember that, Bitch.”

          “Otto, the helicopter’s already on its way,” responded Captain Lewis.

          “First thing yuh do, Bitch, is yuh stop callin’ me Otto. I’m Fang, an’ second, yuh send my brother back up ‘ere!”

          “We didn’t capture him, Fang. He gave himself up. I can’t send him back in there. He has asked for our protection.”

          “Why, that cowardly, fuckin’ runt. Really did give himself up, huh? Shee-it! He always a goddamn, snivelin’ baby!” Fang yelled. “He a hopeless retard. Yuh tell ‘im that. Got no brains, no balls an’ no guts. Fuck ‘im. Yuh keep ‘im. I want somethin’ else.”

          “What is it, Fang?” Captain Lewis said into the bullhorn.

          “I want that helicopter ‘ere before dark. Yuh been stallin’, liddle lady. Actually, I want it ‘ere ten minutes ago. Yuh unnerstand?” Fang’s face was livid.

          “One of my people has already called for the helicopter, Otto, ah . . . Fang. There can’t be any more delays because they’re already on the way. OK?”

          “Better be or yuh know what ‘appens,” Fang said as he held Alyson out over the edge of the roof, again, for cruel emphasis. Then he pulled her back to his chest and stepped back from the edge of the roof so he couldn’t be seen from the ground.

                 *

          Trooper Jones proceeded up the stairs, to the roof, having trouble breathing. He raised his right index finger to his right nostril, plunged it inside and pulled out the obstruction, a pale-green nugget which he wiped onto the wall. It made him think about his mother. She was manipulative, but loving─ too loving. She had always taken exception with his crude manners. That’s when he would get angry with her and think of awful things to say to her, hurting her feeling deliberately and harshly. Sometimes he even fantasized of tying her up and doing things to make her scream. His mother was unaware of her incredible luck. Jones struggled with self control, but knew that he wouldn’t get into the State Police Academy with a criminal record. His meanness was like an ugly birthmark. It came into the world with him and grew larger as he aged. He shook those thoughts off and refocused. He took another deep breath through his nose, felt satisfied, then let the breath out through his mouth.

          Trooper Jones took one confident step out the doorway and onto the rooftop where he immediately saw Sam. Sam looked at him. Jones placed his index finger to his lips.

          Sam pointed to the doorway and mouthed the words, “Get out of here. Go.”

          Jones smirked at Sam, showing his disgust with her words. He whispered, “You get out. Now.”

          Sam shook her head and mouthed the words, “Can’t leave her.”

          Jones shrugged his shoulder and pursed his lips to indicate that now he didn’t give a shit what she did as long as she was quiet. Then Jones looked toward Fang.

          Jones saw Fang holding Alyson over the edge of the roof and heard him say, “or yuh know what ‘appens.”

          Jones walked cautiously toward Fang, whose back was towards him. Jones knew he had the big guy dead to rights. He could see the glory of his destiny rushing toward him, like being in a fast car and seeing the trees appear to rush toward you. He was elated. The sight of this rooftop scene and the knowledge that he had Fang nearly captured caused his imagined destiny to sprout and bloom, like a daisy in June.

          Jones saw Fang pull Alyson into his chest, then step backwards, away from the edge of the roof where he could no longer be seen by the police on the ground.

          Jones was only ten feet from Fang when he gave the command, “Police. Freeze and put the girl down.”

          Fang, caught off guard, but thinking quickly, spun around, still holding Alyson to his chest as a shield. He reached between him and Alyson and pulled the .357 handgun out of his belt and aimed it at Jones. Seeing that he now had the advantage over this brash cop, he said, “Now whatcha gonna do, asshole?” Fang’s laughter skipped across the rooftop, like a thrown, flat stone skipping across calm water.

          Jones suddenly realized how big and powerful Fang looked. Fang’s massive body was intimidating and Jones was suddenly cognizant of the fear and sweat pouring out of his flesh, like a squeezed sponge. He noticed, with repugnance, the stink of his own sweat. He had thought that the reports of Fang’s strength and size had been greatly exaggerated, but seeing first-hand that he was wrong only made his fear grow. But he took control of himself because he was convinced that he was headed for glory. He forced himself onward, through the barrier of his growing fear and the unexpected fissure in his courage.

          “Just put the girl down and no one will get hurt. The charges ain’t serious, yet. You just go back to prison. That’ll be a piece of cake for you. And there’s no death-row waiting for you . . . yet . . . so let the girl go and drop the gun,” said Jones as he looked into the barrel of Fang’s gun. He had told Fang to freeze, but he was the one who was frozen. Surprisingly, he found it hard to move.

          Alyson squirmed from discomfort as Fang’s arm was crushing her to his chest.

          “Nah. Don’t think so, asshole. Yuh think they’ll ferget ‘bout that cop I shot in the parkin’ lot? Nope. No ‘lectric chair, gas chamber, or needle fer me. I die ‘ere or I go free. Live free or die. That’s me. So yuh drop yer gun or I just fuckin’ shoot yuh where yuh stand. Yuh shoot at me an’ hit the girl an’ yer ass gets burned in some pretty hot fire, liddle man. Can’t yuh see? Yuh simply didn’t think this through, did yuh? Didn’t know they kept stupid troopers. Guess yuh should only open yur mouth ta change feet, huh?” Fang laughed, then grunted, “Now put yer gun down.”

          Just then Jones saw his destiny descend like the flow of brown sewage into a putrid sewer of utter confusion and hopelessness.

          What the hell’s happening? he thought. If I try to shoot Fang and hit the girl, my career is over and if I put my gun down and I’m captured, without having the captain’s authority to even be on the roof, my career is still over. If I put my gun down and get killed, my life is over. If I get wounded, my pride and self-respect ends, just like my career. I’ll be laughed at and humiliated for the rest of my life.

          Ultimately and quickly, however, his decision was made on the basis of self-preservation. Screw the girl! Better to have a career that’s over than to have a life that’s over, he thought in desperation.

