Roman Wolfe 2: Classroom Terror Part Three

11

“There are a thousand hacking at the branches of evil to one who is striking at the root.”

Henry David Thoreau

Fang peeked out of the classroom door. He observed an empty hallway. He stepped back into the room, then quickly stuck his head through the doorway again to see if he could spot anybody who may have been hiding. Nothing. He yelled out, “I don’t see you assholes, but I know you’re there, hiding like scared puppies under a porch.”

          “Charlie. Freddy. Step out here a minute,” Fang ordered, as he pointed towards the hallway. As they stepped into the hallway, Fang made sure that Charlie and Freddy were unsuspectingly shielding him from possible gunfire. This was his way of seeing if the cops would shoot at them. If they did, then he would know that negotiations would not occur and killing a kid would be necessary to gain their attention and cooperation.

          When the door closed behind them, Roman wished that he could lock them out, but the dolts would go wild, shoot out the window by the doorknob or break it out with a rifle butt or even threaten the kids with harm if he didn’t open the door. Then it would have been all for nothing and he would’ve angered all of them and increased the danger to his students. Roman resisted the impulse to take action and this inaction infuriated him.

          But a different, more fruitful thought prodded him into action. He quickly stepped to the classroom television and removed the cable from the back of it. Without it, there could be no television reception That’s exactly what Roman wanted: no TV, no media coverage to see and no news-hounds excitedly reporting every detail about his past, all of which would be detrimental to his students’ welfare.

          “Shit! I have to get my transistor radio out of here, too,” Roman mumbled.

          Roman hurriedly carried the TV cable to his desk. He opened his bottom drawer and took out the transistor radio. Walking fast, he brought both of them to the window, opened it and threw them out. The falling objects startled two roving policemen. One of them picked the objects up, while the other aimed his weapon at the classroom window as a precaution. Then they both walked to Captain Lewis and gave the objects to her. She knew immediately why the teacher had thrown those particular objects out of the window. She grinned, then mumbled, “Smart.”

          Roman turned toward the children. They were all watching him. They didn’t hear the thump of the radio or TV cable as it fell two stories to the grass that fringed the parking lot.

          Quickly, but in a soft voice, Roman said, “Don’t talk about my karate. Don’t say anything about Vietnam or what happened in the mountains last year. It might make them mad and extra mean.” Roman didn’t want to scare the children any more than they already were, so he didn’t say they might hurt some of them or himself. “Don’t ask me why you shouldn’t talk about me. I don’t have time to explain. Just trust me and do as I say. Then we’ll all get out safely. I’ll protect you. Believe me. Be brave and─”

          Roman was interrupted when Fang heavy-handedly opened the door, straining the hinges. The three men entered the room. Fang smiled, apparently satisfied about something that Roman couldn’t fathom─ there was no shooting, which meant that the cops would negotiate with Fang. Fang and Charlie strode side-by-side, both laughing. Freddy forced a grin. Fang and Charlie stopped laughing, but grinned, as if the whole world was theirs and all they had to do was spin it in any direction they wanted.

          Observing their grins, Roman’s internal voice spoke sarcastically. “I bet that if I gave them both a penny for their thoughts, I wouldn’t get my money’s worth.”

          Fang stared at Roman, knowing that he must’ve been talking to the kids because they all had been looking at their teacher when he walked into the classroom. Fang wondered what Roman had said. “So. What yuh been up to? What were yuh talkin’ ‘bout, Teach?”

          “I’ve just been trying to calm them and assure them that if they behaved themselves that they wouldn’t be hurt,” Roman lied. “Please don’t get upset. I’m helping you out here. I’m just keeping them calm so they don’t bother you. I told them that you’d be gone soon and that they should be brave and do what you tell them to do. Then everything will be OK.” Roman thought that he’d sounded convincing.

          Charlie, looking at Fang said, “He’s lyin’. Maybe he ain’t as stupid as he looks.” Charlie laughed, but his face appeared sinister, with bad teeth showing against pale-pink gums. He wanted to plunge his knife into the teacher’s belly. Subconsciously, Charlie knew the sexual symbolism of his knife. It was a classic phallic symbol that he used to penetrate the people he hated or people who had harmed him, regardless of gender.

          Fang peered at Roman, suspiciously, then at Charlie and whispered, “Yeah. That what worries me. Keep yur eyes on ‘im.” Fang glared at Roman, again. Then he turned to Freddy, asking, “Whaddaya think, Freddy? Is he tellin’ the truth?”

          “Sounds ta me like whata teacher would do. Don’t yuh think?”

          Roman thought, Yep. You tell ‘em Freddy. I need more time. Time heals all wounds, but time also wounds all heels. Sometime soon, Fang and Charlie will be under my heel. But, I might be able to save you, Freddy. If religion can change you from a criminal to a moral, caring person, then you’re worth saving.

          Charlie glared at Roman. “What yuh thinkin’ Teach?” Don’t be thinkin’ about doin’ something stupid. Don’t wanna hear any insults either. Didn’t come here ta be insulted by some shit-fer-brains teacher.”

          “Really? Where do you usually go?” Roman asked, sarcastically, then regretted it.

          There was a silence in the room, but the menacing stares between Roman and Charlie were interrupted by Freddy’s prayer. “Lord forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” Can’t remember what psalm that is, Freddy thought. “He that loveth not, knoweth not God; for God is love. John 4:8.”

          “Will yuh shut the fuck up, asshole? Christ almighty! That God crap’s sickenin’.”

          Freddy cringed at the words Christ almighty.

          Freddy looked extremely nervous. He was on the hot spot. He hated it. He hated having to make decisions. He thought that he’d be better off in the Army or even in jail, where life’s trivial and complex decisions would be made for him. He said. “I think he’s probly telling the truth, Otto. What’s he got ta lie about? He’s afraid for the kids.”

          Fang reached and grabbed Freddy by the hair, nearly yanking a patch of it out by the roots, then said, “Yuh know I don’t like ta be called Otto, not even by me baby brother. Yuh call me Fang. Understand?” Fang’s lip got caught on his tooth. It frustrated him to have to contort his face to unhook it, especially if he had to reach up and unhook it with a finger.

          Fang let go of Freddy just as Freddy started squealing in pain. Freddy put both hands up to rub his painful scalp. His face was red, there were tears in his eyes as he said, “Yeah, OK, sure. You know I’m used to callin’ yuh Otto. I didn’t mean no harm.” Then he made the mistake of preaching to Fang, “Brother, please listen. Blessed are the peacemakers. God will look down upon us with wrath in his eyes. There will be a judgment day. You will be punished for your wicked ways.”

          Not if I get to Fang first, Roman thought. Roman had an idea: What if I had Blizzard spook them, mildly scare them? Would it do more harm that good? He knew that Fang wouldn’t be spooked, but if Blizzard could scare Charlie and Freddy, it might cause enough pressure on Fang to surrender. I doubt it, but it’s a risk that I should take.

          Fang looked disgustedly at his brother, showing his anger by slapping him. Freddy lifted his hand to cover his stinging cheek and ear.

          Fang emphatically stated, “Yuh damn fool! There ain’t no God. Look at the people around the world, the misery, the suffering, the poor people, the disease an’ all the other bad stuff out there. If yuh think there be a God, then it be a cruel, miserable son-of-a-bitch, and if yuh think there be an all-good God, then where does all the bad stuff come from? All the suffering, pain an’ misery? If there be a God that created everything, then he created all the evil too. See, Freddy? Then yur God be a cruel, fuckin’ monster. Can’t be no God, yuh jerk-off. Damn, Freddy, can’t believe yuh still thinks like a child. Probly still believe in Santa Claus, too, don’tcha?”

          “God works in mysterious ways,” Freddy retorted defiantly.

          “Yur such a damn fool, Freddy. Yur hopeless.”

          There it is, Roman thought sarcastically. That pathetic mysterious ways, bullshit answer. Something’s a mystery and can’t be explained, or the explanation is rejected, so there must be an invisible God lurking around the corner creating all the mysteries. It must be just a coincidence that the invisible looks exactly like the non-existent. Mysteries defy logic and defying logic is exactly what is required to believe in an illogical myth. Roman thought, “Where knowledge ends, religion begins.” (Benjamin Disraeli). “Faith means not wanting to know what is true.” (Friedrich Nietzsche).

          For a much needed distraction, Freddy self-consciously said, “How many of you kids need ta use the bathroom? Raise yur hand if you do.”

          An alarm shot up Roman’s back, like a current of high-voltage electricity traveling upward inside his spinal cord, all the way to his brain stem.

          “Hey. Finally a good idea, Freddy. OK, then,” Fang smiled, having an ulterior motive. “I take the girls an’ Charlie, here, takes the boys. But we do it one at a time so’s there ain’t so much confusion. Don’t want no one runnin’ away an gettin’ hurt, do we?”

          Roman’s ears were ringing from distress. Those perverts alone in the bathrooms with the children? One at a time? No fuckin’ way is that going to happen. Roman felt his rage building instantly. His face flushed from anger and anxiety.

          Roman knew that in real life, when push comes to shove, many of the biggest braggarts, and often the biggest men, end up on their asses looking up at the person who finally put them down. Bullies almost always think that they’re the best. Then they’re shocked at what some smaller, innocent-looking guy, did to them. They should know that there’s always someone better, someone faster, stronger, more cunning, with better fighting skills and better weapons.

          Roman looked around the room, wondering if now was the time for action. Get to them fast. Start with Fang, do it fast, disable him, then put the others down viciously. Roman felt Blizzard’s spirit howling, then stirring within him. It was a hopeful feeling.

          A painful roaring, like Niagara Falls, filled Roman’s ears. Blizzard. Roman’s skin tingled, his fingers and fingernails felt as if they were elongating, though he couldn’t see the change. His sense of hearing and smell intensified tremendously. Roman’s inner voice spoke to Blizzard. “We must do it now.”

                  *

          Roman’s chest tingled as Blizzard leaped out of it. Roman didn’t want the children to see Blizzard for fear of scaring them, so Blizzard remained invisible as he stalked Freddy and Charlie. Fang was preoccupied glancing out the door and down the hallway. Blizzard streaked toward Freddy and Charlie as they both turned. They thought they heard a noise. Then Blizzard showed himself as a transparent, white fog, his teeth bared.

          To Charlie and Freddy, there was no question that the fog appeared to be in the shape of a growling, white wolf. Both surprised men sucked in air as their eyes protruded in horror, then terror. They saw Blizzard streak at them, launching himself with his mouth agape, teeth ready to puncture their faces, then rip and tear their flesh. They moved backward, instinctively, pulled their hands up to protect their faces, then screamed and fell against the blackboard, whimpering.

          Fang didn’t see what happened, so he concluded that they were clowning around. “Stop the crap,” he reprimanded. “Get off the floor. Why yuh two screamin’ an’ whimperin’ like babies?”

          “Didn’t yuh see the ghost wolf? A white wolf. We saw it. It jumped at us. Really,” Charlie said in a serious tone of voice.

          “Yeah, Otto . . . ah, I mean Fang. I saw it too,” Freddy offered.

          Fang starred at them with disgust painted on his face. “Christ, Charlie. I thought I could depend on yuh. Now yur tellin’ make-believe stories like my bro. Sheee it.”

          Then Fang stared at Roman. “Did yuh see anythin’?”

          “No. Didn’t see anything and I was looking right at them,” Roman lied, then looked at the two men and smiled brightly.

          Roman could tell that Charlie wanted to kill him. Freddy, however, just sulked, looking at his shoes as if they had holy pictures pasted on them.

          This hostage situation is somewhat like Nam, Roman thought. It’s basically the same, except for the kids. Life and death, success and failure depended on arriving at a successful solution or action before the enemy did the same thing. Quick, decisive, direct and brutal action was called for, just like in combat. Arriving at a successful solution to a problem, however, required time to think, but in war, on the battlefield, there’s often no time to think, just act, or react, with instinctive or reflexive actions that’ll save your life and, perhaps, someone else’s life.

          Isn’t it ironic, Roman asked himself, that, with so many people, their victories and successes seem to wash away as easily as dirt in flowing water, while their failures, guilt and negative memories become dark shadows that seek their attention, trip them constantly, harass them, lay heavy hands on their shoulders by day and haunt their dreams by night.

          Roman’s mind wandered to a conversation that he once had with his friend, Joe, in Vietnam. It was after their patrol had surprised a Viet Cong campsite. The men spread themselves into a 150 degree arc─ encircling the enemy would risk shooting their own men on the other side of the circle. His platoon killed every enemy soldier in the camp. Roman remembered most of the conversation:

          Joe: “Does the killing ever bother you? Haunt you with guilt? Do you ever think about the sanity of war and the value of human life? Or becoming judge, jury and executioner? Do morality and ethics come into play at any time?”

          Roman remembered staring at Joe to make sure he was serious. He was.

          Roman: “Kill or be killed, Joe. You wanna stay alive in a war? Then forget the morality, ethics and guilt bullshit. Save it for civilian life where it belongs. There’s no time for it when you’re being shot at, bombed or trying not to step on land mines and other lethal traps.”

          Joe: “OK. I understand that. But, Wolfe, don’t you think we’re acting like savages, being reduced to beasts, cheering the sight of the enemy’s blood and guts, sometimes even if they’re women and kids? It bothers me.”

          Roman: “Joe, killing is one of man’s primal instincts. We haven’t outgrown it, we’ve just camouflage it in a dense forest of laws, rules, etiquette, talk of morality and ethics and the facade of advanced civilization. Under that grand facade of civilized behavior, man is still a hunter, a killer. He still destroys, only his weapons are better now, much more destructive. And one thing that hasn’t changed in thousands of years is that the strong prey on the weak. The irony of inequality is that until everyone is equal, has the same things, believes the same things, and thinks the same way, thus creating few differences between peoples, there will always be conflict between the haves and the have-nots. Inequality causes friction, friction causes heat (anger), anger leads to conflict and conflict, if large enough, ends up in civil or world wars. Since there almost always will be inequality, plus disparate and rigid beliefs, then conflicts between the haves and have-nots, and varying belief systems, especially differing governments and religions, there will almost certainly always be personal conflicts, battles and wars.

          “All that stuff used to bother me, sometimes keeping me awake, but I don’t let it bother me any more. As a matter of fact, in wartime, any of those things will almost certainly get you killed. If you value life, then put all that theorizing and philosophizing crap on hold. If you really value life, then save your own life first. You can’t help others to stay alive and you can’t help change the inequalities, the injustices of the world, if you’re dead. Think of it that way.”

          Joe: “Hard not to think of the value of human life and the rules and laws, and such, that make life safer and satisfying, don’t yuh think?”

          Roman: “War and conflict are inherently ugly. War is when the human primal instinct for killing is no longer disguised by the decorative facade of civilization, but rather, exposed in all its naked ugliness and waste of human life. During war there are few rules and laws that bind you. But, it all comes down to kill or be killed, Joe. Right now killing is my government job. I’m required to kill the enemy. Kill for my country and kill to stay alive. Do I sleep well? Hell, no, but I’m alive to complain about it.”

