You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone (5 page)

Spencer suddenly felt sick to his stomach. “Listen, we've got to get out of here,” he said to Tanya.

She squinted at him. “Why? What are you talking about?”

He stood up. “Haven't you been listening to him? He's out to get even with the whole school. We're sitting ducks here—”

“Someone's trying to call me,” Tanya said, distracted. She pressed some digits on the keypad of her phone.

“Jesus Christ, never mind that,” he pleaded. “We need to leave—
now
.”

“It's the police,” Tanya murmured, checking her caller ID.

Spencer pulled her to her feet.

She almost dropped the phone. “Hey, watch it!”

With a tight grip on her arm, Spencer glanced around the cafeteria at all the students—so oblivious to the danger. “Listen, everybody!” he yelled. He'd spent the last five weeks here trying to maintain a low profile. Most of the people in the cafeteria didn't know him. “Haven't you heard what he's been saying? We're not safe here . . .”

“Shut your hole!” someone yelled back. A few people laughed.

“Who the hell is that?” someone else asked.

“Attention, students, faculty, and staff.” Principal Dunmore's voice boomed over the PA system.

Spencer froze.

“This is Principal Dunmore. Please listen to these important instructions. In a few moments, the fire alarm will sound. It is imperative that you evacuate the school in a quiet, orderly fashion. You are to head to the playfield north of the parking lot and wait there for further instructions . . .”

At least three hundred students were eating lunch in the cafeteria, and Luke guessed only fifty of them got to their feet. Were the rest of them really that stupid? Nearly all of the upperclassmen had to be watching the webcast. Didn't they realize they were being evacuated for a reason?

“Oh, yeah, sure!” someone yelled out. “Make us do this bullshit during our lunch hour!”

He got a big laugh. But only a few more people got to their feet.

Spencer started to pull Tanya toward the fire exit—a set of double doors that led outside. She was still preoccupied with the phone call from the police. “Should I answer it?” she asked.

Spencer suddenly stopped in his tracks. He stared at the fire exit. No one had opened those double doors yet. Had Damon rigged the doors to activate an explosion? It was one way to ensure a high body count. Spencer wanted to scream out a warning to the others, but who would listen?

He steered Tanya toward another exit, one that led to a hallway that eventually accessed a side door. At the moment, it seemed safer. Or had Damon booby-trapped that, too?

He couldn't shake the terrible feeling in his gut. Damon was going to unleash something catastrophic on this school. The people in charge must have felt the same way; otherwise they wouldn't be emptying out the building. More and more of the students seemed to be catching on to the seriousness of the situation—and the potential danger. The chatter got louder in the cafeteria. People were gathering up their books and backpacks. Chairs scraped against the floor as students got to their feet.

More than anything, Spencer just wanted to get out of that cafeteria before the first blast went off. But Tanya was slowing him down. “Hello?” she said into her phone, talking loudly over the increasing din around them. “Yes, this is she . . .”

“I'll bet the freak planted a bomb!” Reed screamed. But he was cackling, too—as if amused as well as panic-stricken. “Holy shit, he set us up—”

The sudden, shrill blare from the fire alarm drowned him out.

Someone screamed. But people were laughing, too. Over the incessant alarm, Spencer heard the clatter of chairs falling over and the rumble of feet as kids hurried toward the emergency exit.

Spencer winced as he watched the double doors fly open.

But nothing happened. A bomb didn't go off.

It didn't matter. Spencer still wanted to get out of there. Damon might not have booby-trapped the cafeteria doors, but that didn't mean he hadn't planted a bomb somewhere in the vicinity. All it took was a backpack under one of the cafeteria tables—or an explosive device in a locker.

“I can't hear you!” Tanya was shouting into the phone. “They're evacuating the school.”

Spencer held on to her arm. They were overrun—almost crushed—by a mob of students moving in the opposite direction. Everyone was struggling to make their way to the double doors. It was next to impossible for Spencer and her to make it to the exit on the other side of the cafeteria. He gave up and pulled Tanya along with the wave of bodies heading toward the double-door fire exit.