          Thoroughly humiliated, Jones lowered his gun to his right thigh, then released it with a scraping clank on the gravel and tar rooftop. He raised his hands head high, palms open, in surrender.

          Fang grinned satanically at Jones while releasing Alyson to the rooftop. She immediately ran into the arms of Sam and cried hysterically.

          Fang diverted his attention from Jones to Sam and Alyson who were sitting. To Sam he said, curtly, “Make a move fer the door an’ yuh both die.”

          Then Fang turned his attention back to Jones. Fang smiled at Jones, humiliating him with his crazed eyes and twisted smile that soon turned into taunting, soul-piercing laughter, causing Trooper Jones to tremble as his head became dazed and dizzy from panic. Jones felt his legs becoming rubbery.

          Fang, still a few feet away, continued grinning at Trooper Jones who stood helpless and looked pathetic.

          Jones’s eyes began to water and when Fang saw this it triggered his rage.

          “Yuh sure be stupid. Yuh never, ever give up yur gun. Didn’t they teach yuh that? Now what yuh goin’ ta do? Ask me fer mercy? Beg fer yur life? Maybe I should kill yuh ta stop yuh from havin’ dumb babies.”

          Fang walked to Jones while glancing at Sam and Alyson, who sat on the warm, sticky tar and pebbles, not daring to move. Fang placed his handgun into his belt and stood two feet from the trooper, daring him to make a move, wanting him to make a move, wishing, begging Jones with his eyes to make that mistake.

          And Jones did. Jones thought he saw an opportunity to reclaim his destiny, as well as his dignity. He swung at Fang’s face. Fang, not being agile or particularly quick, felt the fist slam into his jaw. Jones’s fist bounced off Fang’s jaw.

          Fang said, with a laugh, “Yuh throws a punch like a girl. They let sissies like yuh be a cop?” Fang grabbed Jones by the front of his shirt with his left hand, raised his right arm, cocked his fist back towards his shoulder, then punched Jones in the chest with a cannon-ball sized fist that shot at him as if it were operated via hydraulic pressure. Fang heard Trooper Jones say one word before he collapsed.

          As Fang’s punch landed, there was a cracking, splintering noise. The bones in Jones’s sternum shattered, cracked and were driven inward, the bone shards puncturing, then bursting Jones’s heart and deflating one lung. Trooper Jones was dead before his body hit the ground. The look of shock and utter surprise was frozen to his dead face. His shocked eyes, dead man’s eyes, staring at the sky as if seeking help from some heavenly source. His lips were parted as if to say something else. The last word he said before he died was destiny.

          Alyson’s head was buried into Sam’s shoulder and Sam kept it there so Alyson couldn’t see Fang’s savage brutality. Sam knew that Fang was now out of control.

          Fang bent over and grabbed Trooper Jones by the neck and crotch, lifted him over his head, as if he was a pillow. He walked to the edge of the roof and stood there. All eyes from the troopers in the parking lot were, again, on Fang. Fang stood on the edge of the roof like King Kong on the Empire State Building. He was breathing heavily and screaming unintelligibly. He was in a full-blown, crazed rage.

          Fang knew that now he was a murderer, definitely an intentional cop killer and there was no way out except for the helicopter. He desperately needed that helicopter.

          Fang glanced over his shoulder at Sam and Alyson, then stood on the edge of the roof for a few seconds with Jones held over his head─ the other cops didn’t yet know that Jones was dead─ before he yelled, “Cappy-tan Lew! Yuh better git that helicopter ‘ere soon or I got two girls that gonna git the same watermelon treatment.” Quickly, Fang tossed Jones’s body off the roof, then rapidly stepped away from the edge. He looked to see if Sam and Alyson had moved. They hadn’t, remaining frozen by fear and shock. Fang corrected his mistake by jogging to the rooftop door and locking it.

          Captain Lewis and her men watched the limp body falling to the blacktopped parking lot. To Captain Lewis, it seemed as if time slowed down and the body fell in slow-motion. The body hit with a thud and a crunch, then bounced a foot into the air. Captain Lewis and a few other troopers ran to Jones. She felt for a pulse, but there was none. She wasn’t even aware, yet, that Jones’s crushed chest and punctured heart, and not the crushed skull, were what had actually killed him. All she could see was his crushed skull. But when she saw very little blood, she was fairly sure that Jones was dead─ a dead heart can’t pump blood out of the wounds. Jones’s hair was quickly becoming matted with brain fluid, his nose and jaw were both shattered. It looked as if at least one arm was broken. Bone shards, a little blood from Jones’s mouth, hair and spongy lumps of brain matter were scattered at Captain Lewis’s feet.

          A trooper turned, ran away from Jones’s body, then vomited. Most of the others walked away, in shock, some with hands over their mouths, but all with fear and anger glowing in their eyes. Hatred began to fester in these men. Their intellect was being washed away by a surging tide of primordial hunt and kill instincts.

          Captain Lewis stayed with the body, temporarily immobilized by the shock of one of her men being killed, and a rookie, too. But, she thought, what the hell was he doing on the roof?

          Captain Lewis looked up to the rooftop and said, “Oh my God. Now you’ve done it, Fang! You’ll regret it.” No one heard those words and her vengeful tone of voice.

/../---/--././-/-/../-./--./---/.-../-../

24

“Throughout history, it has been the inaction of those who could have acted; the indifference of those who should have known better; and the silence of the voice of justice when it mattered most, that has made it possible for evil to triumph.”

Haile Selassie

Lieutenant Hawkey walked to the tower that over-looked the school track and football field. It rose into the air, about thirty feet, easily clearing the roof of the long, red-brick, triple door garage which was used to store the custodians’ grounds-keeping equipment. The observation deck looked like a child’s large tree-house built on top of four large poles that were spaced out into a fifteen by twenty feet rectangle. A wooden ladder was attached.

          A green, three feet tall, solid-walled railing extended around the perimeter of the platform’s floor and from the top of this railing to the rooftop was all open space.

From here, unobstructed photographs or videos could be taken.