          Joe: “Maybe the guilt is good, in a way. If you feel guilt and regret for what you’re doing, then you’re probably a mostly good person. But when someone can kill easily and sleep well, perhaps his morality is questionable. Does the guilt ever get to you?”

          Roman: “Joe, I care deeply about my country and Americans, especially American soldiers here in Nam. If I killed thousands of the enemy because of blood-lust, or I got a thrill out of killing and really enjoyed it, then I’d be a true killer. But I’m already overburdened with guilt. I have no choice. To stay alive and get home to my wife and daughter, I need to kill. It always comes down to that, Joe. You kill or you get killed, sometimes both. I happen to be fighting for my country, even though I disagree with it. But, primarily, I kill to save myself and those who are with me in this war. I don’t believe in this war. It sucks, all right? To tell you the truth, I don’t really give a damn about how poor the Cong are, or if they’re homeless or not, or whether or not they get some form of democracy. If the Commies want this shit-hole country, and the people won’t defend it themselves, then fuck it. Let the Commies have it. What are they going to get out of it? Some extra rice, hot sauce and terrible monsoons and debilitating heat? What I care about is American lives and because of that I’ll keep killing the enemy. Hell, whoever wants this backward, puke-hole can have it, for all I care. Let the people do what they want with their lives and their country. To me, it’s simply not worth the loss of American lives. I simply want to get out of here alive and go back to my family. And how do I do that, Joe? I do that by stopping myself from thinking about guilt, morality, shame, laws, right and wrong and focus on the basics of staying alive. And what’s the most basic of the basics? Kill or be killed.”

          Joe: “Yeah. I guess I understand. I wish I could rub a bottle and have God pop out, like a genie and fix things.”

          Roman: “You’d be rubbing an empty bottle, Joe. No offense intended.”

          Joe: “Huh? Oh, yeah, I forgot you’re an atheist. No offense taken. Hell, I think almost the same way. Many of my people still worship the earth and the natural environment, similar to a the Wicca religion. I prefer the old ways, the old spirits.”

          Roman: “You mentioned a bottle and my mind drifted off, Joe. My wife and I have a song that we like. The title is: Time in a Bottle, a song by Jim Croce. It’s about how precious time is, perhaps the most precious thing in life.”

          Joe: “That’s for damn sure.”

          That night, when Joe was trying to sleep, he couldn’t help thinking of Roman. Wolfe certainly wasn’t perfect and could be a hard, stoic person, both physically and mentally. He had a strong character, kind of like granite─ solid despite the imperfections. But it’s those imperfections that are keeping him alive in this hell-hole. They also give him a sort of uniqueness. He radiates a palpable sense of extreme danger, too. That’s why the other guys usually stay away from him. I wonder why he likes me? I’m just one of the guys, but he accepts me. Is that good or bad luck? Wait a minute. I wonder if those lines of imperfection in his tough, rock-like hardness are really faults created by his admitted imperfections. Shit, how would I know? I’m no damn psychologist. He does appear to be restrained when he needs to be and savage when he needs to be, though looking at him, he sometimes appears to be dynamite with an unlit fuse.

          Joe adjusted his backpack, which was serving as his pillow, then turned from his back to his side. He could hardly see his own hands, it was so dark under the thick canopy of jungle foliage. His thoughts about Wolfe continued. It seemed to Joe that Roman was carrying the seeds of his own destruction within himself, buried deeply, and Roman’s struggle is to never allow fertile soil to exist for those seeds to grow. If that happened, Joe wondered if Roman’s toughness and hardness would rupture like an earthquake ruptures the hardness of the earth’s surface. Probably not, Joe concluded. Joe thought that underneath the “kill or be killed” character there lies a decent human being. He hoped so, anyway. One thing’s for sure, he sure knows how to stay alive.

          It turned out that these particular thoughts were the impetus for Joe’s continued curiosity, which led to frequent future conversations with Roman. Joe thought of another conversation he and Wolfe had a few weeks later.

          Joe rolled back over onto his back leaving patches of sweat on the waterproof ground mat. He remembered when some young ass Lieutenant hassled Roman. Later, after Roman visited the base-camp store, Roman got the Lieutenant’s shampoo bottle and replaced the Lieutenant’s shampoo with Nair hair remover. Goddamn, that was funny, Joe thought. The whole camp was laughing when the Lieutenant’s hair started falling out, little by little. The next day his head was patches of baldness in between patches of hair. After that the Loo wore his hat all day and never took it off until bedtime. The Loo never found out who did it, but he had his suspicions, although, without proof, he couldn’t do anything about it. The Lieutenant stayed away from Wolfe after that.

          Joe continued the conversation with himself. Jesus. I remember when Wolfe told me that he wasn’t as tough as people thought he was. God, now that was a shock. My jaw dropped so low that I probably could’ve kissed my own dick without bending over. When I told Wolfe about my thoughts of comparing him to iron and cotton, he shocked me again by saying that he was sometimes afraid when in battle, and that he didn’t understand why the guys thought that he was fearless. Wolfe said that he was afraid that he wouldn’t be able to protect those closest to him, afraid he’d meet someone better, meaner, more violent and more skilled. Wolfe is afraid of getting killed, leaving his family defenseless. I remember him saying that he’s not, by nature, a violent person, but as society becomes more and more violent he needs to be more alert, more vigilant and prepared to defend himself and his family from violence.

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

12

“You will never do anything in this world without courage. It is the greatest quality of the mind, next to honor.”

Aristotle

The sun had peaked when they entered the school parking lot. They made few noises, no sirens, nor horns, and no flashing lights. They arrived quietly in a large State Police mobile command-post vehicle. It lumbered along smoothly, though it gave the impression of an army tank: solid, heavy, slow, ominous; a rolling fortress. The walls, roof and floor were made of reinforced steel. The windows on the back doors were slightly olive-colored due to the large amount of metal baked into the glass. All this, of course, making the vehicle and glass bulletproof. The tandem rear wheels supported its heaviness. The vehicle pulled to the end of the parking lot and came to a quiet stop, no tire screeching, no sliding on gravel like you see in the inaccurate, hyperbole-laden cop movies. This vehicle could survive a bomb blast equivalent to the power of five grenades. “The Tank,” as the guys called it, came to a stop like a dinosaur dying in slow-motion.

          Inside the Tank were other weapons, such as tear gas, shock grenades, extra ammunition, and an M72 Light Anti-Tank Weapon, also referred to as the LAW. The LAW is a portable, shoulder mounted, one shot, 66 mm anti-tank weapon, operated by one person It can penetrate heavy armor─ the need for it in this situation was extremely remote.

          The “Tank” swayed on its ultra heavy-duty, shock-absorbers, releasing a groaning sound, giving the impression that the vehicle was alive. The groaning sounds were actually caused by the unseen occupants who were moving around inside, causing weight to shift and the shock absorbers to groan. The double back doors, like elephant ears, swung open. Ninja-looking State Troopers, specially dressed in their battle-rattle, came bursting out, immediately searching for snipers, smelling the air for trouble, sizing up the situation in a few seconds.

          Their honed sense of situational awareness was taught to them by Lieutenant Hawkey, their SWAT team leader. He’d taught them to always be aware of what was around them, pay attention to small details, focus, and survey their surrounding. “The key to survival,” Lieutenant Hawkey often stated, “is to be paranoid. Don’t trust anyone unless you are absolutely sure of them; keep a constant eye and ear open for hidden or potential danger. There are only two types of SWAT team members,” he would say, “those who act temporarily paranoid and use it to their advantage, and whose every sense is alert to danger, and then there are those who are now crippled or dead.”

          The Tank could fit twelve SWAT members, in full gear, six on each of two opposing metal benches, although today there were only six men and one woman. The Tank was all black with huge white letters that boldly read STATE POLICE SWAT.

          Each member of the SWAT team wore between thirty and forty pounds of equipment, starting with a Web belt and a ballistic helmet; goggles; black cotton gloves; a mike-mounted portable radio; two sets of matte black, metal cuffs; hard plastic flex-cuffs; black, flexible steel-sole and steel-toed boots; a Beretta handgun in a hip holster with an extra, fully loaded magazine containing fifteen bullets, that hung from a shoulder rig; a can of Mace; a Level III tactical vest, that would stop common caliber bullets and, finally, their primary weapon, which could be one of three weapons: (1) a shoulder mounted MP-5 assault gun─ the Heckler and Koch, 9 mm, submachine gun─ (2) a cut-down, 12 gauge Remington shotgun or (3) a high quality, police model, sniper rifle─ a bolt-action, high-tech, McMillan TAC-308, in .308 caliber. This sniper rifle was specially made, with a heavy duty, match grade, free-floating barrel. It included a bipod for stabilization and was matte black to prevent the reflection of light. The sniper rifle was topped with a Leupold VX-II, 4-12X50 scope, also with a black matte finish.

          But the thing the SWAT team wore most noticeably was their grim expressions. It was a deadly business for them. Their lives were on the line each and every second and some of them had families to go home to. Lieutenant Hawkey trained his men well; they each knew their job perfectly. The jokes and humor that covered up their anxieties and fears were left inside the command vehicle. In combat situations, some men fight hard, while others hardly fight, but Lieutenant Hawkey’s team fought harder than most because Lieutenant Hawkey, himself, was harder than most people in this business.

          Captain Lewis hurried to Lieutenant Hawkey, as she held the fourth grade classroom students’ pictures that the school principal had given to her. It was a five-by-eight inch card with twenty-two individual student pictures, plus a picture of the teacher and the principal. Each picture was small, about one inch long by three-fourths of an inch wide. She handed the picture card to Joe who glanced at the faces quickly. Something about the pictures snagged his curiosity, like a jagged fingernail catching on a thread of a sweater. But he wasn’t sure what it was. He handed the card back to Captain Lewis.

          “Joe,” Captain Lewis said, “there’re three of them. Two escaped from prison and the third provided the transportation and the outside connections. They’ve taken this whole classroom hostage.” She pointed at the picture. “Twenty-two kids and one teacher. Teacher’s male. That may be helpful later on, depending on what kind of guy he is and the size of his cojones. Principal says he’s over six feet tall, about one-eighty to one-ninety pounds. Very quiet. The type that keeps to himself, a loner, but very good with kids.” She handed the picture card to Joe, while mumbling, “Three cock suckers.”

          Joe smirked at Bev’s cussing, then raised his eyebrows and smiled at her.

          “Don’t say a damn word, Joe,” Bev responded with a friendly smile.

          Joe used his rifle sling to place his weapon over his left shoulder. He took a closer look at the picture card as a breeze flapped it up and down like a single bird wing. Twelve boys, ten girls. Nice looking kids, he thought. Again, something caught his eye. He studied the picture, as Captain Lewis stood silently next to him. Something vague stirred in his brain, a nebulous memory, a ghost in a fog. He couldn’t quite grasp it, couldn’t make the right connection. Something about the pictures . . . the kids? . . . no, not the kids. Something about the teacher, maybe, . . . a male teacher . . . tall and slim . . . his eyes? Something about the teacher’s eyes.. He focused on the teacher’s face, squinting at it, trying to recall something . . . but what? He closed his eyes in concentration. Memories swirled in his mind like stirred oil in a caldron.

          Suddenly, the memory was born. His eyelids shot open. He inhaled so quickly that it sounded like a gasp. He stared directly into Bev’s eyes, put his right hand onto her left shoulder and said, “What’s his name, Bev? The teacher’s name.” He said it with authority, impatience and a touch of excitement. Captain Lewis was startled by Joe’s loud almost fierce response. She didn’t like his tone of voice, but she knew it wasn’t like Hawkey to speak to her like that either. Something was afoot. She searched his face, looking for a clue, but only saw the faintest curve of a smile and wide open eyes that appeared to have more mirth in them than on his lips. It didn’t make sense, but she’d known Hawkey for a long time and trusted him. She put her initial feeling aside and trusted him now, too.

          “It’s on the card, Joe. Small letters. Right here. Look.” She pointed to the center of the card where both the principal’s and the teacher’s names were printed. Captain Lewis said, “The principal’s name is Mr. Howard and the teacher’s name is Mr. Wolfe.”

                “Bev, it’s very important. I need to know the teacher’s first name,” Joe stated adamantly as he took his hand off Captain Lewis’s shoulder. Her heart was pounding, but Captain Lewis wasn’t aware of it yet. She did know, by the expression on Joe’s face and the tone of his voice, that something extremely important was bothering him. She also knew that very few things bothered Joe Hawkey. He was usually the coolest cube of ice around. But now there was a sense of explosive motion and impatience about him, as if he were a bullet waiting for the firing pin to strike its primer. Now she worried as she became aware of the pounding and pain in her chest, as if a badger was pounding and clawing its way out.

          Captain Lewis pushed the button on her microphone and talked to a trooper who was with the school principal. He was to ask the principal what Mr. Wolfe’s first name is. There was a short pause, then she received the answer. Bev asked Joe, “What’s so damn important about the guy’s first name?” When Joe stared impatiently at her, she whispered, “Christ almighty, Joe. What’s going on? She stopped immediately and listened to the radioed answer, then stated, “His name’s Roman. Roman Wolfe. Now tell me what the hell’s goin’ on,” in her own stern, impatient voice of authority.

          Joe stared at the picture, smiled broadly, then said, “DAM!,” as he rubbed his index finger over the teacher’s picture, as if to make it clearer and capture the man’s spirit. “DAM!” he repeated, followed by, “His face is so clean shaven, no dirt, no smudges, no camouflage paint, no long hair, just a little older, but it’s him. Jesus, Bev, it’s him.”

          Captain Lewis moved closer to Joe and placed her hand gently on Joe’s shoulder. “Who, Joe? Now settle down and tell me what’s happening with you. What the hell is it? What do you know that I don’t?” she asked, while holding back her frustration.

          “Bev, if I’m right, this guy is the guy who saved my life more than once in Nam, especially during the siege of Khe Sahn. The other guys called him all sorts of respectful names, Bev. Some guys called him Solo-lobo, meaning, Lone Wolf. Some called him Ghost Wolf or Wolf Man, while others simply called him Wolf, referring to the animal, not his last name. But you know as well as I do that when a nickname sticks and sticks immediately, it’s a sign of a much deeper truth. The deeper truth here is that Roman’s nicknames are not misnomers. They’re mirrors reflecting the truth. They’re a reality, substantiated and corroborated. And the reality of Roman, in Nam, was that he had one hell of a reputation for killing the VC and NVA troops in a special way. He specialized in stealth and nighttime killing, usually with a knife, but sometimes with a garrote. We sometimes also called him DAM.” Hawkey spelled the letters for Bev, “D . . . A . . . M. The letters meant DEATH AT MIDNIGHT. Bev, this guy would sneak out of our safety perimeter after midnight to kill as many of the enemy as he could before dawn arrived. About an hour before dawn he’s sneak back in. We’d know it was him approaching the perimeter because he would howl like a wolf as he returned to our perimeter.

