Brian
“WHAT ARE we doin’ here?” Cameron asked as we pulled into the empty south parking lot. “The building’s gonna be locked, genius.”
“We don’t need to get inside.” I unhooked my seat belt and opened my door.
I don’t know why I felt such a gripping sense of urgency, like disaster loomed. Landon was off in New York doing his national TV show, and we were in that dead zone that stretched from Christmas to New Year’s. I should be pigging out and watching movies, or maybe doing my PT exercises, trying to get my strength back. Instead, I was hanging out with Cameron, of all people, texting with a cop who wanted nothing to do with me, and trying to track down The Wall shooters. But it felt imperative to do this, right now. I had to finish this thing. I couldn’t fumble this chance.
We circled A-Wing to get to the emergency exit door at the far end of B-Wing. The wind had gotten arctic cold. The grass was stiff with frost because it hadn’t warmed up enough to melt it. It was after three, I figured, the winter sky dull as lead.
Cameron trailed behind me. “Where are we going?”
I didn’t bother to answer, just kept walking.
As we approached B-Wing, I scanned the classroom windows. “American History’s on the other side. Come on.”
The back of the school had a forgotten feeling, even when school was in session. The blank classroom windows of B-Wing and C-Wing looked out over a huge cornfield. There was a bit of spotty lawn. A service driveway snaked around C-Wing and went to a loading dock in the center of the main building, usually closed and shuttered. And that was all. No one hung out back here, not unless they were trying to sneak a smoke.
The corn was down now, leaving a stubble of frosty yellow bristles that stretched out for acres. In the far distance you could see a farmhouse and barn that were hidden for most of the year by crops. The wind came across the fields and sliced right through me like Michael Myers on a rampage.
Cameron stuffed his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. He bounced up and down. “Fuck, my ’nads’ll fall off. What do you think you’re gonna find out here?”
“I need to take a look at Fishbinder’s windows.”
I counted off classrooms in my head as I walked the length of the wing, peering inside. The blinds were pulled up, and I could make out desks as I passed. I saw Fishbinder’s neat, clean print on a blackboard. He’d listed a chapter to read and an essay topic for the break.
Being on this side of the glass gave me a new perspective. The windows’ upper sections didn’t open, but there were smaller windows at the bottom that slanted out. A hedge ran stiffly along the length of the exterior wall below the windows.
My mouth went dry. Anxiety crept up my spine. The nasty little Gollum in my head rattled his cage. Sweat broke out on my back despite the cold. Cameron just stood there with his hands in his pockets, chin tucked into the collar of his blue parka, watching me.
“Well?” he said.
I took a deep breath. “The cops found evidence that the shooters went in the door at the end of B-Wing.” I waved a hand toward it. “But what about this? Fourth period starts, and Gordo and Mr. Fishbinder are alone in the room. Fishbinder has got it all planned out, down to the last second. They change into their black clothes, grab the guns that Mr. Fishbinder would have stashed earlier in the closet or something, then, instead of going out the classroom door to the hall, they come out one of these windows.”
“The windows don’t open far enough.”
I peered at the windows, pushing my way through an opening in the hedge to get up close. Each lower window frame was about three feet wide and had a hinge-and-bar mechanism that prevented the windows from opening more than a few inches. I could see it clearly through the glass.
“The only thing stopping them from opening all the way is a little bar, and that’s attached with a few screws. Fishbinder could’ve removed the bars, and then, after the shooting, put them back the way they were.”
“Okay,” Cameron said doubtfully. “You don’t think anyone would have seen them walking along the side of the building?” He looked around. “Like someone in one of these other classrooms?”
“Not if they used the bushes as a shield.” I demonstrated, crouching between the hedge and wall, moving along under the windows. Then I realized if there was any trace of footprints or broken branches after all this time, I’d mess them up, so I hopped back to the lawn.
We went back around to B-Wing’s emergency exit door. It was locked now. They’d made sure it was locked, and the alarm fixed, after the shooting. But that day, there would have been something stuck in it so kids could duck out and smoke. Hell, Fishbinder would have made sure of that. I could see it all in my head—the two of them, dressed in black, people I fucking knew, opening that door, armed with guns, ready to kill.
I had no proof that’s what had happened. But I knew all the same. They came from a classroom through a window, and somehow returned the same way. And the cops would never suspect them because Gordo and Fishbinder had been found barricaded inside after the building had been cleared. And because no one would expect a student and teacher to lie for each other.