          It was also a sniper’s paradise. Trooper Gus Kovalik, the best shot on the SWAT team, the guy that Hawkey once had bragged could shoot a cigarette out of a man’s teeth at seven hundred yards, was on the platform.

          Lt. Hawkey had, moments before, called on the walkie-talkie to say he was coming to the tower. A few minutes later K-O─ the first two letters of Kovalik’s last name were “K-O,” and since he could be counted on to “Knock-Out” any target that he was assigned, he was given the stunted moniker, “K-O”─ peeked over the railing. He could see Lieutenant Hawkey approaching from a long way off, though Hawkey could barely detect the trooper’s presence in the tower.

          When Hawkey reached the bottom of the tower, he looked up and yelled, “I’m coming up, K-O.” One didn’t take a chance accidentally sneaking up on a man with a gun, especially one who used it as well as Gus did.

          Gus used his special Marine sniper rifle rather than the official state trooper version. It was the Marine’s best sniper rifle in Vietnam, classified as the M-40A1 in .308 caliber. The barrel was free-floating─ meaning that it was secured to the chamber, but did not touch the stock. The gap between the stock and rifle barrel was about the same thickness as a piece of school writing paper, but this slight mini-gap served to prevent the stock from distorting the barrel from one shot to the next.

          Gus, like Lieutenant Hawkey, was an older member of the team. And like Hawkey, he was a Vietnam veteran, a marine sniper with over fifty confirmed kills (ninety per-cent of them were head shots) from extremely long ranges.

          Hawkey personally recruited Gus for the team. He spotted Gus on the State Police Marksman team during the National Rifle and Pistol Championships held each year at Camp Perry in Ohio (considered to be the World Series of shooting sports in America). Gus had easily won the competition the last two years. Lieutenant Hawkey used his influential connections and the borrowed power of his superiors to get Gus transferred, with Gus’s approval, to Hawkey’s SWAT team. They quickly became close friends, especially having both survived the hell of Nam. They became like brothers, not of genes and chromosomes, but of courage, honor and friendship─ a brotherhood based not on blood, but on Semper Fi.

          “Come on up, Joe,” K-O responded. He could hear Lieutenant Hawkey coming up the ladder, his boots thumping and scraping on the wooden rungs.

          Lt. Hawkey stepped onto the platform and asked, “See anything going on, K-O?”

          “No. Nothing, yet.”

          Hawkey saw the sniper rifle leaning on the railing with its bi-pod extended for added support and accuracy. K-O took care of his rifle like a woman takes care of her diamonds.

          Hawkey certainly couldn’t argue with that.

          K-O was a guy you could trust and really depend on; a cool head; a calm personality, with remarkable vision and an unusually steady hand. K-O had reminded him a little of Wolfe. But where Wolfe had his blade, garrote and martial arts skills to use at close range, K-O had a rifle, the element of surprise and camouflage that placed him in the elite of the elite status of snipers, enabling him to accomplish nearly impossible shots at extreme ranges.

          Lt. Hawkey picked up the binoculars and looked toward the classroom windows. He said, “K-O, I want you to double check all your scope settings, check the rifle and ammo, too. If we only get one shot, I don’t want some grain of dirt or dirty lens or unstable bi-pod to thwart your effort. Check everything, K-O.”

          Though the rifle and scope were already set and double checked, K-O checked everything again to ease Hawkey’s mind. K-O reached out and gently picked up the rifle like one would pick up his own newborn child. He opened the bolt to make sure in was unloaded. He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a velvet wrapping about a foot long. Each bullet had its own pocket to eliminate any chance of nicks, scratches or dirt getting on any bullet. K-O wanted pristine bullets so that nothing on the bullet could affect accuracy. K-O pulled out one bullet from its velvet pocket, checked it by rolling it on his fingers, making sure the business end of the bullet was tight in its casing, then he checked the primer. No problem there. The bullets were all match-quality and hand-loaded by Gus. Each bullet was a hollow-point, high grain, high power, micro-missile of death. Gus pulled the bolt back, carefully checked the rifle chamber for obstructions and to see if more oil was needed. No oil was necessary, so he slid the bolt forward, then downward to lock it into the loading chamber. The bolt closed easily, like silk across flesh. He checked the safety. It was in the “on” position.

          “No problems with anything,” Gus said.

          Hawkey said nothing while K-O was checking all aspects of the rifle. He didn’t want to upset any preparations, patterns or rituals that Gus might have. Hearing Gus’s good news, Hawkey nodded, patted Gus on the shoulder and smiled at him. It was a strained smile.

          Gus noticed the strained smile, then thought, Very unusual for Hawkey. Usually as cool and stable as a glacier.

          They had both been squatting, but now K-O sat down and lifted both knees up so that each of them looked like an inverted “V” shape. He relaxed, took a couple of deep breaths and eased the rifle barrel onto the railing, saying, “The bi-pod won’t be useful. The railing’s slightly too high. That’s fine, though. No problem.”

          Over the railing and under the rifle barrel Gus placed a piece of half-inch thick, non-skid rubber to prevent the barrel from accidentally sliding. Gus leaned forward slightly and pushed the stock securely into his shoulder.

          Joe watched silently as K-O took a deep breath through his nose, then let half the air out through his mouth. K-O peered through the high-power scope, finding the cross-hairs and sighting on the second floor classroom windows. He could see, like before, that all the school windows were mostly uncovered, except for the teacher’s classroom which, appeared to have all the shades pulled down. All Gus could see were faint, distorted shadows, small shadows. Kids. But the roof was a simple, clear shot, no harder than bitch-slapping a Viet Cong.

          Through binoculars, Hawkey saw the same shadows. Neither man spoke.

          K-O slightly readjusted a knob on the scope to give a perfectly sharp image of the windows. Then another knob was readjusted to match the two-hundred seventy-five yards from the tower to the classroom windows and to the school roof.