          “When the two-months long siege at Khe Sahn ended, we found almost as many enemy deaths by knife-wounds as there were deaths by bullets and/or explosives.

          “Wolf went after the enemy that were positioned by the mortar tubes and those who were snipers. At night the snipers would be out of the trees so Wolf simply looked for rifles with scopes, then killed the enemy who had that rifle. The VC found their dead comrades with their throats cut or their lungs or kidneys punctured. The VC were a superstitious people. They probably could have over-run us with a mass assault, but we believed that they didn’t do that because they were frightened by the mysterious, phantom-like killings.

          “Later on we heard that the VC thought there was some sort of demon helping us. There were sightings of a white, ghost-like animal, so when the VC soldiers discovered wolf foot prints, they thought that an American evil spirit was sent out at night to kill them. Eventually they got so seriously spooked that they packed up and left, but the rumor of the white wolf traveled like gun powder in the wind.

          “That isn’t all, Bev. One time he went out at night to do his killing with his usual weapons: the Ka-Bar knife and garrote. But in addition to those weapons, he brought a Hush-Puppy with him. That’s a pistol with a silencer which was originally used to kill enemy guard dogs. He also had a radio/GPS. Well the crazy bastard got cut off from his own perimeter when the enemy unexpectedly moved forward during the night, passing right by his hidden position. That meant that he couldn’t easily get back to the safety of our fortified perimeter. He knew there was no way that his three weapons could handle the overwhelming numbers of VC.

          “According to Wolfe, a VC sniper spotted him and sounded the warning. Wolfe ran, bullets plunging into the ground all around him, splashing dirt upward like rain drops hitting dust. He found a place that offered temporary protection and returned fire with an ineffective, silenced handgun. He radioed us saying he knew he’d be surrounded and overwhelmed soon. So what’s the crazy guy do? He radios the artillery base, gives them his own coordinates, from his GPS and asks for a Danger Close. A Danger Close is practically a suicide request. It’s seldom used except when the enemy has you out-numbered, surrounded and they are closing in for the kill, your situation looks hopeless and being captured alive to be tortured was not an option.”

          “Danger Close is only called for when you’re certain you’ll die, so you might as well take as many of the enemy with you as you can.

          “The artillery base, which was miles away, fired high caliber projectiles, more like bombs, at his position. Can you believe that? He called a Danger Close right on top of his own damn position, Bev.”

          “Lt. Hawkey,” Captain Lewis whispered, trying to calm him down, “Don’t piss down my leg and expect me to believe its raining.”

          Hawkey lowered his voice and replied, “I’m not lying or exaggerating, Bev. I’m telling you that Wolfe was surrounded by VC, so he gave his exact coordinates to the nearby artillery base and called for a bombardment on and around his own position. His own position, for Christ’s sake. In a few minutes we all heard the whistling shells passing over us and blowing the crap out of everything around Wolfe’s area. We waited, and waited, but saw nothing to give us hope. Another five minutes and we gave up on him surviving that hell fire. I volunteered to go get him or what was left of him, but my request was denied. Then, suddenly, we see the SOB with a branch held high in the air and a white surrender handkerchief waving from it. The guy’s face is so black and dirty that the black guys in our platoon thought the VC had a “brother” fighting with them. When that SOB smiled, his teeth looked like a glowing, white, neon sign at midnight. Then Wolfe yells, ‘Their gone!’ ─meaning the VC. Wolfe’s clothes were charred and smoking. He looked like walking chimney, a crispy critter, except he had this really wide, shit-eatin’ grin on his face. He wasn’t a guy to smile very often, but at that moment he had a sort of childishly, arrogant smile. Then he started howling like a wolf over and over and in between howls he’s laughing hysterically. The damn fool was in the middle of Hell, Bev, and he came out laughing as smoke wafted off his charred clothes. Later he told us that he found a fall-down tree, dug as deeply under it as he could and pushed his body into the shallow hole, directly under the fallen tree trunk. The only place he was injured was on his back which took some shrapnel, but nothing serious. His hair was singed, his eyebrows and eyelashes were burned off and he had some burns. That’s all.

          “The guy gets himself cleaned up, but off and on, he’s giggling quietly. After a few minutes of this, I asked him what the hell he was giggling about. He says to me, ‘Well, Hawk Eye, my friend, when the artillery shells were raining down all around me, I had some sudden muscle spasms that caused me to squeeze out a huge fart. And that got me to thinkin’ about the Aussie guys in the division. So when we get back to base camp, I’m going to ask them if they know what an Australian fart is called. That’s why I’m laughing.’

          ‘An Australian fart? You almost get killed and you’re thinking of a fart joke?’

          ‘Don’t worry. I’m OK. Now, back to the Australian fart. Like I said, I farted and it made my mind wonder, or maybe wander from the stench. But, you see, at the time I needed a distraction and that fart did it. Damn! I almost wanted to die right then and there, the damn thing smelled so bad. You don’t know what an Australian fart is called, do you Hawk Eye?’

          ‘Hell no, but you’re going to tell me, right?’

          ‘Of course I am,” Wolf said. “An Australian fart is thunder, from down under.’

          “Wolfe was usually so serious, but now the guy’s being funny and weird, like he was in shock. Really kind of out of character, for him. Actually, the medic checked him and said Wolfe was acting like that due to a concussion from the Danger Close bombing.”

          “Joe, are you sure it’s him? People can change drastically over a few years.”

          “Well, he’s my friend, unless he acts terribly stupid. He’s still the guy that saved my life more than once, so I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. You don’t have to change friends as long as you realize that friends change, Bev. All friends change. I hope he has changed for the better and has left the violence and killing back in Nam. And, yes, I’m quite sure it’s him. Why do you ask?” Joe responded curiously.

          “For the simple reason, Joe, that in my experiences, men in a crisis tend to act like Neanderthals, not knife-wielding Platos.” Captain Lewis grinned. “Also, there could be many men with the name Roman.”

          “OK, then quickly name two living men with the name Roman?”

          Caught off guard, Bev responded, “Uh . . . I’m thinking . . . Wait . . . Shit! You’re right. I don’t know any men named Roman. Have your ever come across the man’s name, Roman, except for this teacher?”

          “The only other Roman I’ve ever heard of, in modern times, is the ex-football quarterback for the Los Angeles Rams and that was way back when I was a kid. Guy’s name was Roman Gabriel. But even if the name, Roman, was much used, you’ll not come across eyes like his but maybe once or twice in a lifetime. Look at his eyes. I know those eyes, Bev. It’s Wolfe all right. We were very close for a short time. I fought with him and shook hands with him and went into the boonies to do some nighttime stalking. I’ve seen the reddish, star-shaped, keloid scars on his forearm, chest, back and on one leg. And speaking of shaking hands, when I first shook his right hand, I felt a lump and wondered what it was. He said it was a hard callus at the base of his index finger, where the handle of his knife applies the most pressure. He said the more someone uses a knife the harder and larger the callus gets. Then he says, with a sly grin, ‘Chefs have them, too, but if there were any here in Nam, they’d probably cut and run.’ Hawkey laughed.

          I got drunk with him more than once. A surprising guy. Not really strong in the brute-strength sense of bodybuilder muscles, but still tough and extremely quick.”

          There was a lull in the action. Everything was temporarily quiet. Fang wouldn’t answer the phone and SWAT hadn’t gotten approval to take action. Bev and Hawkey wanted to talk to Fang. See if this situation could be resolved without gunfire.

          Joe said, “Bev, did you know that my family name isn’t really ‘Hawkey?’ It’s ‘Hawk Eye.’”

          “Yeah, I read it in your personnel folder. Just figured you didn’t want it known.”

          “I study peoples’ eyes. I see things that others readily miss. My ancestors were like that, too, thus the name ‘Hawk Eye,’ which was changed to Hawkey to fit into the white world. Insight is my family trait, Bev, and I remember Wolfe’s eyes real well. There was an unstoppable, fierce determination in them. It made up for his lack of muscle mass. I’ve seen him look at bigger, stronger men and those men back off after looking into his eyes. The guy’s a black belt in karate and as devastating with karate as he is with a knife. Oh, I forgot to tell you. He’s also ambidextrous and fighting him would be like standing nude in a razor-blade hurricane. When he’s calm, he’s the eye of a hurricane, but in a fight, he’s the hurricane. And sometimes he’s dark-hearted, with the soberness of a stoic funeral director. And Bev, the guys didn’t call him Wolf because of his last name. They called him Wolf because he hunted like one, acted like one, sometimes even looked and sounded like one. But the most mysterious thing of all about Wolfe is that sometimes a white wolf was actually seen in the same vicinity as he was. Even though we were as close as two friends can get in a short period of time, he wouldn’t discuss these ghost-wolf sightings that others swear they had seen.”

          “It’s a long way from Nam to the classroom,” Bev said, as she looked skeptically as well as seriously into Joe’s eyes. “Would he be dangerous to the students?”

          “I seriously doubt it.”

          Bev’s radio activated; she talked to someone at headquarters. She said, “They haven’t made their demands known yet. We’ll sit tight until they do; they always do.” She listened again, then responded, “Sure. Of course. I’ll call and let you know. Out.” Then, to Joe, she said, “So, what else do you know about the guy?”

          Joe smiled at Bev. “He told me that he was from New York State, not the city. Somewhere near one of the Great Lakes, though I don’t remember which one. Said he wanted to be a teacher. Said he enjoyed working with kids. Said that his early experiences with his nephews and niece made him interested in teaching as a career. Bev, he wouldn’t hurt those kids.”

          “Could just be a coincidence, you know. Same name. Same look. A doppelganger.”

          “A what ‘ganger?’”

          Joe peered into Bev’s eyes, laughed, the said, “OK. Go ahead, smart ass, and increase my vocabulary.”

          Bev grinned. A look-alike. You know how it’s said that everyone has a twin some where in the world. Someone who has an uncanny resemblance . . . a doppelganger.”

          “OK. I’ll remember that, but to answer your question, no, I don’t think he’s a doppelganger and in our work, Bev, we are always suspicious of coincidence.

          “He was a loner back then, too, didn’t want the Nam guys around him. At first some of the guys thought he was unfriendly. But that wasn’t it, Bev. He knew the VC and NVA had a bounty on him. They had his picture on posters. The VC and NVA wanted him badly, dead or alive, preferably alive, so they could torture him, publicly. Make an example of him.

          “Roman knew about the bounty, the torture, and decided that he wouldn’t allow himself to be taken alive, but he also didn’t want anybody getting killed because they were standing or sitting next to him. The guy really did care. He was brutal with the enemy, but he cared enough about his fellow jar-heads to keep them away from him, no matter how they interpreted his actions. I spread the word about the real reason that he didn’t want the guys near him. All the guys understood.

          “The night before his last day in Nam he didn’t come to my tent like he usually did. I walked to his tent. It was raining in buckets that night, but I wanted to see him one more time, to thank him, you know. I walked in the darkness, through the steady downpour and, Bev, I swear to God, I thought I saw a white wolf standing next to him. I could even smell, or I thought I did, that wet-dog smell. But then when I blinked my eyes, the wolf was gone, just faded away, or it was an illusion. Couldn’t be an illusion though. Other people had reported seeing it and that’s not the first time I’d seen it. When I got close enough to his tent to see him clearly, he was standing in front of his tent, naked, staring up at the sky, hands raised as if trying to pick a star, like he was plucking a cherry from a tree. The rain matted his hair and poured over his body. I didn’t think he saw me in the dark. I should’ve known better. As I turned to walk away, he spoke to me. He called me by my Mohawk family name. He’s the only guy outside my family that I ever let call me ‘Hawk Eye.’ He still just stood there naked, unashamed, and asked me what I needed. I told him I wanted to say goodbye and thanks for everything.

          “He was momentarily silent, looking at his hands as if he really had plucked a star from the sky. He said he was glad he could help, glad that we were friends. Said he must look funny standing there naked. Said he was standing in the rain to get clean, wash off the blood and dirt. Said he had to get rid of the smell of death before the chopper came in the morning to remove him from the combat. Said he had to get out of Nam, had to stop killing and had to get home to his wife and daughter. Said he owed them more than he owed Uncle Sam. Said I was the only one he really felt close to in Nam and he wished me luck and hoped he might see me again, some day. We shook hands. You shake hands with this guy, Bev, and you can feel his energy. I don’t mean a powerful grip. That’s not it. The feeling is more like he’s got stored lightening in his fingers and the electricity makes your fingers tingle. Five minutes later, you can still feel it.

          “In the early morning,” Joe continued, “the chopper noise woke me up. It landed, then seemed to leave almost immediately. As the helicopter flew away, I heard a wolf howling. I’m serious, Bev. I’ve not seen him again, until now.

          “Bev, I’ll tell you something else. I’ve never been afraid of hand-to-hand combat with anybody . . . nobody . . . not until I met him. His skill, speed and ferocity are very deceptive. I’ve seen muscle-bound guys in the Nam, weighing over two-hundred pounds who wouldn’t mess with him. For him, retreat is not an option.

          “But once off the battlefield he’d act lethargic, didn’t want to fight or horse-around. Just wanted to relax in a peaceful environment. Christ, he didn’t even want to fight or brawl in bars when we had the chance to blow off some steam. He didn’t want to join the special forces, didn’t want medals, didn’t want the recognition, didn’t want publicity, didn’t want the notoriety, just wanted to serve his country, kill the enemy, then get out of Nam and back to his family and his career goals.

          “Actually, I don’t even know why he was in the Marines, being married and with a daughter. When I asked him, he got angry and growled, ‘Some kind of goddamn, military fuck-up.’ I think it may have had something to do with his Military Reserve status. Don’t know why he had to leave Nam so suddenly either. He still had time left to serve. Maybe an early discharge came because he was married. I do know that the whole platoon missed him, even most of the officers. He was kind of like our reticent security blanket, our confidence captain.” Joe grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, I know, it sounds corny. Guess you had to be there to understand.”

          “So what makes you think that a person like that can change so much? Pretty hard for that type of person to make it through college and be a teacher for this long without some psychological problems following him like a diseased tail. Like you, for example,” said Bev with a teasing smile.

          “Ahh . . . Real funny, Bev. Best I can say is that it was his indomitable spirit and determination and the fact that he didn’t enjoy killing. He only killed because he felt that he had to do it to save not only himself, but his fellow Marines. He did what was necessary on a battlefield, Bev, just as the rest of us had to do.”

          Joe whispered, “I doubt that anyone in the community knows about Wolfe’s Nam experiences. The parents might freak-out with that knowledge. So it’s probably best, Bev, if we refer to him as Mr. Wolfe or Roman or teacher. Don’t go into his Nam experiences or his atheism, OK?” Joe said, rhetorically. “And please keep in mind that Wolfe’s not dangerous to us or the kids. I’d bet my life on that. I’m saying that I think we can worry about the kids in his classroom a lot less with him there than without him there. We’re all down here worrying about those kids getting hurt and, if I’m right about this situation, it’s the unsuspecting jackasses in his classroom that are more likely to get hurt than the kids.”

