CHAPTER 1

 

Nevada, Iowa. November, 1987

Vernon Slocum sat waiting in the driver’s seat of a stolen Ford station wagon. When he saw the children his eyes narrowed.

They were right on time.

The wagon was parked on University Drive, less than a block from Franklin Roosevelt Elementary School. The engine was running. Both of Slocum’s hands were thrust into the pockets of his faded green army jacket. His left hand was a clenched fist. His right hand gripped a government-model .45 caliber pistol.

Slocum was a large man at six feet two inches. What gave him the appearance of even greater stature was the girth of his chest and shoulders; a product of his Germanic ancestry and a lifetime of physical labor. His breathing was uneven and his nostrils flared.

He sat up straighter in the driver’s seat when the group of second graders came into view. They were accompanied by two adults. An elderly matron was in the lead, and a student aide of no more than twenty-one brought up the rear. The procession was returning from a field trip. The youngsters were bundled in mittens and scarves and clutching leaves and other local flora in their tiny hands.

The children neared where Slocum had strategically parked his car.

He checked the ignition to ensure the screwdriver was still in place. The first teacher, leading the procession, saw the battered station wagon and began scrutinizing its lone occupant suspiciously. She saw a large, disheveled man with a tight crew-cut, unshaven face, and dark eyes.

Slocum felt the teacher’s challenging gaze and knew it was time to act. With agility and speed unusual for a man his size, he burst from the stolen Ford. He moved towards the children, leaving the driver’s door open.

The elder teacher saw him approach and stopped, the first signs of alarm wrinkling her face. The children continued on, oblivious to anything but their playful thoughts.

Slocum gained the sidewalk in a few powerful strides, ignoring the frightened eyes of the teacher.

He grabbed for the hair of seven year-old Tiffany Meade. In her red mittens was a sheaf of autumn leaves which were to be the mainstay of her science project. She’d selected them on the basis of their still-green appearance, despite the lateness of the season.

He caught the girl’s shoulder-length hair and pulled her to him. The force of his seizure wrenched the breath from her lungs. The old teacher screamed and released her hold on the two children she held at either side. Slocum encircled the girl’s neck with his left arm and drew the .45, thumbing off the safety.

The teacher ran at Slocum with arms extended, her face contorted.

“No!”

Her shriek, part command and part plea, shattered the serenity of the crisp November morning. Slocum waited until she was at arm’s length to fire. The heavy slug struck her above the right eye, and her head snapped back violently. He didn’t remain to watch her fall. He made off with his struggling cargo, his pistol trailing smoke. He strode towards the car while stuffing the handgun into his coat pocket.

Slocum didn’t notice the terrified wails of an entire second grade class; the sound couldn’t penetrate the roar in his head. And he didn’t see the still-green autumn leaves fall gently to the ground from Tiffany’s thrashing hands.