One Mississippi (34 page)

It seemed to be coming down the hall to the left, from the vicinity of Hamm’s office and the main entrance.

Down the hall to the right I heard people banging on a door, guys shouting, hurling chairs against a door. Mrs. Norcom, the biology teacher, ran past, screaming, “Out the windows! Go out the windows! The doors are blocked!”

Blam!
Another blast from the left, the principal’s office. People slipped to the floor like a crowd in a comedy movie, skidding into pileups. Not much screaming now, just the sound of kids trying to get out of there.

I heard the crash of glass breaking, someone smashing out windows.

For one moment I let myself entertain the idea that Red Martin might have —

No. I knew this anger. I knew whose it was.

Parts of the school were emptying fast, kids spilling out all available windows. The X where the hallways crossed was no-man’s-land.

Lisa Simmons skittered down the hall in her bare feet, shrieking, “Don’t shoot me don’t shoot me!”

A storm of firing —
blam blam blam blam!
He had lots of ammunition. He could have easily killed her. He was showing off now, shooting for fun. Scaring the hell out of everybody. He wasn’t going to hurt anybody.

I had to stop him.

Oh God. For the first time I was afraid.

I didn’t think he would hurt me. But I didn’t know him anymore. If he shot me and killed me, well, that’s what I got for being his friend. I hoped I wouldn’t be paralyzed, and I thought, If you shoot me please shoot to kill. I do not want to end up like Jacko.

I hoped he would know it was me before he shot. I didn’t want to die in a random act, please.

On the east side of the hall some teachers had barricaded themselves in their classrooms. Kids crouched by their desks, the blinds down and shut, as for a nuclear bomb drill. There were only high skinny windows on that side of the school, no way out of those rooms without getting into the line of fire. I think I was the only one in the building not terrified senseless, because I knew who was shooting and why. He’d been shooting for four minutes maybe. It seemed like a week since I was sitting in the library stacks.

On the other side of no-man’s-land, to the left beyond the first set of lockers, a door opened in superslow motion. This was the janitor’s closet, where Lincoln Beecham kept his dustmops and brooms and cleaning machines. That was Beecham in his navy-blue work shirt and trousers, coming out of his room. In that little room Lincoln Beecham kept his folding chair and a portable radio he played very loud. When he opened the door, the O’Jays were shouting out “Love Train.”

Tell all the folks in Egypt — and Is’ral too . . .

Mr. Beecham had it cranked up so high that he had no idea what was going on out in the hall. He had heard neither the shots nor the screams. I could tell that from the untroubled way he raised his hand in greeting and ambled toward me, into the X of hallways.

I put my hand up to stop him, opened my mouth to say
stop,
but a bullet caught him in the side and spun him around. The second one slammed him into the lockers, and put him down on the floor on his back.

“Tim?” My voice sounded hollow. I walked out into the X and looked down the hall.

I blinked. Nobody there. “Tim, it’s me. Don’t shoot!”

No answer. The hall stretched away, a thousand miles long. Broken glass on the floor by the office, wires dangling from the ceiling.

I turned back to make sure I wasn’t dreaming oh please God please let me wake UP!

Lincoln Beecham on his back, his arms flung out, a dark pool spreading from his side over the spotless floor.

I could still hear people screaming running, I could see down the hallways in all four directions. No one in sight.

Faint sirens approaching. I knelt on Beecham’s right side because the pool of blood was spreading on the left, and I didn’t want to get it on me. I thought of the first aid diagrams in the Boy Scout manual. There were no instructions for how to help someone dying in a pool of blood. There was a smell, kind of a tang to it — oh God. That was blood.

Too much blood on the floor. There was nothing I could do for Mr. Beecham.

Oh now look what you did Timmy her father you killed him it’s way beyond serious now you are killing people.

“Hey Skip-ayyyyyyyyy . . .” A voice floating in the air all around.

Out front I heard car doors slamming and the bloop of sirens racing up to the front of the school.

Click click
as he keyed the microphone. “Skip Skip Skipperino! Skippetto! Where you be stay at, Skippeh? Come to Papa!”

He clicked off the mike and started shooting again — out the window, I think. God how much ammo did he have?

He was in Mr. Hamm’s office. That gave him a clear view of the courtyard, the library, the main entrance. A perfect sniper’s nest.

And he wanted me to join him there.

Think now. Be smart. Is that really the only choice?