          Lt. Joe Hawkey laughed out loud, then muffled the laughter with his hand.

          “Well, I certainly hope so,” Bev said, “Laugh if you want to, but think about this Joe. Even if this is the same guy, what makes you so sure he hasn’t changed completely over the years? What if the son-of-a-bitch is the same as the way he was in Nam? What if he still has a killer mentality and attitude, but it’s buried superficially? That’s not impossible, Joe. As a matter of fact, given the circumstances of him being a teacher and not getting into any kind of trouble, as his records indicate, it might be highly logical to assume that he is the same, but is smart enough to have a good disguise as a shy, mild-mannered teacher. Joe, he could be a Jekyll and Hyde personality, dangerous underneath a thin facade of teacher goodness.”

          All humor drained out of Joe’s face as he realized that Bev might be right. As a matter of fact her logic seemed reasonable, especially if Roman went home with PTSD─ post traumatic stress disorder. Then Joe thought of a counter argument.

          “Shit,” said Joe, “You may be right about that, but I still doubt it. The principal’s description of him didn’t indicate any trouble. Not even a hint. It’s been years since Nam. A lot of time to adapt, to come to grips with that experience. And instead of thinking that he’s hiding his rage, what if his mild manner, shyness, no trouble, no record of post-Nam violence, what if all that indicates that he has learned to deal with his violence? Instead of his mild, shy manner being an indication of his disguise, what if it’s genuine and an indication of his ability to adapt to a relatively normal civilian life?”

          Captain Lewis smiled. “ Yeah, I see your side of it too. Shit!” she said, mad at herself. “I almost forgot something.”

          “What’s that?”

          “Damn it! The teacher was smart enough to throw that radio and TV cable out the window so Fang couldn’t get any news reports, but I wasn’t smart enough to stop the media from getting that Nam information on this guy. I’ll take care of shutting out the press. That way we can keep this incendiary information away from the parents who may panic, then all come here wanting their kids right away, and swarming the principal, wanting to know how such a killer could even be hired. We’ve got enough trouble already. No use asking for more. OK, the media doesn’t get any information unless it’s through me and I’ll sanitize any information they do get. Let’s keep this between you and me and our men, OK? You inform your team and I’ll notify my team.”

          Joe nodded his agreement, then added, “Excellent idea, Bev, but we’ll have to resolve this situation soon. The sooner the better because no matter how well we keep the reporters at bay, no matter how much you sanitize the information you give them, they always keep on digging, and sooner or later they’ll dig up this guy’s past. Then it’ll be all over town and all over the airways. We’ll have to work cautiously and quickly.”

          Bev paused, looking at Joe. He seemed to want to say more.

          “Bev, I forgot to mention something else.” Joe smiled broadly as he stared at Bev.

          “Yeah? And what might that be, Hotshot?”

          Joe’s smile broadened as he said, “I named my son after that guy, so I sure hope you’re wrong about him.”

          “Wait a minute. I know you call your son ‘Ro,’ but I thought it was short for Roger, or Robert, or something like that.”

          “Nope. Short for Roman,” Joe said with a toothy grin.

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

13

“When morning brings mourning, brave men won’t sleep, brave men won’t weep, brave men will fight, to make things right, then be vigilant at night, so morning never again brings mourning.”

Liam Anthony

Samantha Wolfe, Roman’s wife─ he called her Sam─ brought her first graders to an early lunch at Pavlon Central School. When her students were settled at their tables she walked to the teachers’ room to eat her own lunch. Few teachers were there due to Sam’s early lunch schedule, so she ate as she thought of her daughter, Grace.

          Grace was at school, also─ Grace, Sam and Roman all went to different schools. Sam thought that her Bugs─ her nickname for Grace─ was growing up too fast. She was ten years old and sprouting as if life itself was her fertilizer. She wore her hair long, a couple inches below her shoulders. Her naturally rosy cheeks gave the appearance of light rouge, and when she smiled, two shallow dimples appeared, like beauty-mark companions. Her smooth, unblemished skin encircled pearl-white teeth. Her brown eyes normally sparkled with happiness. She was mature for her years, both responsible and trustworthy, so Roman and Sam gave her a key to the house. Now, instead of getting off the school bus at the babysitter’s house, Grace rode the bus straight home.

          When Grace arrived home, she usually retreated to her bedroom, a fifteen by twenty feet corner room with a dark blue rug and egg-shell white walls. Her queen size bed, with a book shelf for a headboard, dominated the room’s space. The room was well lighted by day with two large windows framed by pale blue curtains. When Grace arrived at her bedroom she’d sit at her white desk, or sometimes on the bed, or on the floor, then complete her homework so she could, read, watch TV, or just talk to friends on her phone during the evening.

          Sam smiled. She was so proud of Grace.

          Sam envisioned Grace’s two cats, Apricot and Licorice, playing on the green, living room carpet, then scampering under the dining room table, enjoying mock chases and fights. The cats playfully chased each other around the legs of the chairs, then stopped and licked each other’s fur. Sam broke out laughing when she thought about the awful faces Grace made the first time she saw Licorice (female) lick her anus and Apricot (male) lick his testicles.

          Sam was in a pleasant daydream about her family. She was so grateful that they were happy and enjoyed each other and that Roman spent a lot of time with Grace, kind of like her playmate. She remembered the time when Grace saw her dad watching a New York Yankee baseball game. The announcer, with a wildly excited voice said that the bases were loaded and Grace had walked up to her dad and asked if that meant that the bases were drunk.

          Sam’s pleasant, lunchroom daydream turned into a nightmare when Linda─ Sam’s guidance counselor friend─ came rushing into the teachers’ room.

          “Samantha.” An ominous tone of voice. “Samantha. I was just in the office. The secretary and the principal were staring at the radio, so I listened. It’s about Roman.”

           “Oh no, Linda. What happened?”

          “Joan and Karen thought I should be the one to tell you. Roman and his whole classroom have been taken hostage. They’re trapped in Roman’s classroom with some convicts.”

          Disbelievingly, Sam replied, “Are you sure it’s not a mistake? Sounds like an inner-city kind of thing.”

          “Jesus, Samantha, it was just on the radio. I heard most of it myself. Roman and his whole classroom are being held hostage by three escaped convicts.” That’s how the initial news reports were given, though Freddy was not an escaped convict. “According to the reports, those guys have guns. Joan wants you to come to the office. She wants to have a substitute teacher take your class so you can go and do whatever you need to do.”

          After a shocking moment, Sam answered, “Yeah, OK.”

          Sam felt dazed, her head feeling light and her brain changing to a shrunken, cotton ball. Her thoughts became fuzzy. The same words kept flashing in her mind, like a blood-red, neon sign. The words appeared to her over and over: ADIRONDACK MOUNTAINS . . . ADIRONDACK MOUNTAINS. The Adirondack Mountains, in northeastern New York State, where Roman and Grace were taken after they were kidnapped two years ago by a violent, criminal family.

          In a nearly panicked voice, Sam stated, “Do you know anything else about it, Linda?”

          “Well, only that the whole school has been evacuated, except for Roman’s classroom. Apparently all the other kids, teachers and staff are out and the State Police have the school surrounded. The radio reporter said that the parking lot looked like the school was holding a State Police convention. It must be on TV by now. Christ, Samantha, I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news. I─”

          Sam interrupted Linda. Her thoughts were becoming clear now. Sam said, “No, No, Linda, don’t worry about that. You did the right thing. It’s what a good friend would do. Will you pick up Grace after school and bring her to your house? She’ll be at home.”

          “Of course I will.”

          “Be sure to say the word French to her. She won’t go with you unless she hears that word. It’s our secret word the permits someone else taking Grace with them in an unusual situation.”

          Sam stared at Linda. “Grace will want to know what has happened. Just tell her that her dad had some trouble with a gang coming to his school and that I went to his school to see if I could help him. You have my cell phone number. Call if you need to.”

          Before Linda could respond, Sam the room and headed to the office, leaving her lunch on the table. Linda was crying, with her face in her hands, as other teachers entered the room for their lunch break and asked, “What happened? What’s going on?”

          The substitute teacher arrived quickly. Sam got in her car and left immediately. Once on the road she screamed, “Dammit!” and slammed the steering wheel with her right hand. Then she spoke to herself, or was it supposed to be to her God? With her teeth clenched in anger, she yelled, “First Vietnam, then the goddamned Adirondacks. Now this. What the hell is going on? Why him? Why always him?” Gushing rivulets of tears washed down her cheeks, dripping onto her white blouse, making temporary, wet stains.

          She drove the remainder of the way with her agitated brain on automatic. She didn’t notice the trees and building that appeared to be flashing by her windows.

          When Sam arrived at the Kroy school, she had to park quite a distance away, due to the traffic congestion. She walked to the closest trooper. He saw her coming and held up his hand to stop her from going past the yellow tape, his territory to guard.

          “You can’t go any farther ma’am,” he said, as he stood directly in front of her.

          Sam looked up at the tall trooper. Her voice was calm, but there was a subtle edge to it that caught the trooper’s attention. He listened.

          Sam said, “I’m Samantha Wolfe, officer. I’m the wife of the teacher that’s being held hostage with that classroom full of fourth graders. I want to talk to whomever is in charge here.” Sam used sibilant “Ss” for emphasis, catching the officers full attention with those hissing sounds.

          The trooper stared at her. Nice looking woman, he thought, but a snooty whomever. Well la-dee-da for her, he thought, sarcastically. Nice and tall, though. He wondered, Is she good in the sack? He smiled at her, then, in an official voice said, “Please wait here. I’ll have to check. Be right back.” He turned and jogged toward Captain Lewis, who was in charge of this whole operation. Well, he thought, with a sardonic smirk, One loud-mouthed, good-looking bitch is sending me to see another loud-mouthed, good-looking bitch. Shee-it! Today seems to be my day to be a bitch sandwich. Go ahead ladies. Eat me or, preferably, suck on me. He smiled, thinking himself to be witty.

          Trooper Jones was full of himself, over-confident for a rookie and arrogant. He graduated last, academically, in his trooper academy class, but first in both pistol and rifle shooting. He bored his classmates with his constant comparison of himself to Tom Knapp─ the civilian, extreme marksman with a successful percentage of 99% at hitting what seemed like impossible shots with targets thrown into the air or at ground targets. Jones was so proud and so arrogant that he actually thought that being the best pistol/rifle shot over-ruled the academic part of the course. He considered himself the best prepared student in that class, despite the fact that a vast majority of police officers go through a whole twenty to thirty year career without ever firing their weapon at someone.

          When Trooper Jones reached Captain Lewis, he said, as he pointed, “Captain, there’s a lady over there who claims to be the wife of that teacher. Says her name’s Samantha Wolfe. She wants to talk to you.”

          Captain Lewis was tired. She’d been there nearly all morning, supervising every action, giving most of the orders, trying to calm the parents of the kids in that classroom. Her weary eyes locked on Trooper Jones. She cleared her throat. “Bring her here, please,” she said, laconically, but with a veneer of frustration.

          Captain Lewis figured that Samantha Wolfe got her information from the radio or TV reports. It was inevitable and probably also inaccurate. Captain Lewis could withhold certain facts about the teacher’s background, but she certainly couldn’t withhold the teacher’s name and the fact that there was a hostage situation. She saw Samantha out of the corner of her eye and turned slowly towards her as Sam approached. Captain Lewis offered a strained smile, then reached out and shook hands with Samantha. Bev said, “Hi, I’m Captain Lewis. I’m in charge. Trooper Jones already told me that you’re Mr. Wolfe’s wife. How may I help you?”

          Trooper Jones was not dismissed so he stood by in case he had to escort Sam somewhere, plus he wanted to know what she said. But primarily he wanted to look at this Wolfe lady a little more closely. After all, he was young and single, and not coveting thy neighbor’s wife had little meaning for him. Actually, he enjoyed the view of both women as the two ladies talked. All he saw were sex-objects.

          Sam, full of bottled-up anxiety responded, “You can help me in the obvious way,”─ Sam recognized that she sounded demanding, but was unable to control her tone─ “You can get my husband and those kids out of there safely and quickly.” There was a note of impatience in Sam’s voice. Captain Lewis was irritated and challenged by it.

          Normally Captain Lewis had plenty of patience. She was used to being challenged, though it normally came from chauvinistic men. But she was tired and took an immediate dislike for this woman who seemed to be challenging her, especially with Trooper Jones standing beside her.

          Captain Lewis’s reaction was hostile. “You don’t belong here, Mrs. Wolfe. Let us do our jobs without interference. We’re doing the best we can under the circumstances. However, if you can answer one question for me, I’d appreciate it. Does your husband have violent tendencies? I’m concerned for his students.”

          “Does Roman have violent tendencies?” Sam repeated sarcastically. “He was in jungle warfare in Vietnam, killing people for his country. Then a couple years ago he survived a brutal hostage situation in the Adirondack Mountains and saved the life of our daughter. How do you suppose he did that, Captain? You think he read the Bible to his enemies, his kidnappers and then they miraculously became peaceful and full of love? He used violence. For Christ’s sake! Of course he has violent tendencies. You threaten him, his family, his students or friends and he’ll react violently and with deadly force, if need be. But he would never hurt any of his students. Now let me ask you a question. Don’t you have violent tendencies? If not, why the gun, the mace, the handcuffs? Does your SWAT team have violent tendencies? You use violence in order to keep the community and state safe, right? The only human not having violent tendencies is a corpse. We all have violent tendencies if the right buttons are pushed. And violence doesn’t have to be a bad thing. It can save lives like your SWAT team tries to do. Violence is just a tool, like a gun or a hammer. How it’s used determines if it’s good or bad. Have you ever heard the quote: ‘The very atmosphere of firearms anywhere and everywhere restrains evil interference. They deserve a place of honor with all that’s good.’ You know who said that?”

          Captain Lewis turned her head to indicate that she didn’t.

          “It’s an exact quote from none other than George Washington.”

          Both women sized each other up. They stared at each other. Neither backed down, neither shifted their eyes. Their eyes seemed to flash laser beams into each other’s heads.

          “Captain, shall I escort her out of here?” Trooper Jones said, smiling.

          Sam, turning away from Captain Lewis and responding to Trooper Jones’s remark, said, “Trooper! You lay even one finger on me and I’ll kick your balls so far up into your body that they’ll squirt out your nose and dangle there like plums.” Sam paused and stared at Trooper Jones whose jaw dropped slightly and whose face suddenly transformed into a very ripe tomato. Then Sam returned her stern gaze back to Captain Lewis.

          Trooper Jones felt a painful chill pass through his body. His hands instinctively went to his crotch. He hadn’t ever taken physical threats from women seriously before. But there was something about Mrs. Wolfe. The way she talked, the scowl, the glare in her eyes, her tall stature, and her defiant stance, but most of all, her challenging Captain Lewis. The chill passed through his groin and he shivered. He could feel his scrotum shriveling, pushing his testicles up closer to his body. Wisely, he did not step toward, or touch Sam.