A wave of nausea and light-headedness stole my strength. I leaned against the brick wall near the door, taking deep breaths, trying to clear my head. I couldn’t fall apart right now.
You must have to psych yourself up for games, so psych yourself up right now.
Landon’s words from that day came to me. It was like he was here telling me I could do this. I had to do this.
“I don’t know, dude. I don’t know,” Cameron said, his voice freaked-out. He started to pace. “Maybe it was someone else. You know? Maybe this is all a coincidence.”
I ignored him. “That’s why the security cameras had to be down. Not because they didn’t want to be filmed inside. They were wearing ski masks. But because they didn’t want to be caught going in and out of B-Wing by cameras outside the school.”
“Shit, Brian. I think you’re right. Fuck me, I do. But we got diddly-squat. All we know is that Gordo asked me to meet him in the basement that day, and he’s been acting weird.”
“And we know he’s been spending lots of time with Fishbinder. Don’t tell me that’s not messed up.”
“Okay. It’s messed up. But maybe Fishbinder is just a nice guy. A father figure. That doesn’t mean they shot up the damn school.”
“Except that Fishbinder took Gordo to a shooting range an hour away. A lot.”
“Oh God,” Cameron moaned, grabbing his head. “This can’t be happening.”
But it was. I went back around to Fishbinder’s classroom windows and took pictures with my phone. I took a picture with my hand between the bushes and the wall, showing the gap. I took pictures from farther back to show the distance between those windows and B-Wing’s entrance. I sent them all to Mike via text, one after another, in a flurry of righteous anger. Take this!
There was no reply. Mike was probably ignoring me now. Hell, maybe he’d blocked me.
“Who the hell are you texting, Marshall?” Cameron demanded.
“A detective with the Silver Falls PD. He interviewed me in the hospital.”
“Oh fuck!” Cameron was close to tears now, his expression frantic. “I’m gonna go to jail. They’ll give me a lethal injection or whatever! How do they kill you in Missouri?”
“I don’t know, Cam.”
“Well, however they do it, they’re gonna do it to me! If Gordo did it, if he goes down, no one’s gonna believe it was a teacher with him.” His eyes went wide. “Oh, God! Gordo was trying to set me up! That’s why he told me to go to the basement, so I wouldn’t have an alibi.”
I thought about that. Had Fishbinder planned to let Gordo and Cameron take the fall? But that wouldn’t have worked unless Gordo got killed in the shootout. Because if there was one guy on earth who’d squeal, it was Gordon Stahler. “Nah, man. Fishbinder wouldn’t have wanted Gordo to say anything to anyone. He was planning on them getting away clean.” And they pretty much had. “I bet Gordo sent you down to the basement to make sure you were safe.”
Cameron rubbed his eyes and sniffled. “Ya think?”
“Yeah, man. Seriously. Look how he planned it. I was supposed to be in class and so was Jake. And they didn’t hit those classrooms. He sent you to the basement just to be sure you were out of the line of fire. He was protecting us.”
Cameron wiped his nose with the back of a hand. “Yeah. Yeah. He was protecting us.”
That seemed to make Cameron calm down, but the idea only enraged me. It only proved Gordo knew how many kids were likely to die that day.
“But how’d they get back into the classroom at the end? They left the school way over in D-Wing.” He waved in that direction. “They’d have to go past the entire damn school to get back over here.”
“Well, let’s go over there and see.”
We walked along the back of the school, across the dead grass toward C-Wing, and then followed the service driveway. As we rounded the corner and hit the north parking lot, the wind gusted across the asphalt, nearly blinding me. My eyes watered. The parking lot was empty except for a long line of yellow buses lined up along the curb, their blank windows staring at me.
Anyone could be hiding in there.
I panted like I’d been running, and my legs felt numb as we walked, and not because of the cold. I hated being in this place to begin with, but today, with the eerie quiet, and me and Cam tracking the killers’ path, it was worse than ever. I couldn’t help looking around for ominous figures. But there was no one, and there wouldn’t be. I might not know where Gordo or Mr. Fishbinder were at this moment, but there was no reason for them to be at the school with guns during Christmas break.
Right?
When we reached the portico and D-Wing’s door, Cameron tried it. It was locked. He stood there, hands on his hips.
“So they came out this door…,” he said leadingly.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “In that cell phone footage, they exited and went left.”
Heading left of the portico could get you to a lot of places—the north parking lot, the service road, and eventually….
