Lockdown Page 8

  Little need for her first-aid kit to treat this waitpela. He was very much dead-finished.

  7:14

  Linda

  “Would you like me to drive?” Gordon asked.

  Linda blinked at the bright flare of California sun off the car window. “Oh, no, I’m…Well, yes—that would let me do a last polish on the talk.” Their paths crossed around the back of the car. Some husbands automatically assumed control of any car voyage: not Linda’s.

  “I told you that Sergeant Mendez would be at school all day, didn’t I?” The other Career Day speakers would arrive in time for the school-wide assembly at 10:00.

  “You did.” Gordon pushed the seat back and adjusted both mirrors before pulling out of the driveway. Linda got halfway down the first heavily amended page before letting the file drop to her lap.

  “She’ll be in uniform. Sergeant Mendez. We thought it might be more interesting for the kids.” And a more visible presence of authority. Linda glanced sideways. “I said you’d be available, if she needs a hand with anything.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “She’s nice.”

  “I’m sure she is.”

  “I know you don’t—”

  “Linda, it’s fine. I know Olivia. I’m happy to talk to her.”

  “Sorry. Stupid to be so nervous.”

  “Understandable. Big day, lots of pressure, you’d be a fool not to be nervous.”

  Fool. “That reminds me, if you need to make conversation with the good Sergeant”—if you need to distract the cop—“ask her about her Fool.”

  “Her Fool?”

  “Yep. It’s a part of the Gloria Rivas story you may not have heard. Gordon, was I wrong to tell the Parents’ Club that I wouldn’t support a fund-raiser for a Threat Assessment and metal detectors?”

  “No, it was the right decision. Your childhood imagination wasn’t entirely wrong—the threat you see may not be the one you should worry about. Anyway, metal detectors by themselves are useless, since anyone intending to bring a weapon onto school grounds won’t care about setting off alarms on the way in. Will the parents pay for an unscalable wall around the entire school? And for staff to man the gates?” Before Linda could voice her own objections to the plan—the emotional impact on the kids—he continued with just that. “And as we both know, that kind of overt paranoia only makes kids feel more unsafe. An hour of listening is worth a foot of wall, any day.”

  Sometimes, Linda almost managed to forget that Gordon had worked for an organization that got its start enforcing the rules of Third World mining companies and grew into the dark category of private armies. Four years ago, when she’d been considering Gordon’s proposal, she began a search of the three TaylorCorp Security names—and then stopped. Trust—with a school or with a husband—worked both ways.

  “Just try and explain to some of those fathers that having the kids love their school and feel invested in the community is worth a dozen metal detectors or armed guards.”

  “After all,” he pointed out, “Bee Cuomo didn’t disappear from school. Although it’s probably better to stick to the price-tag argument. Any particular difficulties you’re anticipating today?”

  “More than I can count. I decided in the end that I’d let the Clarion send its reporter to the assembly, and use her as a speaker for the following period, but she’s not allowed to interview anyone until school is over. And she has to stay off school grounds before and after.”

  No need for Linda to add: So make sure you keep out of her sight.

  “I’m surprised they agreed to that.”

  “I got the feeling they’re just giving the young woman something to do to keep her away from the Taco Alvarez trial. Which is exactly why I said she has to be off the premises, since I’m pretty sure she’s aware we have one of Taco’s cousins here—you know Chaco Cabrera?—as well as the victim’s younger sister.”

  “Mina’s tall friend.”

  “Sofia does stand out. At least the kid who actually witnessed the killing isn’t around—Danny Escobedo. He’s living out of state until he has to testify.”

  “Which I understand will be today or tomorrow.” Gordon signaled to turn left across the morning traffic.

  “Did Mina tell you that?”

  “She did.”

  “Is she frightened?”

  “For the boy? Because he’s testifying? I don’t think so.”

  “I meant personally.” Linda had spent upwards of a hundred hours in meetings over the Taco Alvarez problem since last summer, everything from gang dynamics to witness protection. Gordon’s protégée, Mina Santos (Guadalupe’s designated Goth), was doubly involved, being both best friends with the dead girl’s sister and an unlikely but determined supporter of the young witness. “If I were Mina’s mother, I’d have pulled her out long ago.”