Despite the panic, chaos, and deafening noise, he noticed several people talking on their phones or texting as they made their slow, clumsy escape. The horde seemed to reach a bottleneck at the doors.

“Yes, Damon and I are friends,” Tanya was yelling into the phone. “But I haven't seen him outside of school this whole week . . . What? I can't hear you . . .”

Spencer kept tugging her by the arm as he worked his way through the crowd. They finally made it through the double doors, where a few teachers were directing the flow of traffic.

“C'mon, keep moving,” one of them shouted over the fire alarm. “Don't block the doorway!” It was Roger McAfee, the English teacher Damon had taken to task in his diatribe. McAfee was in his late thirties and slightly paunchy. He wore a navy blue Windbreaker with
QUEEN ANNE HIGH SCHOOL
on the back in gray letters. As he waved the students on, directing them like a traffic cop, he stopped to grin at Ron Jarvis, lingering by the doorway with a teammate from the varsity football squad. “C'mon, keep moving, Jarvis. You know where the playfield is . . .” He slapped him on the shoulder.

McAfee, like several others, didn't seem to take Damon Shuler's webcast very seriously. Spencer wondered how McAfee could be smiling right now.

He felt the rain dampening his shirt and matting down his hair as he moved along with the rest of the herd down the sidewalk toward the playfield. Tanya was still on her cell phone with the police, talking loudly to compete with the fire alarm: “Okay, I can hear you better now . . . No, I didn't have any idea he was planning anything like this . . . As I said, I haven't seen him outside of school in over a week, maybe two weeks even. That's unusual, because I'm his closest friend . . .”

Something about the way Tanya spoke—she seemed to relish the attention.

Spencer noticed all the others around him were talking and texting on their phones. From what he could tell, no one was tuned into Damon's webcast anymore. They were too busy checking in with each other.

It was as if they'd already forgotten about him.

Spencer pulled out his phone and tried to retrieve Damon's webcast. He figured he was probably the only one in the school who still cared.

Poor Damon, he'd lost his audience.

He was taking too long to kill himself.

* * *

“The Lopez Island Police estimate they'll be there in about three or four minutes,” Detective Reich told Luke over the phone. “We have a professional standing by on this end. She has a good success rate intervening with potential suicides. We'll clear the line, and if you're able to get through to him, stall him. If you need help, we'll break in and let the pro take over. Understand?”

Luke nodded, even though he was on the phone. “Yes—yes, thank you,” he said. Then he hung up. He stomach was in knots. He tried to take a few calming breaths and told himself to count to fifteen before dialing Evelyn's number again—to give the police time to get off the line.

Andrea stood close by with her phone in hand. She turned to him. “I can't get ahold of Spencer at school.”

“The cops would have said if anything had happened there,” Luke replied hurriedly. “Listen, the Lopez police should reach Damon in about four minutes. Could you count down the minutes for me?”

“Sure, of course,” she said, checking her wristwatch.

Luke glanced at his laptop—on the partition ledge behind the last row of theater seats.

His son looked tired and defeated. Damon's voice had gotten hoarse from his long, emotional tirade. He seemed to be winding down. With a sigh, he shut the back door to the BMW. Luke wondered if the Lopez police would make it in time. He speed-dialed Evelyn's number again. There was a click as it connected on the other end.

Over the webcast, he heard the slightly muffled “Ode to Joy” ringtone.

“C'mon, Damon, look at the caller ID,” he whispered. “Pick up, pick up . . .”

“Thirty seconds,” Andrea said under her breath.

Damon finally frowned at the phone in his hand. He let out a sad little laugh.

Luke counted two more ringtones. “Please,” he whispered. “You can see it's me. Please, Damon . . .” One more ring, and it would go to voice mail.

Luke heard a click on the other end. “Well, hey, Dad,” Damon said in a quiet voice.

