Silent Justice (2 page)

“He’s crazy!” shouted someone else. Frenzied confusion followed.

Damn! Ben thought. Where had that shotgun come from? This man was crazier than he’d thought—and more dangerous, too.

Ben took a hesitant step forward. “Now, look, let’s stay calm.”

The man whipped the sawed-off around so it was pointed at Ben’s face. “Stay back! Stay away from me!”

Someone in the rear of the classroom screamed, a loud, ear-piercing cry that sent chills down Ben’s spine. The stranger faded back till he was pressed against the chalkboard. He panned back and forth with the weapon, assuring everyone present that they were within his line of sight.

Ben felt his knees beginning to tremble, but he tried to block that out of his mind. He was in charge in here—in theory, anyway. If anyone had a chance of bringing this maniac around, it was him.

He took a cautious step toward the man. “Please stay calm. I’m sure we can find out whatever it is you want—”

“Stay back, I said!” The man pressed forward, his eyes wild and crazed. “Don’t think I won’t fire. I will! I got nothing left to lose!”

Behind him, Ben saw Christina quietly roll back into action. She was trying to take advantage of the momentary diversion of the stranger’s attention to slip out the door.

No!
Ben tried to send her an unspoken message with his eyes. But it was no use. Christina kept edging toward the door.

“I warned you!” the man bellowed as he whirled around with his shotgun—and fired.

Ben’s heart stopped at the report of the shotgun, like a sonic boom in the small classroom. The shot hit the wall just above Christina’s head, spewing plaster and chalky dust all over her.

Christina threw up her hands. “All right! I’m not moving! I’m not moving!”

The intruder rushed toward her, gun still at the ready. He grabbed her by the hair, wrapped it around his fist, then shoved her back against the wall, hard.

More of the students shrieked as Christina’s head slammed against the wall. Her eyes batted rapidly as she struggled to maintain consciousness.

“Don’t hurt her!” Ben shouted.

The man with the gun stepped back, bringing Ben into his line of sight. “I can hurt all of you. I
will
hurt all of you. If you don’t tell me what I want to know!”

He fired the gun again, this time into the ceiling. Ben ducked behind the podium. This man was insane, Ben thought grimly. He had to be. And he couldn’t count on reasoning with a man who had no reason. They were all in deadly danger.

“Fine,” Ben said, choking on the plaster dust that filled the air. “Fine. I’ll tell you anything. Anything. Just ask.”

The man’s teeth were clenched tightly together. “I already did! Is the merchandise secure?”

Ben stretched out his hands. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

The man fired the gun again, this time near Ben’s feet.
“Is the merchandise secure?”

“Yes!” Ben shouted. “Yes! It is! It’s so secure—you wouldn’t believe how secure it is.”

The man rushed toward him. He grabbed Ben’s lapel and shook him. “You’re lying to me!”

“I’m not! I don’t know anything about your …merchandise!”

There was a momentary flicker in the man’s steely gaze, as if a new thought was being processed for the first time. “Isn’t this your classroom?”

“Yes, but …” Ben’s lips parted. “Do you think I’m Professor Canino? Because I’m not.”

“You’re not? But you said—”

“I’m filling in for him. I’m a substitute teacher.”

The man stepped away from Ben, slowly and cautiously, keeping his wild eyes on the entire classroom, daring anyone to move.

His retreat was interrupted by the clattering of footsteps just outside the door. Security, Ben saw through the window. Thank God. Stanley must’ve heard the shots.

Three security officers started through the doors, including Stanley. As soon as Stanley saw the man holding the shotgun, he drew his own weapon. Ben feared there would be a shoot-out—and then he realized it was going to be something else, something far worse.

The man with the shotgun grabbed the back of Christina’s head and shoved her forward, using her as a human shield. “Stand back! I’ll shoot her! I will!”

The three security officers froze.

“Drop your guns!”

Ben could well imagine what was going through Stanley’s mind. Normally, cops were taught never to relinquish their weapons. But Stanley wasn’t a cop. What’s more, the man with the shotgun was acting crazy. They might be able to talk him down, prevent him from doing anything brutal. But if they continued to threaten the man now, he would probably explode—and Christina would be caught in the fallout.