I pointed. “The cornfield.”
Cameron looked between the field and the door.
“Nah. Somebody would have seen ’em. Two guys in black carrying guns? There are all those windows along C-Wing. Did anyone report seeing them?”
“I don’t think so. The cops think they had a car in the parking lot, and they took off before the first responders got here. Because the security cameras were down, there’s no video. And Josiah mentioned that other cars were leaving, lots of people with cars took off. So the cops probably just assumed one of those cars was them.”
“Yeah, but someone would have seen them walk to the cornfield, bruh.”
I held up my hand, so he’d let me think. I looked around. He was right. If they’d walked along the sidewalk or service drive, someone in C-Wing would have seen them.
Then it hit me between the eyes. I was staring right at it. “The buses. They’re here every day between morning drop-off and afternoon pickup. Come on.”
We jogged over to the line of buses, circling them to the parking lot side. Cameron and I gave each other a grim look. Then I crouched and ran alongside the long yellow blockade, my fingers ghosting the sides.
Sure enough, the buses would provide cover from anyone in C-Wing. And anyone over at the football field wouldn’t have seen them because of all the other cars in the lot. The last bus was maybe ten feet from the cornfield.
I walked across the grass to the edge of the field. The neat rows of short yellow nubs wouldn’t reveal any clues. The harvest would’ve erased any traces of footprints or a disturbance to the stalks. Surely the cops would have checked the field on the day of the shooting. Right?
But maybe not. They had so many dead and wounded, so many hysterical people to interview. And if they assumed the shooters had driven away…. After all, who would expect the killers to turn around and go back into the school? Pretend to be victims? I could picture it, though. The two of them running through the tall corn with their goddamn guns. Bile rose, burning my throat and making me gag. I went back over to the parking lot and sat on the curb, put my head in my hands.
Cameron plopped down beside me. “You gonna hurl?”
I shook my head.
Cameron was silent for a minute. Then he said, “This is crazy. Maybe I’m crazy. But I think they really could have done it like you said.”
“Yeah.”
A few seconds ticked by. There was no answer.
These guys needed to be caught, exposed, locked away so they’d never, ever hurt anyone again.
I took a shaky breath and stood up. I took some photos of the D-Wing door, buses, and cornfield, and sent them off in a DM to Detective Mike with short explanatory texts. He hadn’t answered my last set of messages, and he’d probably ignore these too, but at least I felt like I was doing something.
I ended it with: Did the PD even check the cornfield???
I waited a few seconds. No answer. I put the phone away.
I sat back down on the curb next to Cameron. The air bit sharply into my face and hands, but I didn’t feel cold. There were too many emotions churning inside me. Disgust. Rage. Sadness. So much sadness. I took deep breaths like the counselor had told me to, my head propped on my knees. Eventually that sense of urgency I’d experienced earlier resurfaced.
I needed to catch these guys, expose them, get the cops to lock them away so they’d never, ever hurt anyone again.
“So,” Cameron said. “You think they cut through the cornfield, then went back in through the classroom window?”
“Yeah.”
“Bet they stashed the guns and black clothes in the cornfield somewhere. Couldn’t have risked taking them back inside.”
“Yeah. Good thinking.”
“They make sure the way is clear, go back along the hedge, in the rigged window, screw the bars back in, bingo boingo. Looks like they were barricaded in there the whole time.”
I stared at him in surprise.
Cameron raised an eyebrow. “What, you think I’m an idiot or something?”
“Pretty much.”
He punched me in the shoulder. “Well, I’m not. You’re not the only person who can figure shit out. So what happens now?”
I was about to answer when my phone dinged. I took it out.
Landon: I’m about to go on the set. Just wanted to say that I wish you were here and I hope we’re okay when I get home. I’ll call you after the show. ILY.
The message made me smile at first. But then I thought about Landon standing with a group of people about to go on set. Probably they’d have the shooting survivors all lined up in chairs, and the host across from them asking questions—
Only Landon had said they were filming outside, in a park next to the studio so there could be a live audience. Like on those New Year’s Eve shows they do in Times Square.
The image caused a surge of intense dread. He’d be so exposed. Such a target.
Knock it off, mind-fucker. No one’s gonna shoot at him. He’s fine.
Anyway. The Wall shooters were Gordo and Mr. Fishbinder. They were in Silver Falls. So they definitely couldn’t—
They couldn’t.
“Shit. Where is Gordo?” My voice came out as a whisper.