  “I suppose people who have faced true militant thuggery find it hard to take mere gangs seriously.”

  Linda shook her head. “Ironic, to come to San Felipe thinking it was a safe haven.”

  “Isn’t it, though?” His tone made her glance over, but he was studying the road.

  “Well, I guess for them, it was safe. A town this size is not exactly a prime target for international terrorists.”

  Linda had first met Mina’s parents the previous summer, when she’d asked them to come in for a talk about possible threats to their daughter because of the Alvarez case. To her surprise, the tiny, nervous-looking mother had listened with a patient expression—and then gone on to explain her own family situation in such daunting detail, Linda might have suspected clinical paranoia were it not for the newspaper articles she put in Linda’s hand. One of them talked about some recent testimony Mrs. Santos had given to a war crimes and reparations tribunal in Brussels. Another had to do with a killing in London.

  At the end of it, Mrs. Santos had turned Linda’s question around on her: Perhaps Linda would prefer not to have Mina’s dangers brought to Guadalupe’s door?

  It wasn’t that Linda didn’t believe her. It was just that the problems Mrs. Santos envisioned seemed so very…distant. International assassinations, in a quiet farming community? Not what she’d call an immediate concern when compared to the very real Taco Alvarez—but then, the communities of Boston and Oklahoma City and Littleton hadn’t expected to see themselves in three-inch headlines, either.

  However, whether the danger was faraway or close to home, it was blazingly apparent that the small, nervous Iranian woman had a core of steel, and refused to back down from any threat. Which Linda considered little short of awesome. It was one thing to risk your own skin, but another entirely to do so with your only child.

  At any rate, Mina Santos was still in school.

  “How are her lessons going?”

  Gordon smiled. “Her Pidgin English is better than mine. That child is seriously bright.”

  And gorgeous, under all that makeup and baggy clothing. “Even without the trial, I’m not sure how much longer her parents will keep her in the public system.”

  “I rather doubt Mina will permit them to make that decision. Any other problems I should know about?”

  “Something more exciting than gang warfare, you mean? I had a call from Bee Cuomo’s father yesterday. Ten in the morning, and he sounded drunk. On the edge of abusive, although he stopped clear of actual threats. He thinks our kids are spreading rumors on social media, suggesting he killed his daughter.”

  “Which kids?”

  “Mostly Nick Clarkson. The boy who had the nervous breakdown last month?”

  “I remember.”

  “It surprised me, since the boy seems to be doing well. He sees our psychologist every week.”

  “Is it possible Cuomo actually is responsible for the child’s disappearance?”

  “Olivia says he’s not an official suspect, and has no history of violence or abuse, other than being picked up once or twice for being drunk and disorderly. Although that in itself is a little worrying.”<
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  “So, add an irate Mr. Cuomo and nervy Nick Clarkson to Iranian terrorists and police sergeants.”

  “Along with the usual illicit drugs, budget cuts, leaky roofs, kids in divorces, the upcoming school assessment, and general adolescent hormones. Oh, and twenty-three guest speakers. One of whom—the weaver—is nearly blind from glaucoma and absolutely reeks of dope. I know it’s legal, but I told her she’d have to lay off it before coming here.”

  “Isn’t a blind weaver rather like a deaf musician?”

  “Hey, it worked for Beethoven. And she’s famous.”

  “Still, I wouldn’t have thought weaving a career you’d encourage students to pursue.”

  “I wanted an artist. Besides, with her among the speakers, I get to use that analogy of ‘woven threads of community’ in my speech.” Linda caught his quick grin at the admission, then lifted one of the pages from her lap. “What do you think of ‘the warp of hopes woven on the weft of reality’? A bit much?”

  “Might be.” He smiled as her pencil drew an obedient question mark in the margin. “So: drugs, death threats, and bureaucratic nonsense. Business as usual, at Guadalupe Middle School.”

  Linda laughed at Gordon’s laconic understatement. She’d probably never know why he came back into her life, four years ago. Or even why she’d decided to let him. But there was no doubt: despite everything he was and had done, this man made her feel as if the world made some kind of sense.

  7:15

  The service crew came on at seven. At twelve minutes after, a woman in company uniform got behind the wheel of the third in the row of white commercial vans. She started it up and drove down the lot to the car wash.