With evident reluctance, Stanley laid his pistol on the floor. The other security officers did the same. The man with the shotgun rushed forward, pushing Christina ahead all the way, till he had recovered the weapons and shoved them into one of his outer coat pockets. “Now, get out of here! Now!”

Stanley tried to maintain a calm demeanor. “Couldn’t I stay and talk? I know you don’t really want to hurt anyone. Why don’t we—”

The gun exploded in Stanley’s face. The shot struck just over and behind him, splattering the wall. Stanley ducked, horrified, clutching the side of his face. The shot had come so close it had singed his cheek.

“Now get out of here!” the man screamed. “Now! Now! Now!”

This time the security guards left, including Stanley. After the door closed, the man with the shotgun whipped around. He shoved Christina down to the floor.

“Nobody moves! Nobody goes anywhere! We’re all staying right here until I get what I want!”

Ben rushed to Christina’s side. He took her hand and helped her up. “How are you?”

Christina shrugged. “I’m fine, damn it.” She gazed at the maniac with the shotgun. “Wish I’d moved a little faster.”

“You and me both.” Ben helped her to an empty seat in the front row. He had a sinking feeling they were both going to be here for a good long while.

Eight hours later, Ben and the rest of the captives were sweaty, hungry, and even more worried for their lives than when this siege began. Ben had hoped that in time the man with the shotgun would calm down. Instead, just the opposite seemed to be happening. He was disintegrating, becoming progressively less rational. Every few minutes he would start raving again, babbling on about the “merchandise.” No one knew what to tell him.

“I see what you’re trying to do,” the man ranted, swinging his shotgun erratically from one side to the other. “I see! You’re trying to cheat me. Cheat me out of what’s rightly mine!”

The police had managed to get a cell phone in, but so far, all attempts at negotiating had proved worthless. Ben wondered what poor soul had drawn the thankless task of acting as chief negotiator. Someone from the local Tulsa PD, he suspected, perhaps even Mike, his friend and former brother-in-law. Or by this time, perhaps the FBI had moved in, a development that would really chap Mike off. Whoever it was, they weren’t getting anywhere. The man brandishing the shotgun was simply too paranoid, too suspicious of every suggestion. He wouldn’t let them send in pizza for the students; he was afraid they might do something to it, or smuggle something in with it. They couldn’t even negotiate safe passage out of the classroom. He didn’t want it, he kept insisting. All he wanted was the “merchandise.”

“It’s mine!” he screamed into the cell phone. “I earned it! I deserve it!”

About four hours into their captivity, Ben had tried to reason with him, had attempted a little negotiation of his own.

“Look,” Ben said quietly when he had the man’s attention, “you don’t need all these students for hostages. Having so many people around only increases the chances that something unfortunate will happen.”

The man glared at him with a steely eye. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Anything. My point is, why don’t you let the kids go? Keep me. I’ll be your hostage. I’ll do whatever you want. And I won’t try to escape.”

“Why are you trying to get them out of here?”

Ben chose his words carefully. “I want to help you. One manageable hostage is better than twenty-seven unmanageable ones.”

“You don’t want to help me.” He took a step closer, his gun poised between them. “Why are you so anxious for them to leave?”

”I’m just—”

“They’ve got it, don’t they? The merchandise. You’re trying to smuggle it out with one of them.”

“No, no, I’m just trying to—”

“Or maybe they’re going to get it. They’re going to take it away and hide it so I can never find it.”

“No. I’m telling you—it’s nothing like that—”

“Nobody leaves!”
the man screamed. “Nobody leaves till I say so! Nobody leaves till I have my merchandise!”

And so, eight hours after it began, the grim hostage scenario was still not resolved. And Ben was beginning to worry that it never would be. At least not without serious bloodshed.

Ben and Christina, along with the others trapped in the room, were hot, tired, and terrified. Ben’s former foil, Mr. Brunner, seemed to be in particularly bad shape. His forehead dripped with sweat; he was muttering desperate nonsense to himself. Ben was afraid he might snap at any moment. And then they’d have two irrational people in the room—except Brunner wasn’t packing a gun.

A few of the students were holding up with admirable stoicism. Some had even approached Ben about trying to wrestle the gun away from the maniac. Ben did his best to put an end to any wild notions of heroism under fire. He didn’t want anyone maimed or killed. The best plan was simply to wait it out—until the authorities were able to resolve the crisis.