          Now K-O rechecked the wind direction by looking at the football field’s goal posts. Each of the four posts had a purple and gold banner─ school colors─ used to indicate wind direction, mostly used by the field-goal kicker and the quarterback.

          Hawkey saw K-O look at the wind direction banners and smiled at Gus’s luck. There was only a very slight breeze from their right to left. The breeze was so minimal that it would not effect the trajectory of a high-powered rifle bullet.

          Finally, having checked the rifle itself, one of the bullets, the scope’s stable attachment and wind velocity settings, K-O pulled out the five-shot clip. Everything looked good, so he removed four bullets from his velvet pouch, plus the one he had already pulled out and loaded them carefully into the clip.

          The oiled clip slid into the rifle easily, with a reassuring, secure “click.”

          Lt. Hawkey started to compliment his friend. “That’s great─”

          But Lieutenant Hawkey was interrupted by the sound of his walkie-talkie. Captain Lewis’s voice sounded urgent. “Joe, come in. Over. Joe. Come in. Over,” she repeated.

          Hawkey heard the stress in her voice and responded immediately. “Hawkey here. Over.”

          “Joe, Fang’s on the roof. He’s holding one of the classroom girls off the edge of the roof by her hair so I had to speed up the helicopter arrival to get him to pull the girl back onto the roof. But that isn’t the worst of it, Joe. A couple of minutes after pulling the girl back in, Fang appeared on the edge of the roof again, with one of my rookie troopers held over his head. Fang threw the trooper off the roof.

          “It was trooper Jones, the one that brought the psychiatrist to us. I don’t have any idea what he was doing on that roof. It was a totally unauthorized action. Never mind that for now. We’ll figure that out later. Fang looked frantic, Joe. I think he’s lost control. I want you to have your man take the shot if he can get one. Over.”

          “A termination . . . a kill shot, Bev?”

          “Affirmative, Joe. He’s too damn dangerous to fool around with any longer.”

          “Bev, I’m on the other side of the building with my best marksman, Gus Kovalik. We can’t see Fang at all from our position. There’re AC units and a chimney blocking our view. But if Fang’s on the roof, then Miller must be alone in the classroom. We’ve got no really clear, clean shot into the classroom either.

          Whaddaya mean, Joe? You saying you can’t see inside the classroom? Over.”

          “We’ve got a good view of the outside of the classroom windows, Bev, but we can’t see inside the classroom. All the shades are pulled down and all we see with my binoculars and Gus’s scope are distorted shadows, small shadows, kids. I suspect that there are kids still lined up on the counter next to the windows. Over”

          “Shit!” Captain Lewis mumbled in frustration. “OK, Joe. If Fang or Charlie come into view and Gus can get a kill-shot at them, I want him to take the kill-shot at Fang, but a disabling shot at Miller. Once the helicopter gets here we’ll be in serious trouble. Fang’ll want to take hostages with him and we can’t let that maniac and Miller leave, except in cuffs . . . or, if they force our hand, in body-bags. Over.”

          Hawkey smiled at Gus, then gave him the thumb-up sign─ K-O opened the bolt-action of his rifle, then closed it; that action shoved one bullet into the chamber, ready to fire as soon as the safety lever was pushed to the “off” position.

          Hawkey had originally believed that Bev wouldn’t give permission for any of his snipers to take a kill-shot, especially when kids were present.

          Trooper Kovalik heard the conversation, but still had a frown on his face as he silently mouthed the word “disabling?” with question marks flashing in each eye as if there were spotlights inside his eyeballs.

          Hawkey saw the frown and knew what it meant immediately. “Bev, a disabling shot is real tricky and actually dangerous. If Gus shoots Miller and the shot doesn’t put him down and out immediately, the guy will go into a rage and will shoot with any or all of his weapons at the students. Also, these cartridges that snipers use go through-and-through. If someone’s next to one of those psychos, the penetrating bullet may hit an innocent directly or with a ricochet. However, the chances of that happening are much less with a kill-shot to the head. Over.”

          “Sorry, Joe, I understand, but I can’t authorize a kill shot on Charlie, not yet, anyway. But if you or any of your snipers get a kill-shot on Fang, while he’s on the roof, take it; however, taking a kill-shot into the classroom, at Charlie, is not authorized. That’s a negative, Joe. Miller hasn’t killed anyone like Fang has. Hell, he hasn’t even hurt anybody, that we know of. He doesn’t have a record of lethal violence; just violence as a pederast. I’m worried about the kids in there and not just the possibility that Charlie will use one of the boys as a catamite. Plus, a head shot would be terribly traumatic for those kids to witness. Blood, bone shards and chunks of brain will splatter all over the room. A sight like that will traumatize those kids for life, if it hasn’t happened already. So I repeat. No kill shot is authorized on Miller, just a high percentage disabling shot is authorized on Miller. Fang’s another story. He’s already killed and he’ll do it again without hesitation. Tell all your snipers that they’re authorized to take a kill-shot if Fang is clearly visible on the roof, but it has to be a very high percentage shot.” Bev emphasized the words, it has to be a very high percentage shot. “Joe, I gotta go. You understand what I want? Over.”

          “Roger that. I understand and I’ll pass the message on. Out.”

          K-O looked up at Hawkey.

          On a different, but secure channel, Hawkey ordered, “You heard the Captain, men. Obey protocol. You have authorization for a very high percentage kill-shot at Fang, on the rooftop, with no kids around, but only a high percentage disabling shot at Miller, inside the classroom. And, for the sake of safety I don’t want any shooting without a status report for me and permission to fire from me, in case orders are changed at the last second. Please acknowledge immediately.”

          “Sniper one. I acknowledge.”

          “Sniper two. I acknowledge.”

          “Sniper three. I acknowledge.”

          Gus nodded his head at Hawkey, then said, “I acknowledge, Joe.”

          Hawkey placed a friendly, trusting hand on K-O’s shoulder.