“Damon,” he gasped. He couldn't hold back. He suddenly started crying. “Son, I'm so sorry about everything you're going through. But—but we can make it okay. It isn't too late . . .”

“But it is, Dad,” he said, sounding listless—almost like a robot. “Things have already been set up.”

“It's nothing we can't fix,” Luke insisted. He quickly wiped his tears away.

“No, I have to go through with it now,” Damon said.

“You don't have to do anything . . .”

“A minute,” Andrea whispered.

Luke glanced at her, and he tightened his grip on the phone. “What's ‘been set up,' Damon?” he asked anxiously. “A minute ago, you said things had already been set up. What did you mean by that?”

On the webcast, his son glanced into the camera. “You'll see,” he murmured.

“Damon, I know a lot of people have hurt you. But you're better than them. If you—if you set up something at the school to—to hurt people, to get back at them—you need to tell me. Please, buddy, tell me, before it's too late.”

Damon turned away from the camera. “It's no good, Dad. It's already been done.”

“Ninety seconds,” Andrea said in a hushed voice. She had tears in her eyes.

“Damon, please,” Luke said, wincing. “You're a good kid. You have a chance at a good life. I love you. I don't want to lose you. I don't want my son to be responsible for hurting a lot of innocent people . . .”

“These people aren't innocent,” Damon replied.

“They're still just
kids
,” Luke argued. “And so are you. You have so much to live for, Damon. Please, call this off . . .”

“You're talking in clichés, Dad,” Damon muttered. “You'd never write that kind of dialogue in one of your plays.”

“Two minutes,” Andrea whispered.

On the webcast, he saw Damon, still standing in front of the BMW. He held his mother's phone close to his face. He wasn't looking into the camera. Twisting his mouth to one side, he seemed pensive. Luke hoped he was getting through to him. If he could just keep him on the line for another two minutes, the police would get there in time to put a stop to this. Maybe their suicide-intervention expert could even persuade Damon to divulge whatever he'd set up at the school to get revenge on his tormentors.

“Damon, I owe you an apology,” he said, his voice still shaky. “You're right. I could have been a better father to you. I could have done more—much, much more. I knew you were having a tough time at school—”

“It's not really your fault,” Damon sighed. “I was probably exaggerating earlier. You and I both know who's mostly to blame. I mean, let's face it. I'm doing you a favor, Dad, taking her out of the picture.” He glanced back toward the car. “You can marry that other woman—and be like a father to what's-his-name—Spencer. He's more like the son you always wanted than I ever could be. At the end of the day, you'll come out better than anyone else. And just think of the publicity, Dad. All those people who have never heard of you and never seen your plays, they'll know you after today . . .”

“You know I don't care about that,” Luke said.

“Two and a half minutes,” Andrea whispered, checking her wristwatch. “Just keep him talking, Luke . . .”

“
At the end of the day
, more than anything, I want you to be all right—recuperating from all of this,” Luke said. “And everything will be okay, you'll see. Please, son. You mean the world to me, Damon. I love you . . .”

Damon said nothing.

On the laptop's screen, he was nodding over and over again. Luke hoped against hope that he was coming around.

But then, Damon grimaced. All at once, he hurled Evelyn's phone into the woods on the other side of the BMW.

“No, God, please, no, no, no!” Luke yelled into the phone—though he knew it was in vain.

Damon couldn't hear him.

His son opened the front door of the car again. Then he stepped to one side, out of the camera's range.

“Three minutes!” Andrea cried.

The other end of the line went dead. But Luke still clutched the phone in his hand as he anxiously watched the laptop screen, waiting for his son to reappear. He thought he heard a distant wail on the webcast. Could it possibly be a police siren?

On screen, the image went out of focus for a moment. Damon was repositioning the camera. Now, Luke could see only the top half of the car—from the passenger side. Damon came back into the shot and calmly walked around the front of the BMW. He approached the open door on the driver's side and bent down to climb into the front seat.