          Captain Lewis broke eye contact with Sam and impatiently said, “Trooper Jones. Go back to your post.”

          Trooper Jones, thoroughly embarrassed, turned and walked to his guard post, whispering curses, while looking over his shoulder at the two women.

          Captain Lewis waited a couple of seconds for Trooper Jones to walk out of hearing range. She looked back at Sam. It was still a case of dueling eyeballs between the two women. However, when Captain Lewis smiled at this feisty lady, who was still staring at her, she said, “OK, Mrs. Wolfe. You’ve proved your concern. I can respect that, so let’s start over with a more friendly note, OK?”

          “Sure . . . Sounds good . . . I’m sorry,” Sam said, and she meant it. Sam smiled, then stated, “Please call me Samantha or Sam.”

          As they shook hands, again, Captain Lewis appreciated Sam’s genuine smile. It created less tension. Maybe this woman wasn’t the bitch she had originally thought she was, thought Captain Lewis.

          “Samantha, I’ve learned much about your husband. The information about some of his duties in Vietnam, his military evaluations and combat records, have all been passed to me.” Captain Lewis didn’t mention the psychological evaluation that Roman had while he was waiting for his final DD-214 discharge papers. Her mind flashed through that report, which stated:

          “Through his violent war experiences, in particular having killing become routine, the subject has, to a high degree, become desensitized to violence. He speaks in terms of violence or some aspect of violence being an accepted part of his daily life. Therefore, it is unlikely that what transpired in the jungles of Vietnam can be totally eradicated from his cognitive and physical behaviors. Continued behavior modification therapy in civilian life may have a favorable impact on him, if he chooses to attend therapy. However, he does not impress me as the sort of man who will accept therapy, at least, not for a sustained period of time. He is too independent, recalcitrant and a ‘lone wolf.’ Should he again be placed in any similar situation where he thinks that violence is the only option, then, in my opinion, even sustained therapy will not act as a psychological deterrent to resist his ingrained violent impulses. If he feels he must act with deadly force, in order to protect himself and others, I believe he will be quite able to act immediately to correct the situation, as he perceives it. He is highly skilled (black belt in karate, a master at offensive and defensive knife fighting) and will not hesitate to act with deadly force if he senses that it’s required. However, with a little help, perhaps judicious medication, he could display enough self-control to live a normal life, as long as he is not subject to high levels of stress, anxiety and/or depression.

          “The subject has a normal functioning conscience in that he feels guilty, and/or shameful when he has used violence and/or deadly force, even on the enemy. Subject has communicated that he will use his own genuine guilt feelings to control himself, to insulate himself against the dangerous and violent reactions to stress, anxiety and depression. Subject experiences guilt-ridden nightmares which often leave him tired from lack of  sleep. When nights like that become cumulative, fighting off stress, anxiety and depression will be much more difficult. The prognosis for a good night’s sleep probably will not be positive for a long while, making support from his family and a therapist very important.

          “Subject demonstrates higher than average intelligence. He enjoys philosophy and likes to discuss philosophical conundrums like Maxwell’s Demon, Schrodinger’s Cat, Lucretius’s Lance, and Russell’s paradox amongst many other debatable subjects, such as atheism, for which the answers are difficult, speculative and varied.

          “An unresolved issue that is disturbing to both this therapist and the subject is that the subject has a strong feeling of loss without knowing what he’s lost. Perhaps it is not as mysterious as it sounds, but my finding are inconclusive. Perhaps what is really lost is an unrecognizable part of himself. Which part and the details are the real mystery along with the fact that whatever was lost was important and valuable to the subject, or he wouldn’t have thought of it with such intense feeling.”

          Captain Lewis’s thoughts returned to the present. “And I was also given the information about what happened to him and your daughter in the Adirondack Mountains. That must be an awful strain on you. I’m truly sorry. I promise you that I’ll do my best to get everyone out safely.” She flashed her own genuine smile at Sam, then continued, “I’ve read all the facts given to me about him. Now, can you humanize those facts for me? Put some flesh on them so I know what kind of man we’re dealing with?”

          Captain Lewis shouted to Lieutenant Hawkey and waved her arm and hand, gesturing for him to come to her. Sam was introduced to Lieutenant Hawkey. He didn’t tell Sam that he had known her husband in Nam. He studied Sam as she began to talk.

          “I can tell you that he’s a loving husband, a wonderful father, and a dedicated teacher. He’s strong, in a very quiet way, unless physically provoked. Normally he’s good natured and likes to joke around. He has a great sense of humor, except on the day after a nightmare. He says weird, but funny things, like he’ll say he has a checkered past that’s composed mostly of the black squares─ like on a checker board─ or he’ll ask me, ‘How come Goofy can talk, but Pluto can’t?’ He jokes that he wants to eat whey for breakfast so that he can have his way with me.’ Hawk Eye and Bev smiled. “He makes Grace and I; Grace is our daughter, feel wanted, needed, and loved. But there’s also a sadness about him, too; a sadness that he conceals as best he can, especially from Grace. He doesn’t like to talk about Vietnam. Sometimes when I look into his eyes I can’t detect anything. Nothing appears to come out of them. They’re like the Black Holes in outer space. Things get sucked into them, but nothing comes out. You know what I mean?

          “You know how with some guys you can look into their eyes and tell that they’re not only dangerous, but you can sense or scent, like an animal, that they’ve killed people and that, if need be, they can easily kill again. I mean easily, in the sense that they have the skills to do it, not in the sense that the person is eager to kill. Guys like that don’t brag, they may not look tough, they may even be shy and reticent, but somehow you can feel that they are unusual . . . extremely unusual. That’s Roman. So when he’s with me, I feel like I’m the safest woman in the world.”

          Lt. Hawkey moved his head up and down. He’d seen Wolfe’s eyes in Nam.

          “He’s had problems with depression, stress and anxiety since coming home from Vietnam. He’s still taking medication for his bouts of depression. Vietnam took a lot away from him; the disturbing memories still torment him. He still has nightmares and yet he protects his family from them, not burdening us with their ugliness. I asked him once why he wouldn’t talk to me, let me help. He said that his memories of Vietnam are like the Agent Orange chemical and he doesn’t want to contaminate me with its cancer causing effects.

          “He has a mini-gym area in the cellar. He practices his karate; he’s a black belt, you must know that already. He also knows a lot of knife combat stuff, but he won’t talk about it. Not to me, anyway. He’s in excellent physical shape. He works out a lot.

          “For Roman, Vietnam’s still an open and infected, mental wound, not a scar; a scar involves healing. His problems are psychological: the war, the grief, the anger, the guilt, the killing. It’s all trapped inside his mind, like a starving rat roaming around in his brain, eating away at it. The torment is buried deeply inside of him, but he keeps the lid on it. He deals with it in his own secretive ways. He’s strong that way, but years of pressure can crack even the hardest of men. Sometimes he still has nightmares, but one particular one must have been especially tragic. Some guy named Billy was involved. Roman talks in his sleep. He says, ‘I’m sorry Billy. I’m so sorry. It was an accident. An accident.’ Sometimes he suddenly sits up in bed and whispers, ‘the black wall, fifty-eight thousand’ a few times. It took me a long while to figure it out. He was referring the Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial wall in Washington, D.C. Those dreams occurred mainly for a few months after we visited that wall with over fifty-eight thousand names of dead soldiers.

          “He can be as hard as his tempered steel knives, but it’s surprising how remarkably gentle he can be, too. Sensitive and caring.”

          Lt. Hawkey shook his head in nearly complete agreement, but remained silent. He disagreed with her, somewhat, when Sam said that sometimes she saw nothing in Roman’s eyes. She just couldn’t see what was there because what was there was too dark, like trying to see a black cat in a black room. However, Hawkey could and had seen into Wolfe’s eyes in Nam. Not much could be hidden from the “hawk’s eyes.”

          “And something else,” Sam said. “He likes kids. Actually, he’d rather be around kids than around most adults. So you need to get those three prisoners out of there because if any of them hurts a kid, there’ll be hell to pay . . . and blood to clean up.”

          Captain Lewis informed Sam that there were two prison escapees and a third man, whom they didn’t know, but who was apparently the outside contact and the get-away car driver. Then Captain Lewis encouraged Sam to continue.

          “Well, when he came home, after his tour of duty, he had long periods of deep depression that were usually haunted by violent dreams. Insomnia followed as his mind acted defensively, not wanting to sleep to avoid the terrors that awaited him in dreams. His doctor said that his mind was trying to repress the guilt and anxiety he felt about the terrors of war, about all he’d seen and done to survive in Nam.

          “He’s like an eagle with no place to land. He’s lonely in the midst of all the beauty he sees, alone amongst all the other birds; he soars alone, though he could be surrounded by people. He likes being a loner, while in another way it cripples him. Grace and I are always there for him, though. We wait in the nest for him to come to us. Eventually he does. He’s our life; we both love him. The good news is that he’s improved a lot since his discharge.

          “But, don’t get me wrong, he’s no angel. Sometimes he’s not easy to love. Sometimes he’s hard or, perhaps, harsh is a better word. He gets ice-cold, sometimes. He has sought love all his life and so many people have left him out in the cold, depriving him of love’s warmth, comfort, and security. So he’s grown suspicious of love and is, to this very day, somewhat suspicious of those who try to grant it to him, especially if they are the same people who deprived him of their love in his youth. In the beginning he didn’t trust my love either. He told me once that he thinks a man desires a woman, but that a woman only desires a man’s desire for her. It took months to gain his trust. Basically, he only fully accepts and trusts the love that’s offered by me and Grace. He refuses to kiss anyone but Grace, me, and Lori, his niece. He’s most comfortable around his nephews, Mark, Tony and Mike, but not around most people.

          “Sometimes he even draws away from us, like an iceberg slowly drifting away from the shoreline into a vast sea. And, like an iceberg, there’s a lot hidden beneath the surface. He believes that his aloneness, somehow, was meant to be. He tells me, sometimes, that he needs to be alone. He says his mind craves solitude for it’s peace and tranquility. That solitude is his body’s energizing force. He says that solitude brings him solace, that it rejuvenates his energy, refreshes him as if it’s a battery charger.

          ”But this doesn’t mean he wants to be permanently alone. He realizes that he needs some people; he needs to be needed, to feel valued. But, he says, he only needs friendship on a limited basis. He often says he doesn’t need, nor does he want dozens of acquaintances when a couple good friends will do. He tells Grace and I, quite often, how much he needs us and appreciates us.

          “Before Vietnam, he always had confidence that adversity would make him stronger because one way or another he would always overcome it. But Vietnam tore him apart. It ripped the fabric of his self-confidence and his sense of humor.

          “You already know about his karate and his knife-fighting skills. When he practices karate he’s like a cyclone of various hand techniques, dynamite kicks, and explosive knife slashes and thrusts. I don’t watch him do the knife stuff any more. It’s too disturbing. He’s very confident, perhaps overly confident, in hand-to-hand combat situations.

          “When he’s upset, he gets a certain set to his jaw, you know. His teeth lock, his jaw muscles bulge, his eyes squint slightly as they stare deeply into you. Then his body tenses and takes a subtle posture, like a panther getting ready to spring on its prey. Don’t get me wrong though. He’s not a deliberately cruel person, doesn’t enjoy hurting others, though he knows it’s sometimes necessary. His harshness, however, is softened by a velvet cloak of ethics and honor that are comprised of many moral fibers, which usually surprises those who discover that he’s an atheist. He’s not some immoral, bestial Satanist just because he’s an atheist. Actually he’s probably more honest, caring, considerate and kind than the majority of supposedly-avid religious people.

          “Roman’s a man capable of much tenderness and love for Grace and me, plus a few friends and certain relatives. He’s capable of vast amounts of inner strength and determination, which belies his appearance. He gets depressed by memories of childhood rejection and with their resulting loneliness, self-doubt and insecurity.

          “His family support system and affection were tragically faulty. He was not close to his mother or father, he spent a year in a Catholic orphanage, then life with an aunt and uncle. After that he and his older sister went to live in an apartment above a bar with their alcoholic father. After his sister got married he went to live with her and his brother-in-law. Life with his sister and brother-in-law finally offered him stability, but irreparable damage had already been done to his psyche. His sister became his surrogate mother. He has three nephews and a niece, his sister’s kids, that he adores.

          “He’s a very determined person. Perhaps indomitable is a better word. Once, a significant family member told him that he was stupid to quit his good job at I.B.M. to go to college. He did it anyway and that rebuke furnished him with the incentive to receive a Bachelor of Science degree in education, a Bachelor of Arts degree in psychology and a Masters degree in educational theory.

          “I don’t think it’s a big-deal that he’s an atheist, though I’m sure that some of his relatives would. He simply thinks that logic and reason contradict any purported Christian God with supernatural powers. I guess you could call him a Cartesian or a rational empiricist because, for him, things don’t exist unless his senses or legitimate science can offer conclusive evidence. He enjoys reading philosophy and he enjoys the search for new information, new ideas and new thoughts, as long as they’re logical, reasonable and not contradictory or obviously foolish.

          “He’s built an invisible shield around himself and he only allows a few adults and kids to penetrate it. All others, he feels, brush against the shield and simply ricochet off it in an insignificant way.

          “But, you know, there was this Native American guy, a Mohawk Indian, I think, in Vietnam with him, that he liked a lot and sometimes talks about with unusual fondness, but Roman lost track of him.

          Sam paused, not knowing if she should go on. “Shall I go on? Is this too boring, too much irrelevant information? Am I telling you what you need to know?” Sam looked into two pairs of eyes that seemed mesmerized by her words.

          “No. No. Don’t stop. Please continue. We need to know as much as you can tell us,” said Lieutenant Hawkey, delighted to hear that Wolfe liked that Mohawk Indian guy, who was, of course, himself.

          “He’s certainly no coward, but he says that there are times when it’s prudent to act like a coward would act. He says that a smart person knows when to be a coward, to simply walk away, you know? Like not walking into a gun fight with a knife. He gets pessimistic, sometimes, but he seldom quits unless he feels its the logical thing to do. He says that sometimes prudently quitting is the most intelligent thing to do.

          “He’ll protect those kids with his life, you know, or die trying,” Sam said, suddenly changing the direction of her information about Roman.

          Sam’s eyes glazed over with tears, again, at the sound and hotness she felt while saying the words die trying. “But,” she continued. “if those men get violent with the kids or with Roman, something bad will happen. He’ll undoubtedly have flashbacks of Nam and act accordingly. He . . . he ah . . . he changes. This is strange. Have you ever watched one of those nature TV shows and seen a wolf’s eyes when it stalks it’s prey?” Sam didn’t wait for a response, but continued, “Well, that’s what his eyes look like, sometimes.” Sam eyes opened wide, as if she thought of something else that made her afraid, but she remained mute about it, then said, “Please get him and those kids out of there.

