The first man in the mask hoists his duffel bag up in front of him, holding it between himself and Mr. Howe and Dana. Unzips the top with a shiny black hand, reaches inside. Athena feels Mom’s fingers dig into her shoulder, feels herself pulled and turned against her mother’s breast. She twists her head as Mom tries to put a hand to her cheek, to keep her from doing just that thing, but she isn’t in time, and Athena sees what Mom didn’t want her to see.
Sees Dana’s hands flying up to her face, turning to Mr. Howe, her eyes wide and her mouth open. Sees Mr. Howe take a step backward, then try to take another one.
Sees him falter, then collapse.
There is an ugly hole above his right eye.
There is blood.
The other men in masks are reaching into their duffel bags. The other men in masks bring their shiny black-gloved hands out again, and each of them is now holding a pistol.
They point their guns at Athena and Mom and Dana and Joel and all of them. She knows they’re talking, saying something, but she doesn’t need to read their words now. The one in the front, the one who just shot Mr. Howe in the head, who just killed the man who has been teaching her and her friends not just ASL but science and history and literature and art for the last three and a half years at the Hollyoakes school, that man, he points his gun at Mom.
He gestures.
Turn around. All of you, turn around and start walking.
Back into the park.
Chapter Twelve
Eleven minutes and twenty seconds Gabriel Fuller has been hiding in the circle of cash registers at the center of the official WilsonVille Store, back against the cabinets, radio in one hand, gas mask in the other. He’s listened to the sound of the park emptying, the muted voices passing by outside, the sounds of the evacuation. The announcement on the PA has changed, changed about a minute and a half ago, now it’s something recorded. There’s a string of music, the signature Gordo, Betsy, and Pooch theme, and then a sweet-sounding woman’s voice.
We regret to inform you that WilsonVille is closing. Please make your way to the nearest exit. We apologize for the inconvenience and hope you have a pleasant day.
His radio burps out static, twice, quickly, then twice again. He presses his own transmit button two times in answer, then hooks it onto his Tyvek suit at the waist, pulls on his gas mask. Carefully, he leans out from the side of the counter, looking past the racks of clothing and toys, into Town Square. He’s only got a low view, but from what he sees, it’s cleared significantly. He uses a rack of WilsonVille fortieth-??anniversary sweatshirts as cover to get to his feet, takes another peek.
It’s an odd sight, to be sure. A cluster of perhaps seven or eight visitors is heading his way, toward the main gates, approaching from the east side of the square, being hurried along by two of the navy blazers. Further back, just passing the Soda Shoppe, he can see another group, smaller, similarly led, this time by a Skip Flashman wearing twin six-guns and chaps, his cowboy hat, as ever, atop his head. Coming from Wild Horse Valley, Gabriel expects, where Skip most often resides. He watches as each group moves closer, then out of view, passing the store.
Now Town Square is empty. Emptier than he’s ever seen it, even after hours, even after closing, and it’s a strange sight, to see it barren in daylight. At closing, after hours, there’s always someone, a maintenance crew doing touch-up paint or repairs to the streetlights or hanging new banners or something; a custodian, sweeping the sidewalks or watering the grass around the statue of Gordo, Betsy, and Pooch. A navy blazer, making rounds.
This time, there’s no one and there’s nothing.
Gabriel reaches down for his duffel, taking it in his nondominant hand, then moves to the door. He stops again, checks to his right and his left, and then again, and when he looks left a second time, he sees four men in Tyvek suits identical to his own carrying duffels twice as large as his, wearing gas masks and gloves. They stop about a dozen yards into the square, looking around. These are his four, his element for this stage, and he doesn’t know their names, but in his mind he’s already named them Gordo and Betsy and Hendar and Stripe, though he’ll be damned if he lets them know that.
They see him the instant he emerges from the store, and he gives them a nod, exaggerating and slowing the gesture so it carries through the mask. They fall in together, heading toward the Sheriff’s Office. At the doors he nods to the one he’s named Hendar, the tallest of the four, and the man steps up and pushes his way inside.
The room is empty.
Gabriel points to the front desk of the fake precinct with one hand, then moves to the half-concealed interior door that leads to the stairs that, in turn, lead to the command post on the second floor and the safety offices on the third. When he gives the door a push, he’s not surprised to find that it’s locked.
The one he’s calling Betsy is at the front desk now, vaults it lightly, disappears behind the counter. Gabriel looks up at the surveillance cameras, raises a hand in greeting, indicates the door. He and the others wait for what seems like a painfully long pause. If they’ve been picked up on the cameras in here, then someone will be coming down to let them inside, certain that they’re here to help. If they haven’t been seen-and why would they be, when all eyes should be watching the exterior, watching the evacuation of the park? — so much the better. But whatever the case, they will have the element of surprise.
There’s a subdued clunk from within the wall at Gabriel’s elbow, and Betsy is coming back over the counter, rejoining the others. Gabriel waits until he’s ready, has his bag back in hand, and then shoves the door open, leads the way into the stairwell. Quick glance up the stairs, all around, and not a camera to be seen here. Five of them in the hallway is a tight fit, and he presses his back to the wall, trying to make enough room for them to spread out. The gas masks leave their ears uncovered, and Gabriel knows they’re moving quietly, very quietly, but the rustle from the Tyvek suits sounds too loud all the same.
The door swings shut on its hinges, the bolt again latches in place. Gordo and Stripe have their pistols out of their duffels, are screwing the suppressors into place at the end of each barrel. Finished, they hoist their bags onto their backs, then give Gabriel a thumbs-up with a free hand. Gabriel returns it. He can feel perspiration beginning to slide down his spine, feel the tightness in his chest that reminds him of patrols in Afghanistan. There’s a slow cloud of condensation beginning to rise in his gas mask, and his pulse is strong at his temples.
The door at the top of the stairs has a sign affixed to it that reads SAFETY OFFICE-AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. There’s the hint of noise beyond the door, a voice, then another. Gabriel, still in the lead, turns his head so his uncovered ear can be that much closer to the sound. Two, maybe three people, but he can’t make out the words, the conversation subdued.
Gabriel straightens, looks to the four men waiting behind him. He points to Gordo and Stripe, then to the door, and each man nods. He moves, presses his back to the wall to give them room as they pass him, now in front, entry positions, and their entry positions aren’t that far from what he was taught in the army. Betsy and Hendar have their weapons out now, too, ready to act as the second wave. The sound of conversation in the room beyond stops, and for a moment, Gabriel can imagine whoever is inside has sensed what is coming.
But they haven’t. The moment they’re through the door, Gabriel knows that the two men and the one woman reacting to their entrance never saw it coming at all.