“Now hear this!” His boisterous echo. “Durwood, this is
fun!
This is just what I always wanted to do! Oh and for all you little people out there — all you very special cowering people — just like to say helloooooo, thank you all, fuck you all very much!” He laughed and tried to sound maniacal, then he switched to monkey noises, hoo-hoo-haa-haa-HAA!

Behind the forced wildness I heard how frightened he was.

He could not turn this into one of his jokes. He was killing people.

My old life was gone. I did not want this new life. I did not want to think of Lincoln Beecham bleeding on the floor.

I placed one foot in front of the other. I remembered Tim describing a book he’d read about that guy in Texas, what was his name, climbed up in the tower and shot all the people. Charles Whitman. Went to the top of the Texas Tower and shot everybody in sight. Once Charles Whitman had killed the first one, Tim said, he was blooded. He had nothing more to lose, so why not just run up the score?

It was one of those things you talk about. We talked about a lot of things.

I must have been in shock remembering that, as my shoes crunched in glass. It felt more like the opposite of shock, a super-awareness, all-encompassing clarity, dreadful calm. It felt like a dream, but awake. I could see a whole chain of cause and effect going back — I did this, so he did this, so I did this, on and on infinitely into the past. I began to understand a lot of little things. Jokes that didn’t feel like jokes. Odd statements.
I’ll go Friday, I think. I’m pretty sure I won’t go before Friday.

I floated above the hallway looking down on myself as I approached the door of the principal’s office. Men shouting outside, more sirens now. Cars screeching to a halt.

Blue haze floated in the air, a strong firecracker smell. The glass wall of the outer office lay in a glittering splash across the floor, the counter, the back-to-back typewriters of Miss Pitts and the other secretary. He had shot up the trophy case, leaving a jumble of blasted trophies at the bottom.

“Tim.” I said it loud. “I’m out here in the office. Don’t shoot me.”

“Who iiiiis it?” His mocking falsetto.

“It’s Daniel.”

“Are you alooooooone?”

“Yeah. It’s just me.”

“Hey Skippeh! Come on in! The water’s fine!”

“You’re not gonna shoot me?”

“Skippy, fuck! Get in here! God, is this far out or what?”

I half expected to come around that corner and see a monster, a horrible creature foaming and raging and swiping at me with its claws. What I found was Tim, standing in a shadow just beyond the blown-out window. Just my old friend Tim wearing a dun-colored hunting vest over a black T-shirt. Black jeans. Black Converse. Knit cap pulled low on his eyes. Smacking gum ninety miles a minute. He looked like a skinny pale commando with that big rifle in his hand. It resembled a hunting rifle except for the magazine stock and the sleek black scope. He had added the scope since I saw it in the back of the Pinto.

He ratcheted out a spent magazine and stuck in a new one. “You might not want to stand there, Durwood. When I shoot this thing, that’s right where the casings go.”

I moved to the corner farthest from the windows.

The double-barreled shotgun was leaned into the corner beside his left hand. A green canvas duffel on top of Mr. Hamm’s desk overflowed with boxes of bullets, shotgun shells, cartridge magazines. Laid out in a row on the desk were an efficient-looking pistol like a German spy might carry, a six-shooter revolver, and a hunting knife with a jagged blade.

“Timmy. Put the gun down and talk to me a minute.”

He smiled. “I can’t do that, son, sorry. We got some fairly big-time police visitation going out front. I gotta stay on top of things.”

“You don’t want to die, do you? Stop this now. We can figure this out. I can help you. We’ll just wave a white flag. That’s all we have to do.” All the time thinking,
I’m going to die. Today is my last day.

“Thanks, Skippy. But I don’t want to stop. I’m telling you, this is fun! For the first time in my whole stupid life I am doing what I really want to do. You don’t know how good it feels. You oughta try it.” He nodded at the table. “Take your pick. You want the shotgun? It’s got a kick but I bet you can handle it.” He peered at me. “What’s the matter, Skip? Aw come on, don’t tell me you’re fuckin’ crying? Jaysus!”

“You killed Mr. Beecham.”

“Yeah well, what can you do,” he said. “More than just him, actually.”

I felt that cold finger slide down my neck.

“Scuse me a sec.” He raised the rifle to his shoulder and peered into the sight. The action looked so natural. He fired off a burst.

I grabbed my ears and doubled over. I wasn’t ready for how loud it was in that room.