          Each sniper would follow his orders, exactly, despite the fact that each man realized that a disabling shot was a pure misnomer─ like saying that two planes that almost crashed in mid-air had a near miss. Bullshit! It was a near hit. Very few shots can completely disable a gunman, except a kill-shot, which, of course, if successful, disables him immediately and permanently. A disabling shot to the shoulder, arms, abdomen, waist or legs did not usually stop a determined gunman in the sense that he couldn’t function. More often than not, he was still able to kill or maim his hostages because he was still conscious and still able to partially function, especially if he goes into an adrenaline saturated, vengeful rage. Even if the gunman was bleeding to death, he could still often function enough to do serious or fatal damage to some of his hostages before he grew too weak from the loss of blood.

          The scenery brightened as the sun moved out from behind a cumulous cloud.

          “Jesus Christ!” Gus said as he resumed looking through his rifle scope. “Joe. Look. The end window, on the left, just opened and the shade is up. Miller’s standing with his rifle aimed out the window. Should I take the shot, Joe?”

          Joe quickly looked through his binoculars, then at K-O. “Affirmative. A disabling shot,” Hawkey reminded K-O, as he thrust the binoculars back to his eyes.

          K-O quickly assumed his firing routine and had Miller in the scope’s cross-hairs.

          Hawkey stared through the binoculars. Now there was a sunshine window-glare on Miller. The bright sun was reflecting off the whole row of windows, but it looked like Miller. “High percentage shot,” bolted through Hawkey’s brain like lightening. Hawkey stared through the binoculars, but still wasn’t sure what he was seeing. He concentrated, blinked to focus, squinted, then suddenly yelled, “I can’t see the his face clearly. Can you, K-O?” Then to himself, Hawkey spoke, “Shit! Miller isn’t that tall.” Joe turned, inhaled sharply and screamed. “No!” at K-O

          But K-O was already pulling the trigger. Hawkey’s shout made K-O flinch.

          The shot rang out and Hawkey’s heart felt as though it had ripped away from the arteries and tumbled into his stomach. Visions of disaster inundated his thoughts.

          “Goddamn it, Gus! I don’t think that was Miller. I think it was the teacher!”

          “It was Miller with the AK-47 in his hands. Why would the teacher have the AK and aim it out the window?” K-O confidently responded.

          “No, Gus. I don’t think it was! There’s sun glare on the windows. All you saw was an adult, male shape. Then you saw the AK-47 and were partially blinded by the glare. Both of us assumed that the AK-47 was held by the bad guy, Miller, but the teacher could have had the rifle, K-O. He could have disarmed Miller.”

          “Disarmed Miller, then aim the AK out the window?” K-O stated, incredulously.

          “We don’t really know if he was aiming it. Maybe Roman disarmed Charlie and wanted to throw the AK out the window and it just looked like he was aiming it.”

          K-O acknowledged the possibility with his eyes. “Oh, shit!” he exclaimed.

          “Oh, shit, is right, K-O. I think you may have just shot the teacher. Both our fault, but Goddamnit! I think you shot my friend, Roman!” Joe held the binoculars to his eyes and looked at the bullet shattered window. He saw no movement.

          K-O set the rifle down realizing that he may have shot the wrong person. If so, it would be the very first time. He was so sure of the shot. He dragged his hand across his sweaty brow, then rubbed his cheeks and mouth. He squinted through dazed eyes. He looked at Hawkey, open mouthed, but said nothing . . . just thinking, Who the hell’s Roman?

                             /-…/..-/-/-/…././-…/---/-/…./---/..-./-.--/---/..-/

25

“The problem with the world is that fools and fanatics are always so certain of themselves, while wiser people are full of doubts.”

Bertrand Russell

Roman heard his name being called, as if by multiple voices traveling through a long, echoing tunnel. He couldn’t rise from the floor. Numerous hands seemed to be pressing on him, holding him down. He thought he saw elves poking and prodding him. His vision was  blurred; his hearing was being distorted by sounds of bees or insects. He thought about Gulliver’s Travels, where Gulliver, on his back, is tied to the ground by civilian Lilliputians while Lilliput soldiers stand on him and hold him down with spears.

          Roman was being pushed and poked. The myriad voices overlapped, giving Roman incongruent sensations of reality, cloaked in fantasy, seen through blurred vision, hazy thoughts, vague noises and dulled feelings. He grinned stupidly, as if drunk. He tried lifting his head and almost passed out from the sudden pain. His mind filled with blackness as tiny dots of silver light sparkled before his eyes, like diamonds floating in a sea of tar. He felt cold sweat running down his face and chest. His vision cleared slightly, as if half a layer from a gauze blindfold had been removed. Then he became aware of warm sweat slowly flowing down his spine, bringing to mind a lethargic snake. His senses struggled to peer through the mental and visual fog. “Warm?” his mind asked. He groaned, saw and heard chattering elves surrounding him, but not hurting him. He wiped the cold sweat off his brow, then reached to his back and touched the warm wetness, then grimacing from the pain. When he held his fingers to his eyes and saw red. Ah, he thought, it’s blood, not sweat. Am I shot or stabbed in the back? Finally his mind cleared, eyes focused, the illusions departed, leaving him to face stark reality.

          A small, but familiar animal crawled to him. He blinked, squinted, then refocused his eyes. Not an animal. He recognized Steven. He was crawling back from the sink dragging a small tub of water and paper towels. Roman thought, Damn! No insects, no buzzing, no elves, my chattering students.

          A few children held Roman’s hands and arms as they tried to help him get up.

          “No. Not yet,” Roman said through a frown of pain.

          Steven and the other students sat on the floor and watched Mr. Wolfe. Whimpering children sat all around him, outlining his body as he lay on the floor. The whimpering, moaning and crying sounds, like buzzing bees all around him, made him feel like a queen bee in his classroom hive.

          Roman thought, I couldn’t have been stabbed; nobody here to stab me. Shit! Must’ve been shot.