          “Well, that’s about all I can tell you, Captain Lewis. It’s all I can think of anyway, unless you want to ask specific questions.”

          Captain Lewis hugged her, then said, “Call me Bev, please.” Then she took Sam to her car, where Sam could sit down and collect her thoughts and emotions.

          Lt. Hawkey followed them to the car. Once seated, he asked Sam, “Did your husband ever say where he was in Vietnam, ma’am? You know, did he say the names of any places that he’d been in Vietnam?”

          “He won’t talk about Vietnam, Lieutenant. But he used to have a lot of bad dreams, earlier in our marriage and he used to say the name of a person or a place that sounded like ‘Kay’s son.’ Something about a siege, a lot of deaths. He wakes me up when he rubs his hands vigorously on the bed cover. I thought he was rubbing off the sweat. I asked him why he was doing that and he said one word, ‘blood.’ He wouldn’t explain himself and went back to sleep.”

          Lt. Hawkey bent down and whispered to Sam. “Ma’am,” he said, “Is he still in control of his skills . . . I mean . . . is he really in control of himself? What I’m trying to say is, do we have to worry about him up there . . . you know . . . with the kids?”

          Sam gave Lieutenant Hawkey a grim stare so he knew that she didn’t like the implications of that question, then said, “He’s a black belt in karate, Lieutenant. He still practices. He’s a good man, a person who truly loves kids. He does not hurt kids. You don’t have to worry about him that way. He’ll do the right thing. But there’s a fine line somewhere in his head. You can’t push him beyond that line or he transforms. He becomes all adrenaline and spring steel. His body turns into one whole weapon: feet, shins, knees, elbows, forearms, fists, fingers, even his forehead, all working together, all skillfully coordinated like the pistons in the engine of a sports car. And its all under control, Lieutenant,” she said harshly, still glaring at him.

          “Lieutenant Hawkey. Roman’s got that old KA-BAR marine combat knife at home. And just the way he looks at it, you can see his sadness and regret. It used to scare me, the way he looked at that knife, but it doesn’t any more. I know him much better now. He would never hurt me, or Grace, or any of his students.

          “He’s probably more sane than the three of us combined. The final proof of that, for me, is that I know how much hurting people really bothers him. It bothers him tremendously, though, on the surface you might not notice. I’ve heard him cry at night for the people he had to kill in Vietnam and for his dead buddies. He also says that in this world you often have to do what you ‘can’ do instead of what you ‘should’ do. He says that sometimes good people have to do bad things to prevent worse things from happening. Does that answer your question, Lieutenant?”

          “Yes. It sure does, Ma’am, and please, call me Joe.”

          “OK, Joe,” Sam said with a smile, “Why don’t you call me Samantha or Sam.” Then  Sam looked carefully into his eyes. She hadn’t noticed them before. She paused, then said, “You know Joe, you have eyes similar to Roman’s. Were you in Vietnam?”

          “Yes, Sam, I was. As a matter of fact, I think I’m that Indian friend that you said Roman liked. I served with him. I fought with him at a place called Khe Sanh. We struck up a good friendship in a short period of time, then one day he was gone.”

          Captain Lewis and Lieutenant Hawkey walked away from the car and Sam. Once out of ear-shot Lieutenant Hawkey looked at Captain Lewis and said, “He’s definitely our man. Mr. Wolfe is the guy from Khe Sanh. That’s Wolf all right, the guy who saved my bacon.”

          “Guess you had it pegged right. She’s pretty tough, too, isn’t she?” Captain Lewis’s eyes shifted in Sam’s direction.

          “Yeah. You got that right. She’s some woman. Some guys have all the luck. I bet she’s the only person Roman fears. She reminds me of you, Bev.”

          Joe smiled at Bev, then teasingly winked at her.

          “That’s bullshit, Joe. Don’t bullshit with a bull-shitter,” Captain Lewis said with a wicked smile.

          “So, who’s bull-shitting, Bev?” Joe said, as he turned and walked away with a shit-eating grin hidden from Bev.

          Bev’s eyes followed him for a few steps. She whispered, “Good man, that one.”

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

14

“I say quite deliberately that the Christian religion, as organized in its churches, has been and still is the principal enemy of moral progress in the world.”

Bertrand Russell

Fang stared lasciviously at Alyson Boyd. He desired her with the hot intensity of a bonfire. The corners of his mouth turned upward into a ravenous grin when he looked at her and thought, It’s been a long time since I had me somethin’ like that. To Fang, she was a sexual delight, a pre-pubescent sex toy.

          Fang wanted to be with her . . . alone. He wanted to see her naked body, bare of any pubic hair and only minor buds for breasts. He wanted to delight in all the sensations that came along with being between her legs and very tightly inside of her.

          Fang’s penis stood erect. He made no attempt to hide the bulge behind his zipper, though the kids did not notice.

          Roman noticed and was disgusted. Anger, like steam, built pressure within him.

          Roman’s mind drifted into darkness. He remembered the C-47 aircraft he’d seen on a Nam airport runway, its cargo consisting entirely of shiny silver caskets. He thought of all those reluctant heroes. He thought, Show me a hero and I’ll show you a tragedy (F. Scott Fitzgerald). Then his thoughts segued as he imagined just one coffin, a tarnished, battered and soiled one. The one that Fang should be lying in. The one with punctured holes in it that would be kicked out of the plane, at a high altitude, dropped into the brinish, ocean water. The casket would slowly fill and slip under the water, with Fang’s screams unheard and the salt instantly beginning the process of pickling him for eternity.

          Roman’s guilt festered. He reluctantly looked deeply within himself, saw his own anger and bitterness and felt it rise in his throat like sour bile. He wondered what had happened to the young men, most of them not even out of their teens, who left high school with big dreams, but were then drafted and sent to Vietnam. What had happened to their dreams of independence, peace, a good job and a family? They lay to rest in those coffins, also; the dreams ripped from them by the specter of death.

          Roman thought about how much he had changed since high school; he didn’t like many of those changes. He tried not to think of those thoughts, and received coincidental assistance from Fang’s thunderous voice.

          “Charlie. Freddy. Get yur asses over here!”

          When they arrived, they stood in a tight triangle; all Roman could hear was the rumbling mumble of Fang’s deep voice, followed by a joyful giggle from Charlie and a nervous giggle from Freddy. The three of them turned around, their faces plastered into huge perverted grins, though Freddy’s grin looked false, his eyes hesitant. Both fear and guilt dominated his body language.

          “It’s ‘bout time we have a toilet break,” Fang said, his face radiant with a deceitful grin. Fang raised his voice and continued, “Now we take one kid at a time. I take a girl ta the toilet an’ Charlie takes a boy, an’ we keep doin’ that ‘til everyone has a chance ta do what they need ta do.”

          Most of the kids had to use the toilet and were anxious to go. Some of them even raised their hands, out of habit, to indicate that they wanted to go first. Fang and Charlie flashed conspiratorial smiles to each other.

          Fang looked in the direction of Roman and said, “Freddy, here, can watch the Teach when we bring the kiddies ta the toilet.”

          Roman knew what they were up to. It didn’t take the New York State Police Violent Felony Squad psychiatrist to recognize a pedophile. Roman knew that he needed to act fast. He couldn’t allow any of these men to escort a child to the bathroom. His mind churned out ideas like a short automatic burst from an M-16.

          “Alyson, Honey. You’ll be first. Come with me,” Fang said. Then he nodded his head at Charlie.

          Charlie pointed at Davey and said, less sweetly than Fang, “Come here, boy. You can be the first boy to relieve yourself.” Charlie crooked his right index finger, hand palm upward, then bent and straightened that finger to indicated that Davey should come to him.

          Roman knew that the first two people to get relieved were going to be Fang and Charlie and it had nothing to do with emptying their urinary bladders.

          Roman stood and calmly said, “You’re being pretty stupid about this you know. A couple of Einsteins, you’re not. That’s for certain.”

          Roman was taking a calculated risk. He was deliberately provoking Fang. He wanted to anger Fang. He knew that anger was the father of carelessness and that carelessness, like a disease, breeds self-destruction in combat. Roman wanted Fang out of the picture; he wanted Fang neutralized quickly. Roman knew that the longer he waited, the more dangerous Fang would become and he was already too dangerous.

          Fang and Charlie dropped their smiles, and their tumescence as well, when Roman distracted them by calling them stupid.

          But while Fang was shocked to hear the Teach showing some balls, it was Charlie who spoke first. “What the fuck yuh talking about, Ass-wipe?”

          “You smart enough to even know who Einstein is? You know his theory of relativity and other insights into the nature of the universe?”

          “Don’t be an asshole, Asshole. A course I heard of him. So what!” Charlie shouted.

          “So you know that he was an exceptionally smart man, right? Well Einstein said, ‘There are only two things that are infinite in this world; one is the universe.’”

          “Yeah, yeah. Jesus! Is there a point to yur nonsense?”

          “Sure. The other infinite thing that Einstein named is ‘human stupidity.’ You two are a perfect example.”

          Charlie’s face turned red and hot. He walked toward Roman, until Fang grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

          “Well, if you both didn’t have your mind on other things,” Roman smiled knowingly at Fang, “you’d stop and think with the object above your neck instead of the object below your belt.” Roman was being cryptic to spare the children blatant sexual references.” Then you could be more logical. Perhaps, with some effort, you might even realize that you’re putting yourselves in a life-threatening situation by attempting to take the kids to the toilet. Anyway, I know it’s not relieving kid’s bladders that you want. Your girlie giggles gave your intentions away. ”

          Roman had talked to Fang and Charlie as if they were a infants.

          Fang became embarrassed, then furious as he took a threatening step toward Roman with his fists clenched into large, solid knots. He was so furious that he didn’t speak, but his randy feeling faded into fury as he glared at Roman.

          Fang simmered, nearly going into a boiling rage at Roman’s reference to him being like an infant. He thought, That bastard called me a baby. Fang’s thought immediately drifted into the polluted fog of his childhood.

          Fang’s family background was much like Charlie’s. The lack of love and comfort from his parents, the continual rejections. Life became a cruel experience for him very early, especially when his father constantly, physically abused him, beat him, kicked him, slammed him against walls. Black eyes, bruises, cuts were the usual result. A couple of times it was broken bones. He was young then, not big and strong. His father beat him, but not Freddy. Freddy was too young and his father couldn’t stand Freddy’s crying, so he usually left Freddy alone. It was the oldest son, Otto, who had suffered frequent physical abuse. Otto wouldn’t give his father the satisfaction of crying and, strangely enough, that, in itself, created further abuse.

          Fang exited his thoughts when he heard Roman speaking.

          “An’ ‘nother thang, Massa Fang,” Roman said, teasingly, as if he were a black slave, “please don’ be usin, dat kine o’ foul langage ‘round deese kids. Dey might be thinkin’ dat yuh be some sort o’ bad person an’ den not coperate wid yuh an’ yur two igits.” Roman’s voice abruptly changed to a deadly serious tone as he finished. “And let me tell you that a room full of twenty-four uncooperative kids, all yelling, crying, screaming and running around, is no kind of fun. It’s positively distracting and nerve-wracking . . . Massa Fang.”

          Charlie, with his knife in his hand, rushed toward Roman.

          Roman was going to break his arm to create a pressing need for negotiations, but Fang stuck out his long, huge arm, like the long wooden arms that swing down at railroad crossings, and blocked Charlie. When Charlie ran into the arm, he bounced back, as if he’d hit a wall.

          Fang had a bad feeling that Roman was trying to goad him into making a mistake by using a black man’s old slang, slavery expressions, like “Massa” instead of “Mister,” or “Master,” and calling his partners “igits” instead of “idiots.”

          But what kind of mistake could this wimp be thinking of, Fang wondered. Perhaps there was more to this teacher than he’d supposed. This insight irritated him like a sharp pebble in his shoe. Unexpectedly the pebble took on a face, not the face of the teacher, but the face of Otto’s father.

                  *

          Otto’s father punished Otto even for trivial infractions, like shoelaces untied, a button unbuttoned on his shirt, dirty hands, but especially for bed wetting. Otto was once punished for bed wetting lying belly-down and having his arms and legs tied to the four corners of his bed, while lying all day in his foul-smelling urine. After that young Otto slept naked in the cold bathtub to avoid wetting the bed. Otto was also punished by being locked in a dark closet, without food and water for two days.

          When Otto was a young teenager, he was fired from several jobs because of his obsession with cleanliness. He’d spend so much time in the bathroom washing his hands that he didn’t get much work done. A cook, in a kitchen where Otto was a dishwasher, reported to the owners that Otto chewed gum obsessively. The cook said that Otto only chewed the gum two-hundred times exactly─ Otto told him─ and he counted each chew out loud, getting on other people’s nerves. Then Otto put the chewed gum in the gum wrapper and threw it in the garbage. Otto would take out another stick of gum, repeating his chewing routine over and over, unless he ran out of gum. This, all the hand washing, and ugly bruises and nasty looking cuts and scabs that patrons noticed and asked about, falling behind in his work, plus other weird quirks, got him fired after only a month.

          Fang’s father was fanatically religious, despite the huge conflict and contradiction between his handling of family members and his religious beliefs. Otto’s father, a perfectionist with OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder), made sure that his wife, Freddy and Otto went to their fundamentalist church every Sunday. The Bible was the only book in their house. The mother was forced to conduct prayer sessions every evening for an hour, while her husband and sons listened and prayed. Otto’s father combined credulous, religious superstitions with personal interpretations of biblical text. The father’s superstitions included a crucifix in each room. Each crucifix had to be kissed before retiring to bed at night (to show love and respect for God and obedience to his words), black cats must be killed (they were Satan’s followers in disguise). Holy water was made by placing a crucifix in tap water for twenty-four hours. Before dinner the silverware and dishes had to be washed in the holy water. The interior walls of the house had to be painted white, for purity and his wife had to wash them each day. No pork could be eaten. In the master bedroom, over the bed, hung a symbolic, phallic crucifix that the wife had to kiss each night. To Otto’s father, the full moon represented the opening of the vagina, so in the darkness of the bedroom, during a full moon, his wife had to open herself to her husband as many times as he wished.

          In extreme anger, when Otto swore and used the words “Jesus and/or Christ, or mother-fucker, etc., Otto was considered to have given his soul to the devil and his father would force Otto into anal intercourse to symbolically drive the dirty, foul devil from Otto’s body.

          But young Otto wasn’t the only tragedy in the Fang house. Otto’s older sister, whom he didn’t like, was being methodically raped by her father; the mother knew about it, but could do nothing. She was too terrified to try to put an end to it. Otto’s sister saw the terror in her mother’s eyes and, like a contagious disease, that terror came to reside in her eyes as well. She saw no hope in struggling against her abuse so she let it happen while she mentally went to another place.