He knew they were trying. A few hours before, Ben had taken a walk behind the highest rear tier of seats, just to stretch his legs. A row of narrow, rectangular windows lined the back wall, and through them, Ben had spotted men in green quickly scurrying into positions. SOT—what the world outside Tulsa called a SWAT team—unless he was very mistaken.

Maybe the man with the shotgun knew it, too, or at least suspected. He had covered the window in the front door, and he never went near the windows in the back. He was not going to give them a shot. If they wanted him, they were going to have to come in after him. In which case he could probably kill half a dozen students before they brought him down.

“I know they’re out there!” the man shouted. His arms trembled as his hands clutched the shotgun, the barrel pointing every which way at once. “I know what I know. Why doesn’t anyone believe me? All I want is what’s mine!”

“Psst!” Ben whispered, trying to get Christina’s attention. She seemed to have recovered from her manhandling earlier. She didn’t look good, but then, at the moment, no one did. “Any idea what he’s babbling about?”

Christina cautiously scooted closer. She knew the man with the gun became paranoid whenever he saw people talking, and he didn’t need to be made any more paranoid than he was already. “I haven’t understood what he was babbling about from the moment he walked into the classroom.”

“If he would just give me an opening,” Ben said quietly. “Get distracted for a moment.”

“Ben, please promise you won’t try anything stupid. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Like I do?”

She ignored him. “Has Mike still got you taking kung fu lessons?”

“Yes. Every week at the Chinese Boxing Institute. Lately we’ve been practicing dropkicks and back flips.”

“Are you any good?”

“Better than I was.”

“Fast?”

Ben frowned. “Not faster than a shotgun.” He watched as the crazed man paced the length of the classroom. “I wish I could get him to calm down and just tell us what it is he wants.”

“Don’t even try, Ben. It’s too dangerous. And you wouldn’t learn anything. He’s delusional.”

“Maybe. But if I could at least find out what he’s after, then maybe—”

Christina clamped down on his arm. “Ben, please. It would be suicide.”

“We can’t just sit here and—”

“What are you two whispering about?”

Ben leapt back—because he suddenly found the business end of the shotgun shoved between them.

“Answer me! What were you saying? Were you plotting against me?” Sweat flew from the man’s brow as he whipped his head back and forth. “Is that what it was?”

“N-no, of course not,” Ben answered, trying to remain as calm as possible. “We’re just … hungry, that’s all.”

“You’ve got the merchandise, don’t you? You’re the one keeping what’s mine.”

“That’s not true. I just—”

The man shoved the shotgun barrel directly under Ben’s nose. “Don’t lie to me! Don’t you lie to me!”

Ben threw up his hands. “I didn’t. I wouldn’t.”

“Don’t you ever lie to me!”

“I won’t. I promise.”

The man’s face flushed with crazed desperation. “All I want is what’s coming to me.”

“I know that. I know it.”

His voice boomed.
“All I want is what’s mine!”

“Stop it!” This shout came from behind the man with the gun. Mr. Brunner. “Stop shouting at him! Just stop!”

My God, Ben thought, Brunner’s expression is almost as demented as the gunman’s. He’s cracked. He’s gone over the edge.

“I’m tired of this!” Brunner shouted. “I want out of here! I want out
now!”
He turned his back to the shotgun and started toward the door.

“Stop!” the man with the gun warned. “Don’t do it!”

“I can’t take this anymore!” Brunner bellowed. “Don’t you understand? I can’t take it!”

“I’m warning you.” The man drew the shotgun up to his eye, sighting carefully. “Come back.”

“Well … if you insist.” Brunner turned, seemingly resigned, and then, all at once, he sprang forward. Moving like quicksilver, he flew across the classroom on a line drive toward the man with the gun.

He was fast … but not fast enough. The shotgun blast hit Brunner in the chest, knocking him to the ground. He cried out in pain, then curled up like a fetus, clutching his abdomen.

Screams and shouts pierced the air. A new level of panic swept through the classroom. Most of the students ran in terror to the opposite corner.

Christina knelt down beside Brunner, oblivious to the shotgun tracking her every move.