          Roman sat up, pulled off his tie, then awkwardly unbuttoned his shirt and removed it. As he did that, he realized that being shot didn’t feel as bad as he’d thought it would. But then he’d often been told that you don’t feel much just before you die and that just before death you felt a blissful numbness. But he had an optimistic and comforting feeling that this wasn’t his time to meet death. He didn’t feel any numbness yet. He did feel sharp pain in his back which proved to have a seriously debilitating affect on his right arm. He could only move that arm with great pain. But at least now his mind was clear.

          Roman struggled to sit up. When he did sit up, he leaned his back against a cabinet for support, suddenly moaning and nearly fainting from the pain. The pain was excruciating, as if a double-edged dagger were being pushed, very slowly, into his back. He was forced to lean forward, away from the cabinet. He tried to remove his undershirt. He grimaced. The undershirt was too tight; it created too much discomfort to remove it. He tried to survey his other body parts to see if he was wounded anywhere else. He detected nothing else. It was just his back. “Steven. Some scissors, please,” Roman painfully stated through clenched teeth.

          Steven came back with a pair of scissors and started cutting Roman’s undershirt off. Shirley and Judi wiped the blood from their teacher’s back, often gagging, especially when seeing where it was pooling around his belt line. It was extremely difficult for them, but they both finished without actually vomiting.

          As the girls were cleaning the blood, Roman noticed that he was having no trouble breathing, despite the pain in the upper right back area. He wiggled his toes, could move his legs, arms, fingers and hips. He could now see and think clearly. He felt the warm rivulets of blood trickling down his back. The blood flow had decreased considerably when he sat upright. He pulled all this information together, concentrated on it.

          His conclusion was that he wasn’t shot critically, didn’t even seem as if the bullet penetrated very far. Maybe it was just a piece of bullet shrapnel or a glancing shot, he thought. He gently asked the children to move a little away from him. He needed room to maneuver. They obeyed. Then Roman saw the bloody paper towels. Plenty of blood on the initial paper towels, but not as much on the later ones, he thought. There wasn’t nearly as much blood as he’d expected or imagined. His mind, stunned with the thought of being shot─ and shocked with the irony of not having been shot in Nam─ may have exaggerated the sensations and the quantity of blood, but not the pain. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t put a handle on it yet. He focused his eyes and mind, trying to think of the next move to escape and free the students.

          “People,” he said to the students, “now is the time for bravery and all you have to do to be brave is not to cry, whimper or moan. That way I can think better and get all of you out of here. Be brave. Be quiet and listen.”

          Steven glanced bug-eyed at Shirley and Judi.

          “What?” Roman asked, but all he saw was more kids pointing at his back. It certainly wasn’t surprising news that he’d been wounded.

          He tried to move his upper torso and was startled, then immobilized by the searing pain. He looked at Steven questioningly.

          “Mr. Wolfe,” Steven said. “It’s a long piece of glass sticking out of your right shoulder blade area. It’s slanted. Looks like it went in sideways and kinda deep.

          Roman couldn’t move his upper right arm normally; it felt numb.

          “It doesn’t feel like it’s bleeding badly any more. How’s it look, Steven.”

          “It’s not bleeding much now.”

          “It doesn’t hurt as much either,” Roman added, mostly for the kid’s comfort.

          Roman smiled broadly at the children, reassuring them with, “Looks like Mr. Wolfe’s going to live to be a hundred year old grandpa.” Then he thought, A sliver of glass? I wonder how big it is? It may be a glass sliver, but it feels like an ice pick scrapping at my shoulder blade.

          He fought to keep smiling at the kids. They smiled warily back at him, but were non-responsive when he winked at them. They’re too smart, Roman thought. Can’t fool them about the seriousness of the situation. Suddenly he thought of Blizzard. In his mind he said, “Blizzard. Come.” Before Blizzard appeared, Roman said to the children, “My friend, a white wolf, is coming. You’ll all be able to see him. Don’t be afraid of him. He won’t hurt you. I promise.”

          Blizzard appeared, ghost-like. He lay down next to Roman.

          A few kids still screamed and scrambled away.

          “He won’t hurt any of you,” Roman repeated. “His name’s Blizzard,”

          Blizzard panted; his pink tongue hanging out and his ribs expanding and contracting quickly with each breath. He licked his own mouth, then yawned and placed his head on Roman’s thigh. The kids fell in love with him immediately, even the initially scared kids. They all looked as if they wanted to pet him.

          “Pet him one at a time,” Roman said to the kids and they did just that.

          Roman shifted his position carefully, not wanting to break-off the glass sliver inside the skin. He couldn’t pull it out himself because of its location. Nor did he want to have a student pull it out and expose the other kids to the sight of more blood, but, really, what choice did he have?

          Shirley and Judi stood next to Mr. Wolfe.

          “Girls,” Roman asked, with a whisper, “is the glass broken off at skin level?”

          “No,” they answered in unison.

          Shirley spoke, “Mr. Wolfe, it looks like one piece.”

          “Can you carefully pull it straight out so it won’t break? Now listen carefully. Can you pull it out the way it’s slanted? I don’t want to have it broken off under my skin. Shirley, just grab it carefully with a piece of dry paper towel so your fingers don’t slip off it, slowly pull it out, then Judi will hand you another paper towel and you press that paper towel against the wound.”

          Shirley cringed. “Oh, no, Mr. Wolfe. I can’t do that. I’m afraid,” she whispered.

          Roman looked at Judi, who shook her head, indicating that she couldn’t do it either.

          Roman asked Steven if he would help. “Gee. I don’t know, Mr. Wolfe.”

          Blizzard looked up at Roman and sent a thought to him. “I can do it.”

          Roman asked all the kids to sit in front of him so they wouldn’t see what was happening. Then he asked Steven to get a bunch of paper towels from over the sink and the roll of duct tape from his desk. Roman reminded him to crawl so he couldn’t be seen from the windows. Upon retrieving those items, Roman asked Steven to sit close to him. Then Blizzard moved behind Roman.

          Roman said to Steven, “When I tell you, I want you to go behind me, press the paper towels hard against the cut, then attach them there with the duct tape, OK?

          Steven looked a little hesitant, but said, “OK.”