He laughed, screaming out the window, “Dance, motherfucker! Come on back out here! I’ll get you!” He glanced at me. “This one’s good for distance.”

“Who else did you shoot?”

“Oh come on, Durwood, guess! Who do you think I would pick to be number one on the Casey Kasem, American Top For-or-or-teeeeeee?”

I felt a surge of nausea rising. “I am not playing your goddamn games.”

“Whoa, whoa now, Skippy gets touch-ay. I decided to do Red first, that way if anybody stopped me, well, hell, at least I got Red, right? I mean, he was always Public Enemy Number One, as far as I’m concerned.”

“You killed him?”

“Yeah, and you told me I couldn’t! Imagine that. He was easy, the problem was his little lady friend. Now listen Skip, I didn’t want to, I swear, but she came at me while I was dealing with him. She tried to get my gun and she almost got it too. She was strong. I had no choice. I’m really sorry. I know how much you used to like her. She was not on my list, I swear.”

What?

What did he say?

What little lady friend?

“You don’t mean — Arnita —”

“I tried not to, Skip. Now this is not a criticism, okay? But she kinda forced the issue, coming at me like that. A hell of a lot braver than Red, let me tell you. He was down on his knees like a girl. He was crying, man, he was begging like a little girl. You’da loved it. I’d have taken you with me, but I knew I had to get one or two under my belt before you would see I was serious.”

“Oh no. You didn’t — no.” I covered my eyes with my hand. Don’t. Don’t cry do not think about it now. Put it away for later. He’s lying. He’s saying this to hurt you. Don’t cry little baby you cannot cry now you have to be clear, think straight and stop him. He is saying these things to drive you crazy. He didn’t really do it. He’s trying to scare you.

Arnita.

I started thinking how to get the rifle out of his hand. In every scenario, though, he just grabbed another gun. He had them laid out before him like surgical instruments.

Something out in the courtyard caught his interest. He leaned forward. “There’s somebody in the library. Back in the stacks.” He aimed his rifle.

“Wait, that’s Mrs. Sidney. She’s nice. Leave her alone.”

He held his aim steady. “She was never very nice to me.”

“You’re shooting everybody who wasn’t nice to you?”

BLAM!

A crash of falling glass.

He laughed. “Damn, she’s quick! Run, woman!” He put down the rifle and picked up the shotgun, broke it open, and stuck in two shells. Clacked it shut. Turned his aim back toward the front of the school. “Don’t look now, but somebody’s trying to be a hero.” I got my hands over my ears before he fired two massive blasts.

One puny-sounding shot came in answer — it sounded like a cap gun, after all of Tim’s firepower.

“Haha, coppa, you’ll never take me alive!” he cried in a gangster voice. This is the part I cannot explain about Tim. There he stood with a shotgun, trying to kill a cop, and he was
still
cracking jokes,
still
doing funny accents. Trying to entertain me. Trying to crack me up, jolly me along, get me back on his team.

Arnita.

“Tim, goddammit! Stop! This is Skippy here, Tim. You listen to me. Stop this right now.”

He cracked the gun, thumbed in two more shells. “In the words of Cornelius and Sister Rose,
It’s too late — to turn back now . . .
Come on Durwood, I’m not gonna stop. I’m up to what — four? Lessee —” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Red, her, the coach, the janitor man —”

“You really thought about this, didn’t you? You’ve been planning this for a while.”

He stuck his head around the window jamb, and drew back. “Since I first figured out how much I hate everybody.”

“But you don’t,” I said.

“You don’t know, son. Just about everybody.” He stuck the rifle out the window and fired off a burst without even aiming. Just to keep them rattled outside. I heard indistinct shouts, but they didn’t return fire this time.

“Tim. Listen to me. Everybody’s turned against Red. Debbie Frillinger says they all think he’s a total asshole for putting that report in all the lockers.”

“I know.” His eyes gleamed. “And everybody will think this whole thing was his fault, too. They’ll think that was my motive, because of what he did to me. He’ll get the blame for the whole shebang.” His eyes gleamed. “There you go, Skip. That’s a good revenge. I told you I had a plan, didn’t I? Stick with me and we’ll get him, that’s what I told you. Don’t get me wrong, it was great when you burned up his car — I mean that really got him going, didn’t it? The way he upped the ante with his Xerox machine? After that I knew I had no choice but to give him the gift that would keep on giving.”