          Otto witnessed the power and authority that this terror put in his dad’s hands and he wanted it for himself or, at least, to share it. Soon young Otto, at thirteen years of age, was also finding his way to his fifteen year old sister’s bedroom, in the middle of the night, where he would tell his sister that dad said he could do it to her, too. She was too terrified to go against her father, plus Otto was now physically powerful enough to overpower her. Otto saw the terror in his sister’s eyes, again and again and enjoyed it more each time. It empowered him. The pleasure of her pain was only surpassed by his volcanic orgasms. Soon, with a young man’s sexual appetite, he was raping his sister more often than his father was. Otto’s sister finally realized that having hope, wishing and praying were useless and could be the worst of all evils, since they prolonged her torment and terror.

          She committed suicide shortly after her seventeenth birthday. Fang was angry at her; now he’d have to masturbate. His father was frustrated and irate, too, so he began forcing his wife to pleasure him with oral sex and anal sex when vaginal sex got boring for him. He also started taking out more of his anger on Otto and began punishing Freddy. Thus, Freddy was initiated into the circle of abuse. To the boys, the punishments became unbearable, especially after their mother ran away and disappeared.

          At fourteen, Otto started lifting weights after school, in the school’s weight room. After two years of weight lifting, Otto was strong and violent because his newly gained strength gave him power and power meant that he could control others. He needed to have control over others. Power and control were now his drugs. But, despite the pleasure of his power, he lived a life of concealed rage, with moments of insanely murderous visions, alternating with moments of thoughtful, deceiving calmness.

          Fang stopped flexing his massive muscles, settled down emotionally and focused for a few seconds. The Teach could have a good point, he thought. Then he said, “Whaddaya think would be so dangerous ‘bout goin’ ta the toilet, Teach?”

          “Well Fang, bullets, you know, are kind of dangerous. Pesky little things, aren’t they? Of course a bullet needs a target to hit, a soft, full-size, adult human target is best. And a nice, big human target like you is even better. You being four times bigger than Charlie, I guess it would be natural for the SWAT snipers to shoot you first.” Now Roman added the bluff. “So why don’t you step out into the hallway with Charlie and be a nice big target for a flesh-pulverizing rifle bullet. We’ve been here a long time, Fang. That hallway isn’t empty. I know that, so why is it that you don’t seem to know it? You’re really going to walk out there and be an easy target, or are you going to shove Freddy or Charlie out first to see if they get shot? Maybe you can bully Freddy into going first.”

          Charlie and Freddy appeared awestruck by Roman’s statement.

          Roman smiled at Charlie and Freddy. “Hey, Charlie. Freddy. You’re going into the hallway, first. That way, when you get blown apart, Fang here.” Roman pointed to Fang, “will definitely know that the hallway is a lethal place to be. Whaddaya think about that?”

          Roman’s sardonic smile widened as he stared at Charlie, then at Freddy.

          Charlie, doubt and suspicion etched into his face, looked at Fang, then back at Roman.

          Fang, speaking to Charlie, said, “Don’t let ‘im spook yuh, Charlie.” But at the same time, Fang knew that Roman was telling the truth. It was very likely that there were snipers from the state police SWAT team out there. He hated to admit it, but the Teach was right and he had almost walked into danger, allowing his dick to lead him astray.

          “Of course,” added Roman, “There’s an easy solution to that toilet problem.” Roman stood, then stared at Fang, Freddy and Charlie.

          “Yeah? An’ what might that be, Teach?” said Fang.

          “Simple,” Roman said with a relaxed smile that irritated both Fang and Charlie─ Freddy looked shameful. “Just send me out there to take the kids to the bathroom. The cops’ll know what I look like. The scopes on their rifles will give them an up-close view of my face. They’ll know I’m the teacher and they won’t shoot me. I can stand outside, between the bathroom doors to the girls’ and boys’ bathrooms to direct traffic. And what if they did shoot me? So what. You’d still have all your hostages. It’s a win-win solution.”

          “Yur a smart-ass bastard aren’t yuh, Teach?” blurted Fang.

          Swiftly Roman spoke with a rough, strychnine edge to his voice. “Fang, I keep my brains a lot higher than you and Charlie. You ought to try it sometime. It works nicely. But you know I’m right. If you walk out there it’ll be difficult to protect that body of yours from being punctured by one, perhaps several bullets. And from the look of Charlie’s face, you aren’t going to get him to volunteer to test the water for you. I guess you could shove Freddy out there, right?”

          Freddy cringed.

          Fang knew, Charlie knew and Freddy suddenly realized that Roman was right. Only Roman didn’t know if he was right and if he was about to accomplish an extraordinarily, good bluff.

          “Do it, Asshole. Do it fast,” Fang snarled.

          “OK, boys and girls. I’ll take you to the bathroom.”

          Roman took the kids to the bathroom, a few at a time. He would casually glance up and down the long hallway every few seconds. He saw two, dark, thin-looking, round pieces of metal jutting out at the corner walls from both ends of the hallway. The ends of those rifle barrels looked like black dots. They were Parkerized, non-reflective rifle barrels. SWAT team snipers, he thought. Probably state police. He smiled. His bluff turned out to be the truth. He had saved the kids from sexual molestation, but lost some of his advantageous, wimp-like characteristics to the criminals. Fang and Charlie could have been blown away and he could have handled Freddy easily, armed or unarmed. But he had saved some of the kids from sexual abuse and trauma. He considered that a fair trade-off. He knew that there was an obvious solution to this hostage problem, but it involved killing in front of the children. Roman didn’t like that option, though he knew that it may come down to that. He hoped it didn’t involve tragedy for any of the children.

          Maybe seeing the hopelessness of the situation would cause them to give up, he thought. Fang’s two sidekicks didn’t have the maniacal bravado to carry this through to the bitter end, but Fang. Charlie and Freddy would follow Fang’s lead, except, perhaps, for Freddy. Freddy might be salvageable. Fang would squash them if they didn’t obey him. Fang ruled, and was ruled, by fear. But fear was a force that Roman usually dealt with successfully, at least in the past. And Roman knew that anybody can act cowardly. He knew that the line separating the brave from the cowards was as frail as one thread in a spider web.

          Roman also knew that there were three types of people, with reference to bravery and cowardice. First, there are the timid, shy, insecure persons who are intensely frightened and will run away at any hint of danger. Second, there are the persons who are so afraid, in the face of danger, that they freeze and the third kind are the brave persons who do whatever needs to be done and are frightened only after they realize what they have successfully accomplished and the importance of it. All three types of people will be fearful, but all three react in different ways.

          Roman also knew, via his karate training, that where there is too much fear, there is defeat. Fear distracts, paralyzes, dilutes skills and saps energy. To be the victor, Roman thought, he must keep his fear under control, then do whatever is necessary for that particular situation. Roman controlled his fear via discipline, concentration, training and had done so, in the past, while facing overwhelming odds.

          Roman asked himself, “How do I solve this problem? There has to be another way out.” But Roman didn’t know what it was, not yet. He stood in the hallway, between the bathroom doors and projected good humor and confidence to his students. But in his mind, a picture of Fang was forming. Fang’s over-inflated ego was blowing him up like a huge balloon full of hot air . . . and Roman was holding a needle.

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

15

“The world needs anger. The world often continues to allow evil because it isn’t angry enough.”

Bede Jarrett

Every student had a chance to use their bathroom. Roman was the last to use the boys’ room. As he stood at the urinal a warm grin spread across his face like butter being spread across hot toast. He was not only physically relieved, but emotionally relieved as well. Then the grin disappeared, like a coin from a magician’s fingers, as he thought about what may happen next. He zipped-up quickly, did not wash his hands and rushed back to the classroom.

          As Roman hurried back to the classroom, he saw Fang looking around the doorway, his pistol pointing at him. Roman had no fear of being shot, not yet, anyway. If they shot him, they’d have a little less to bargain with, negotiations might fail and the cops could come storming into the school. When Roman got to the doorway, Fang grabbed him around the neck. Roman acted meek and submissive, though he could have gotten free of Fang’s grip. Roman allowed Fang to manhandle him as he thought, It would be bad timing to fight Fang now. The kids were his responsibility, so he offered no resistance, not even verbally, though he gritted his teeth and grunted from the pressure on his throat from Fang’s one-arm grip. Fang pushed Roman head-first and Roman stumbled forward, into the classroom.

          “What took yuh so long!” Fang growled.

          “Had to pee,” Roman responded, laconically.

          The children giggled at the word pee.

          Fang glared at Roman, sneered at the kids, then grabbed a long table and used it as a shield as he walked toward the boys’ room. He set the table down so it stood up vertically to shield him and his men while they used the toilet, one at a time─ the table was not a shield against a bullet, it was a shield that prevented the snipers from knowing which of the men was using the bathroom.

          Charlie’s face expressed insolent disappointment. He had had more than just peeing on his mind and Roman had ruined his anticipated pleasure. But worst of all, the table could have been brought out there before and they wouldn’t have had to use the teacher.

          “Christ!” Charlie said to Fang, through clenched teeth. “Why didn’t yuh think of that sooner?”

          “Don’t know. You so smart, why didn’t yuh think if it?”

          Charlie sulked like a first grader, knowing he couldn’t challenge Fang.

          Roman peered at Freddy and didn’t get the impression that Freddy wanted to participate in Fang’s and Charlie’s perversions. Roman thought, It was probably the peer pressure that made Freddy act like he wanted to do what Otto and Charlie had suggested.

          After Fang, Charlie and Freddy used the bathroom, one of the less fearful kids said, “X-Y-Z,” and pointed to Freddy.

          “What’s that mean?” Freddy asked the boy, then turned to Roman.

          Charlie and the other students laughed at Freddy.

          Roman told Freddy, “It just means that your zipper is down.”

          The children laughed more loudly.

          Charlie laughed harder and said, “Hey, Freddy, what’s on yur mind?”

          “Asshole,” Freddy mumbled as he turned his back to the kids, then zipped up. Freddy’s face was an oversized, ripe cherry when he turned back to face the students.

          The sound of Freddy’s zipper triggered images of body-bags to Roman. The sound gnawed and squealed at him. It was like someone running their fingernails across a blackboard. Roman tried to cast off the horrible image of all those body bags.

          Rage blurred Roman’s vision, then total darkness engulfed his mind. To Roman, the darkness was like being in a cave at midnight.

          If you could see into the tar-black tunnel in each of Roman’s pupils, you would see tortured, grotesque images straining against chains and metal doors. These creatures of Roman’s post-Vietnam guilt and shame were locked up in strong mental and physical restraints, not allowed to exit into the light of the outside world. Roman’s demons created fierce pressure. Roman shook his head to clear his mind, to let the light in. He would not give in to the strong urge to let these personal demons escape his mental jail, to become fully detailed, alive and nourished by creating havoc in the outside world. Roman worried because the demons sometimes had a will of their own and got into a battle with Roman’s will. This battle of wills created friction and the friction created intense heat which felt like it would fry Roman’s brain.

          Roman’s vision cleared when he heard Fang’s heavy-footed steps.

          Roman decided that he would do well not to underestimate Fang. It was much safer that way; it allowed for less chance of a fatal mistake. Fang may, Roman thought, combine both the brawn and brains of an Arnold Schwarzenegger─ though Roman was still skeptical of the “brains” part. But Roman knew that Fang was more intelligent than he looked, or that his criminal records may have indicated. It was easy to think Fang was all muscle and no brain, especially with his extremely poor grammar, an indication of very poor primary school learning or, perhaps, the absence of much formal education at all.

          Charlie handed the rifle to Fang, then casually walked to Roman’s chair. Quickly he drew out his knife, the blade gleaming from the overhead lights. Charlie held the point of the knife slightly inside one nostril of Roman’s nose. It was an intensely intimidating position and being close to the eyes made it even worse. Charlie had learned some lessons well when it came to intimidation with a knife.

          Most untrained, inexperienced people would have been frozen with fear. Roman felt intimidated even though he knew that intimidation was Charlie’s goal. Roman figured Charlie had no intention of using the knife in a serious manner, not now anyway. Roman also thought, Fang wouldn’t want him being hurt before their escape because the Teach controlled the kids and that was very important to Fang.

          Roman observed Charlie’s sadistic grin as they stared at each other. Roman saw Charlie’s extended right arm, almost sticking straight out towards Roman’s face. With Charlie’s arm extending straight out like that and with the element of surprise, plus the knife pointing at such a small target, Roman knew he could disarm Charlie easily with a simple backward flick of his head, an open-hand arm block to deflect the blade, then an arm-lock, a knee to the groin, an elbow to the face and, as Charlie sagged to the floor, the coup de grace joint-break at the elbow. Roman could visualize the moves clearly. He had practiced them hundreds of times and performed them a few dozen times in combat. It would only take a couple of seconds and it would be all over. But if he did it, then his charade as a wise-ass, overconfident, wimpy teacher would be blown. He’d lose the element of surprise that could be crucial later on. No . . . as much as the urge to lash-out had a strong grip on him, he held back. The wise-ass teacher facade is what was needed, he thought, especially the weak, wimpy part of it.

          Instead, Roman looked straight into Charlie’s eyes and whispered, so his students wouldn’t hear, “Are you as good with that blade as you must be at stroking your dick? I’ll bet you get a lot of practice when you’re alone, huh?”

          Charlie heard both Fang and Freddy snicker behind his back.

          Fang said, “Don’t be careless with the blade. We need ‘im.”

          Fury contorted Charlie’s face, the blade trembling in his hand as he stepped closer to Roman and applied more pressure to the blade in Roman’s nostril. Roman thought the blade was going to tear through the nostril, but it didn’t. Charlie’s lips parted slowly and Roman could see the sticky, frothy saliva at the corners of his mouth and strands of it forming fragile, web-like columns between his slightly parted lips. Roman was reminded of the rabid, Adirondack Mountain coyote, frothing at the mouth.

          “Put that knife down and get over here,” Fang ordered Charlie.

          “I oughta jam this blade right up yur nose and inta yur brain.” The blade still trembled in Charlie’s hand, accidentally cutting Roman’s upper lip enough to send a trickle of blood flowing to the corner of his mouth.

          Roman heard Blizzard’s growl. Roman felt the release of pressure from his chest. He saw a flash of white fur and ivory teeth exit his chest.

          Charlie dropped his knife as blood dripped from two puncture wounds on his wrist. Charlie grabbed his right wrist with his left hand, trying to stop the bleeding. Instead, blood drizzled out from between his fingers as he looked bug-eyed at the blood.

          “You should be more careful with that knife,” Roman taunted.

          Fang interjected, “Goddamnit! Charlie, I tole yuh ta put that knife away. Now what did yuh do? Cut yurself?”

          “No, dammit. I was bitten. Look,” pleaded Charlie.

          Fang looked. “The Teach bit you? Jesus. I guess he’s got some balls, though they can’t be any bigger than grains a rice,” Fang responded, with a grin.

          Freddy laughed heartily, delighted to have a chance to laugh at Charlie.

          “Look! Goddamnit!” Charlie shouted, while holding his wrist out for Fang to see.

          “Sure looks like a dog bite. Then the Teach didn’t bite yuh, yuh dummy.”