          Roman, still in a sitting position, prepared himself for the pain.

          Blizzard delicately grabbed the glass sliver between his lips and drew it out slowly. Three seconds later it was out. Blizzard dropped it, then licked the wound; the taste of blood was appealing to Blizzard, but was not the reason that he’d licked the wound. Something medicinal in the saliva would assist the wound to heal quickly.

          Blizzard moved away while licking the bright red blood from around his mouth.

          Roman, surprised at the lack of pain, said, “Now, Steven.”

          Steven quickly crawled behind Roman, wiped off one meandering rivulet of blood, then pressed a thick, folded wad of paper towels hard against the wound.

          Roman still felt no pain, only pressure. He ripped off three long strips of duct tape for Steven. Roman then told Steven to tape the paper towels to his back. Steven placed three pieces of duct tape so they crisscrossed the paper towels in the shape of an asterisk. When Steven was done, he carefully picked up the piece of glass, showed it to Roman, then wrapped it into a paper towel and lobbed it into the nearby garbage can.

          At the same time Roman grabbed his bloody undershirt. He tied the under shirt securely to the tip of the broom handle and waved it out of the shattered window. He and the children waited anxiously.

          A couple minutes later, Roman heard a familiar voice coming from outside and below his window.

          “Wolfe, if you hear me, wave the flag up and down, then say, “My name is Wolfe.” said Lieutenant Hawkey.

          Roman moved the broomstick up and down, then repeated the sentence.

          “OK, now. I think I recognize your voice, but I have to make sure you’re not Miller. Answer this question: ‘What was the Spanish-sounding name that some of our Hispanic friends called you?’”

          “Solo-lobo,” answered Roman without delay.

          “Good, Roman. Is Miller dead?”

          “No, he’s tied up and gagged,” Roman said as he knelt on the floor below the shattered classroom window. “You the SOB that nearly killed me?”

          “Roman. Listen. It’s Joe. Remember Nam. Remember Khe Sanh? Remember the siege and your Mohawk Indian friend? It’s me, Hawk Eye.”

          “Hawk Eye? . . . Damn you. You tryin’ to kill me, old friend?”

          Joe apologized, saying, “Sorry about that, Wolf Man. My sniper and I thought you were Miller and he was trying to get a shot at him. When I saw it was you I yelled at him. He flinched, but pulled the trigger. Luckily the flinch knocked his aim off. We thought he’d shot you anyway. You okay?”

          “Yeah, I’m fine. Your man put a large glass sliver into my back with that shot, but nothing bad. I got it out and now it’s bandaged. Not much pain now. Miller’s lying here on the floor, unconscious. Steven, one of my students, his classmates and I put him down for a long count. And if he doesn’t stay down, quiet and behave, they have my permission to put him down again. Kind of like in the book, Lord of the Flies.”

          Steven’s face, and the faces of his classmates, burst with pride, then lit-up like a string of Christmas lights.

          “Tell you about all that later. Holy crap!” Roman yelled out. “Hawk Eye, huh?. Never thought I’d see you again. You’re a trooper? Didn’t think they’d take Injuns. You scalp anyone yet? I gotta guy up here who needs scalping.”

          Besides Hawkey’s relatives, Roman was the only one allowed to call Lieutenant Hawkey by his Mohawk Indian name of “Hawk Eye.”

          “This old Mohawk Injun renegade is at your service, Wolf Man.” Then, to return the friendly insult, Lieutenant Hawkey said, “They let you be a teacher of young children, huh? Must have really lowered the standards to let you into that profession?”

          “Yeah. Yeah, I guess so. They took pity on me.”

          “Is the coast all clear up there?” Joe stated.

          “Yeah, Hawk Eye. It’s all clear up here. Fang’s on the roof with one of my girl students and Sam. The girl’s name is Alyson. Does that damn sniper of yours know enough not to shoot at me again?” yelled Roman.

          “He does, now, but I was spotting for him, so it’s my fault too. There was too much glare on the window,” shouted Lieutenant Hawkey. “OK, Buddy. Now I need your help. You have a better knowledge of the situation up there. So, how do we handle this?”

          “This is your show, Joe,” Roman said, puzzled.

          “No, Wolf Man. When you were around, it was always your show. We all trusted you implicitly. How do you see this situation?”

          “OK. Let me think.”

          While Roman thought for a minute. Lieutenant Hawkey called Captain Lewis on his walkie-talkie, wanting to update her about the current situation concerning this side of the building. Captain Lewis acknowledged him and said that she had a bad situation with Fang holding the girl hostage over the edge of the roof. She also said that she thought Sam was up there, but had not seen her yet. Captain Lewis said that she needed Lieutenant Hawkey to come back as soon as possible. She ended the transmission abruptly.

          Hawkey called K-O, who was still in the tower and told him to stay there. And if Fang came to his side of the roof and K-O had a clear shot, he was still authorized to take a kill-shoot, but only if he could do so without harming the hostage and if he was 100% sure that he was shooting at Fang. Hawkey informed Gus that Sam may be on the roof, also. Gus acknowledged the message, then filled his lungs full of air and exhaled in a sign of relief for not having shot the teacher, though in his youth he would have like to shoot some of his teachers.

          “All’s clear, Wolf Man. You can look out the window now and talk to me,” said Lieutenant Hawkey.

          Roman pulled the broomstick into the classroom and gave it to Steven. Roman stood and hesitantly moved toward the window. “Give me an update, Buddy.”

          “My captain tells me that Fang’s up to something that doesn’t sound or look good for that little girl or for Sam. Got any good ideas? We need to work fast, man. The helicopter is coming. Can’t let Fang off that roof into a helicopter.”

          “Yeah, Hawk Eye. I understand. I was going to lower Miller and the kids out the window and down to you with a long orange, heavy-duty electrical cord, but if you say that your captain has Fang in sight, on the roof and something bad is happening, then I have to get up on the roof ASAP. Get your ass up here, Hawk Eye and help me get these kids outta here. Meet you in the hallway.”