          “Didn’t say he did. Just said I got bit. I saw somethin’ white, too. Somethin’ weird’s goin’ on in here.”

          “Yeah. It’s you. If yuh have a dog bite an’ there ain’t no dog, then yuh ain’t just weird. Yur crazy, too. Hey Teach? Yuh got any large band-aids?”

          “Yeah. Above the sink, in the cabinet.” Then Roman reached for a tissue to clean the blood on his upper lip. He applied pressure and the cut coagulated, leaving a red line running diagonally from under his right nostril to the septum of his nose, as if drawn on his lip with a red marker pen.

          Charlie mumbled angrily to himself at the sink as he ran water over the wound. “Damn Teach. Fuckin’ bastard. Shit! Calm down, don’t be stupid. Grab a paper towel. Still, I should kill that son of a bitch.”

          A tugging, tearing sound announced Charlie pulling out a paper towel from its canister. Then the squeak of the cabinet door and the tearing open of two band-aids. Finally an “Ouch!” drifted from the back of the room. Then Charlie hurried to Roman’s desk.

          Charlie spit on Roman, saliva spraying onto Roman’s shirt. Charlie shouted, “Yuh goddamn mother-fucker! I should kill yuh right now. I’m going ta . . . !”

          A gauzy, white flash jumped in front of Charlie’s face. Blizzard.

          Charlie suddenly stopped his tirade. He looked all around himself. Seeing nothing, but feeling a spinal chill. He leaned his body backwards without moving his feet. Fear captured Charlie and held him prisoner. He heard a growl and felt as if he had been released from something, though he still couldn’t move.

          Roman laughed at Charlie, only feeling mild pain and burning on his upper lip.

          While laughing, but looking, Roman was unexpectedly introduced to Charlie’s fist.

          Roman stopped laughing, blinked and gritted his teeth in pain. His upper lip started bleeding again, only worse this time. He felt the trickle of warm blood running over his lips and chin, then dripping onto his shirt. Roman started laughing, again, his white teeth turning red as if he’d eaten a lot of red licorice. The red teeth made him look like a vampire who had just sucked fresh blood.

          Blizzard, unseen, nipped Charlie’s calf.

          Roman smiled.

          Charlie felt pain, looked surprised and backed up a step. He screamed, “What the fuck’s goin’ on?”

          The children started crying. Fang acted quickly. He grabbed Charlie’s arm and said, “That’s ‘nough, boy. Kids’re cryin’ an’ that’ll make the folks outside nervous. Nervous cops will start thinkin’ of stormin’ the building. Git back over there by Freddy.”

          Charlie reluctantly turned and limped away, though, over his shoulder, he glared at Roman, then faced Fang and protested, “There’s something wrong in here. I think I saw a white dog. I know it sounds crazy. Look. I got bit again on my calf. Only my pants stopped the skin from getting’ cut again.”

          “Shut up, Charlie. I’m tired of yur crazy whining. Jus’ shut up.”

          Roman stood and walked past Fang toward the sink at the back of the room. Just as he passed Fang his vision suddenly turned black, then the blackness filled with tiny sparkles, as if his mind was full of the night sky. He dropped on both knees, catching his breath, only then realizing that Fang had kidney punched him. He placed his hands on the floor for stability, then shook his head to clear the night sky and stars away. He looked up at Fang. “Going to the sink to wash off the blood. Kids get scared when they see blood.”

          “Next time git permission. Yuh go nowhere unless I say so, unnerstand?”

          “Sure. Of course. May I go to the sink . . . please?”

          “Yeah and stop those babies from crying,” Fang said, angrily.

          “Boys and girls. I’m not hurt very badly and the blood will wash off easily. I may look worse than I really am. So now I want everyone to stop crying, OK? Please help me and stop crying. That’s the best thing you can do for me right now.”

          Roman continued to the sink, ran the water on a paper towel, then washed off the blood. He dried his lip, then using another dry paper towel he applied constant pressure to the wound. He grabbed a couple more paper towels, walked back to his desk and sat down, his lower back still very painful.

          Roman started to open his top desk drawer to retrieve a band-aid, but stopped. He looked up to see Fang, holding a cocked pistol. Fang aimed it at Roman’s chest.

          “Sorry. Forgot. I have band-aids in here, too. May I get a band-aid out of the drawer?” Roman asked.

          “Yur hand comes outta that drawer with somethin’ other than a band-aid an’ I shoot yuh. Don’t care what the cops do. When yuh got the band-aid, take yur hand out very slowly.” Fang continued to glare at Roman.

          Roman reached into the drawer and brought out a band-aid. He removed the paper towel then applied the band-aid to the cut. Then, speaking to his students, he said, “See? I’m fine, people. Nothing to worry about.” Roman smiled broadly, not showing the pain as his smile stretched the wound.

          When Fang wasn’t looking, Roman gave Charlie the middle-finger salute.

          Freddy was, again, delighted, but said nothing.

          Charlie saw it as he was rubbing the pain in his calf. If looks could kill, Roman would have died a horrible death.

          Fang checked the door to make sure it was locked. The vertical window in the door wasn’t a problem. It measured about nine inches wide and was about two feet long. It was set into the middle of the door.

          Fang grabbed a chair. He jammed the back of a chair under the classroom door knob. “Just in case,” he mumbled. He looked out the door window, again, and smiled. Across the hallway was another door. It had a black, plastic tag on it and four white letters etched into it that said, ROOF. Fang’s brain started churning out possibilities as his smile widened. As he turned around, his face turned stern and ugly. Then he saw Charlie walking towards Roman, brandishing a knife.

          Fang took a giant step forward, reached his branch-like arm out to Charlie and grabbed the collar of Charlie’s shirt. When Fang yanked Charlie backward, Charlie looked as if he had been shot backwards from a circus cannon. He crashed into Fang’s chest. Fang squeezed his knife-hand wrist. Charlie felt excruciating pain, as if his wrist bones would break. The puncture wounds on his wrist screamed at him, so he immediately dropped the knife.

          Fang growled menacingly at Charlie, “Put that knife away,” he said. “Don’t want yuh scarin’ the kids. I tol’ yuh that already. Can’t stand their whimpering and cryin’.”

          Fang released Charlie. Charlie picked up the knife and placed it back into its belt sheath. He started to walk back to Freddy when Fang grabbed him again, speaking low, “Yuh pull anythin’ like that again, without checkin’ wi’ me first, I cut yur balls off. Unnerstand?”

          Charlie was humiliated, a line of sweat ran along his upper lip. He nodded his head submissively to indicate compliance with Fang’s command.

          Charlie turned to stare at Roman. It was a chilling stare that seemed to cool the whole room as if an air-conditioner had just been turned on.

          A few of the children, who witnessed the stare, thought they saw frosty white puffs of vapor escaping from Charlie’s mouth. But the weird thing was that there was puffy, white vapor around Charlie’s legs, as if he could breathe through his knee caps.

          Freddy sat on the counter by the windows, seemingly daydreaming, oblivious to the fact that he could be shot easily.

          “Give me the key ta yur door,” Fang demand of Roman.

          Roman squinted his eyes, wrinkled his brow and shrugged his shoulders indicating that he didn’t understand, then replied. “What key? I don’t have a key to the door.”

          “Don’t screw with me, Teach. I wan’ the key. I wan’ it now an’ I won’t waste time word-dancin’ with yuh. I got over twenty kids here. Which one da yuh wan’ me ta hurt first? Blondie, there?” He pointed to Alyson, then started to lower his pistol in the general direction of Alyson Boyd. The children froze with fear as the gun was aimed toward them. They buried their heads in their arms and started crying, again.

          “I thought you didn’t want the kids to cry? You just started them crying. Make up your mind.”

          Shit, Fang chastised himself. He put the gun away, then whispered to Roman, “I’ll hurt that girl. Now give me the key.”

          Roman couldn’t take the chance. Fang was too ruthless. Quickly Roman said, “OK. Don’t scare the kids. Here’s the key.” He reached into his right front pocket and removed the door key from his key ring and gave it to Fang. Fang, as quick as a cobra, snatched all the keys. “Just in case,” he said. Then Fang locked the door

          “So, yur smarter than yuh look. Good ta know. Good fer the kids, too.” There was a harsh, impatient, savageness in Fang’s voice so Roman didn’t want to push him too far, not yet. He’d had second thoughts about trying to goad Fang into a fight. Not in the classroom, he thought to himself. Three to one with the kids safety at stake are not good odds. Damn, how to get out of this, Roman wondered.

          Fang yelled, “Freddy! Get yur ass away from the windows. They got snipers down the hall, an’ probly some outside, too.”

          Freddy nearly fell off the counter when he tried to get off it too quickly. He lost his balance and stumbled. Before he stabilized himself, his mouth formed an “O” and his eyes bugged out with surprise.

          “Why yuh didn’t say somethin’ sooner?” Freddy asked.

          “Didn’t think yuh were that stupid,” Fang replied.

          Fang stared at the children. “OK, brats. I want all the girls to sit on the counter, by the windows . . . Wait! Freddy, pull down all them shades. All the way down.”

          Freddy glanced at Otto fearfully.

          “Just do it, Goddamnit!” Fang growled.

          “Yuh really don’t give a shit about me, do yuh?” Freddy whimpered.

          “Yuh damn cry baby. Do like I say.”

          Once Freddy’s job was completed, Fang ordered all the girls to sit on the counter in front of the windows that faced the parking lot. But there were too few girls to fill the entire counter-top area, so Fang selected a few of the smaller boys to sit there, too. They would all act as little, flesh and blood shields in case a sniper tried to fire at them through the windows. The half-dozen bigger boys that remained, he ordered, gruffly, to come to the door, where he stood. Everybody wondered what he was up to. Fang unlocked the door. “OK, the rest a yuh boys I want yuh ta take all the desks an’ stack ‘em up out in the hall so we can make a blockade. Put a line a desks all the way ‘cross the hall, ‘bout ten feet down from this door. Then block off the space unner the desks with the flat surfaces of some tipped-over desks. Then put more desks on top a the original line a desks so that we has a wall a desks. Teach, yuh can help ‘em. An’ don’t get any crazy ideas ‘bout escaping. Yuh know what’ll happen, right?” Fang made a gun with his fingers, pointed it at one of the boys, dropped his thumb down and said, “Boom. Ya get my meanin’?”

          “Yeah, I get it. No problems. Promise,” Roman responded.

          “OK then. Now yuh help the boys with the wall a desks.”

          As Roman walked toward the doorway he thought he saw white flakes, then more and more of them until it looked like an indoor blizzard. He had started calling Wolf, Blizzard. Out of the blizzard that only he could see, came a voice, “Be patient. Be strong. Your time will come.” Roman smiled. He refocused his eyes. No one else looked as if they’d seen or heard anything unusual.

          Roman and the boys built the wall of desks about ten feet down the hallway from the classroom door. When they ran out of desks, they took more from the classroom across the hallway. Fang ordered them to barricade the double doors that they had come through in order to get to the classroom. Now the normal routes to the classroom were blocked. The barricades were frail, but would act as shields and as an alarm system. If they were tampered with and squeaked or fell to the floor, they would make plenty of warning noise. Roman had to admit that it was a good idea. He and the boys returned to the classroom.

          Next, Fang took the AK-47 rifle from Freddy and walked across the hallway─ he was now shielded by the desks from the snipers whom he thought were at the end of the hallway. He tried Roman’s room key on the roof door lock. It didn’t work. In anger, he grabbed the door knob with both hands, gave a mighty yank and pulled the dead-bolt through the door frame, with a cracking, ripping sound, resulting in an open door and easy access to the roof. But were there cops up there? he wondered. He’d have to risk it and find out.

          Roman saw what Fang had accomplished with shear muscle power and felt intimidated by such a grand show of strength.

          Now Fang has access to the roof, Roman thought That meant that, strategically, he would control the high ground. It was sound military strategy; he who controls the high ground controls his enemy. Roman swore under his breath because Fang appeared to know what he was doing and it worried him. But Roman calmed himself and remained resolute in his own abilities.

          After a short time Fang returned to the classroom, then closed and locked the door. The door was now automatically locked the outside. He ordered the boys, who had made the wall of desks, to stand by the door window. He shoved them in two rows, each parallel to the door. Any direct, violent assault through the windows or through the door, would end up with the loss of children’s lives.

          Roman shook his head, then swore silently. The thought of any of his students being hurt sent shards of pain though his head. He realized that this situation would not be easily resolved. It would be damn tough to get all the kids to safety now that Fang showed himself to be a cunning foe, rather than just a muscle-bound rube.

          Steven Blake whispered something that must have been derogatory because the other boys smirked and hid their mouths with their hands to muffle giggles and hide smiles.

          Charlie slapped Steven across the head. Steven fell backwards, but his friends caught him.

          Roman picked up a roll of tape and threw it at Charlie, hitting him on the shoulder. Charlie turned and charged at Roman, a flurry of arms in motion like a windmill. Fang couldn’t stop him this time. Roman kicked him in the balls and Charlie sank to the ground, on his knees, holding both hands over his crotch.

          Looking angrily at Fang, Roman stated, “I told you I’d raise hell if you or your partners hurt any of the kids. The only way to stop me is to shoot me and you can’t do that. Face it. Your hope for escape all depends on the children’s safety.”

          Fang glared at Roman, wondering how he was going to handle this teacher.

          “Charlie. Freddy. No hurting any kids,” Fang commanded, then, to Roman, “We won’t hurt any kids, but that don’t mean I can’t hurt you,” Fang growled to Roman.

          “It surprises me that you caught that subtle difference. Guess you’re not a retard after all.”

          Freddy looked ecstatic upon hearing Roman use the word retard to his brother.

          Fang noticed and growled, “Wipe that smile off a yur face or I cut it off.”

          Then Fang pushed Roman into his desk chair and slapped him repeatedly, thinking of ways to handle this rebellious teacher. Roman’s cheeks were red and swollen like small red balloons.

          Roman felt discouraged by a lack of opportunity to strike a lethal or crippling blow at Fang and his minions. Roman thought of Grace and Sam. He reached into his pocket and felt Grace’s Annie button. He imagined the soft, velvet touch of Sam’s kisses as he was being slapped. Thinking of Sam and Grace seemed to cushion the blows. He looked up at Fang. Fang returned the look, a vicious gleam in his eyes.

          Neither man broke eye contact. Each man searching the other, probing for weaknesses and strengths. Fang, Roman realized, was not one to give up easily. In Fang’s mind, this situation condensed to: Get free or die trying.

          Fang suddenly looked away when his peripheral vision caught Charlie getting up off the floor, still holding his crotch, but in much less pain. Fang turned and walked to Charlie, as if to help him walk. Instead he put his left hand around Charlie’s throat, while his right hand grabbed Charlie’s crotch, then lifted him up and threw him half way across the room where his head hit the wall. The hard landing knocked Charlie out cold.

          Fang mumbled, “Stupid mother fucker.”

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