          “Be there in a few seconds,” Hawk Eye yelled as he ran around the corner of the building, grabbed two of his men, then raced to the side entrance of the school while radioing Captain Lewis with the information.

          Lt. Hawkey and his two men sprang, two steps at a time, up the stairs, passing another guard who was told to stay put. When they got to the second floor, Lieutenant Hawkey peeked through the doorway, then down the hallway. He saw Roman standing in the hallway with a handgun in his right hand and Miller draped, like a limp rug, over his left shoulder. A mass of children stood behind him, poking their heads out of the doorway, desperately wanting to get away.

          Roman left hand pointed to the door that led to the roof. Hawk Eye, his men, then Roman and the children started walking toward each other.

          When Hawk Eye reached Wolfe, Wolfe said, “Hawk Eye. Can you guard the roof door? Fang can’t be allowed to come back down here. We need to keep him up there.”

          Hawkey’s two men looked at each other with puzzled expressions when they heard the Lieutenant being called “Hawk Eye.”

          “Sure,” Hawk Eye said. “I’ve got two good men to help.” Hawk Eye stood guard by the open door frame pointing his H&K, MP-5, 9mm assault gun up the stairs.

          Lt. Hawkey ordered the two other SWAT team members to assist Roman.

          Roman pointed to his students and ordered, “You guys bring these kids and this asshole, Miller, out of here, immediately.”

          The two officers looked at Roman, strangely, taking offense at being ordered to do something by a civilian; a teacher who was giving them orders as if it were natural for him, as if he were their boss. They looked at Lieutenant Hawkey for confirmation, their expressions saying, “Do we take orders from this guy?”

“He knows what he’s doing,” Lieutenant Hawkey said, in a loud, authoritative whisper, “Do what he said and get out of here, now. But cuff Miller first.”

One trooper placed handcuffs on Miller’s wrists, which were still tied behind his back, then allowed Roman to transfer Miller’s limp body onto his shoulder. Then the officer departed down the stairs.

          The other trooper collected the scared kids into a small, tight group and immediately took them downstairs to safety, while his Lieutenant stayed with the teacher he mysteriously called, “Wolf Man,” among other names, who, in turn, called his Lieutenant, “Hawk Eye” instead of Lieutenant Hawkey.

         Roman looked anxiously at the roof door entrance. “I have to go up alone,” he said to Hawk Eye. “Too dangerous with the both of us up there. He’ll start shooting when he sees your uniform. Me? I can bait him into a fight. He sees me as a weakling teacher, so he won’t shoot me. He’ll want to play with me, like a cat with a mouse.”

          “Shit! Buddy, Captain Lewis will chew me a new asshole if I let you do that alone. I can stay outta sight, be your backup.”

         “I don’t have time to argue with you, Hawk Eye. You know I’m right about this. Can you handle Captain Lewis’s criticism?” There was a pause. “Hawk Eye, you always trusted me before. So trust me now. I know how to do this, OK? That’s my student and my wife up there. Fang’s an extremely dangerous bully and I’ve handled bullies every since middle school.”

          “The Captain won’t agree with that, but, yeah, I know you’re right. I’d trust you with my life. Did it nearly every day we were together in Nam. Go ahead, but be real careful with this guy. He’s ultra-ruthless . . . and I mean . . . stone . . . cold . . . ruthless. Not some skinny, half-pint Viet Cong or a midget-like NVA soldier.

          “Oh, shit! I almost forgot to tell you. A custodian came to Bev and I when he saw someone on the roof. He said that the key to the roof door is on a hook near the door handle. I told him that that doesn’t help us any because the ape on the roof would take the key, unlock the door, pass through it, then lock the door behind him. I had interrupted the custodian with my impatience and didn’t allow him to finish. The guy said that there’s a spare key, a hidden key to that door. You just reach up to the rafter that’s above the door and feel around until you find it. So that’ll help tremendously, giving you a quiet approach. I’ll be waiting down here. Go,” Hawk Eye said.

          Roman quietly started up the stairs, mumbling something.

          Joe thought, What the hell? Did he just say Blizzard? He’s still the Wolf Man.

          After calling Blizzard as he climbed the stairs, Roman said, “Consider yourself called to duty.” When he reached the top of the stairs, Roman paused, felt above the door frame and, sure enough, found the key. He unlocked the door as quietly as he could.

          He felt for the blade on his right hip and pulled it out with his left hand as he gripped the magnum handgun in his right hand─ he wished that he had his throwing knife, but he never brought weapons to school. His thoughts meandered, thinking, The way public school are heading, teachers will soon need to be armed. He refocused, unlocked the door and opened it very slowly. Luckily, the door was facing away from where Fang was standing. Peeking around the corner, Roman could see Alyson and Sam. He could see fear in Sam’s tense body, even looking at her from behind. Poor Alyson looked like she was in shock, as Sam held her tightly. As they sat, Sam rocked Alyson.

          Fang stepped away from the edge of the roof, then glared at Sam as she held Alyson. Alyson was trembling, her face buried in Sam’s shoulder while being held within Sam’s embrace. Fang laughed at them, knowing that the door was locked, so they had nowhere to go. He had complete control over their minds and bodies, but it was their bodies that he was thinking about. Maybe, he thought, he should bring the girls on the helicopter with him. Once he was safe, he could have so much fun with the both of them, though it was Alyson that he desired the most.

          Holy shit! Bev thought to herself as she looked upward from the parking lot. Did I just hear a coyote howling? Sounded like it came from the rooftop. No. Can’t be. Must have been a dog, she said to herself, with a confused tilt to her head and a frowning brow. She thought, That’s strange. It didn’t really sound like a dog. And what would a dog be doing on the roof? Christ, this mess is getting crazier and crazier.

          Joe smiled at the ghostly vision as he stood guard by the door. He’d seen the ghost wolf before, in Nam, but had never said anything to anybody about it. He had thought, Why waste my breath saying something that no one will believe.

/--/.-/-.-/./--/./..-./././.-../