  The boss liked his delivery vans clean, even when they didn’t have the company logo on the side.

  7:15

  Mina

  “Mina, if you are not in the car in thirty seconds you will have to walk to school.”

  “Fine, I’ll walk. We live, like, two minutes away.”

  “Even if you ran, you would still be late. Especially in those boots.”

  “Let’s try.”

  “Mina, child, I do not wish to be late.”

  “Yeah, okay. Where’s my schedule? Did Papá leave it on the—ah, got it!”

  “Thank you. That orange is pretty on you. Although I do not know why you insist on wearing Sofia’s old coat. You look like a homeless person.”

  “It’s cold.”

  “But I bought you—oh, never mind. You have your telephone?”

  “One of these days they’re going to catch me with it.”

  “Principal McDonald does not mind unless you use it in your classes. Do you?”

  “Of course not. But Sofia was using hers outside during lunch last week and Ms. McDonald confiscated it.”

  “Our situation is not the same as Sofia’s.”

  “I’m not sure that’ll matter.”

  “Mina, if the principal takes your cellphone, I will speak with her. Or you can take one of the house phones instead.”

  “Those things barely work!”

  “Yasmina Santos, you will not leave home without a means of contacting me. And you will send me a text before the first bell. And during the lunch hour.”

  “Don’t I always? Even though you can always see where I am.”

  “I can see where your phone is. How do I know if you are with it unless you tell me?”

  “You do realize normal parents don’t track their kid every minute, right?”

  “Yet again, our situation is not normal. Is it, Mina?”

  “I know, I know. Mâmân?”

  “Yes, Mina.”

  “You said you’d talk to Papá about letting me bike to school.”

  “I did. And he and I agreed it was not safe.”

  “But there’s a bike lane almost the whole way!”

  “Not the last half mile.”

  “I’d be really careful.”

  “Perhaps you can ride to school the final week.”

  “But that’s four months away!”

  “Yes. Tell me about your speakers today.”

  “You know the schedule.”

  “Why did you choose to hear Dr. Henry?”

  “I’m interested in psychology.”

  “It’s not because she treated the boys who were involved with Gloria Rivas’ murder?”

  “Danny and Carlos weren’t involved in it. Any more than I was. And I don’t think the physical therapist in period five is a criminal mastermind, and I’m sure the professor in sixth period isn’t an assassin.”

  “Mina!”

  “Sorry, Mâmân.”

  “Our safety is no laughing matter! You know that. Or perhaps you’ve forgotten. Perhaps it is time for another review of what has happened to half your family, your grandparents, your uncle—”

  “Ma, I’m sorry. I do understand. I was only making a joke—a very small joke.”

  “A joke is funny. Our lives are not.”

  “No, Mâmân.”

  “Mina, why is there a police car in front of your school?”

  “It’s only Sergeant Mendez. She’s one of the day’s speakers, remember? Can you drop me up front?”

  “So you can speak with her? We’ve been asked to use the drop-off around the side.”

  “But this early it doesn’t matter—and look, there’s Tío. I can practice a little Spanish before the bell rings.”

  “Won’t your friend Sofia be expecting you at the drop-off?”

  “So?”

  “Ah. You are finding her…clingy?”

  “She’s getting better.”

  “Mina, my flower, you are a good friend.”

  “Better than I am a daughter?”

  “You are the very best daughter a woman could have. Now give me a kiss, child, and go have a good day.”

  “You too, Mâmân.”

  “Text me,” her mother urged.

  But the car door slammed, and Mina was gone.

  7:16

  Tío

  Tío had made a complete circuit of the school without finding another trace of orange paint, ending up at his office.

  The janitor’s room stood between the cafeteria and the gymnasium. It was not a comfortable space, since it had no outside door and its solitary window was both narrow and high. Indeed, the entire cafeteria seemed designed by an architect whose fear of vandals overcame his desire for fresh air or daylight. And Tío thought he was not the only one to find the place unwelcoming: those brightly painted illustrations on the walls, installed by successive administrations, were too large and vehement to be accidental. Even the students tended not to linger inside.

  This early in the day, however, sunlight was still pouring through its long strip of high windows, emphasizing the wear in the linoleum and the age of the faded velvet curtains across the stage. Normally, Tío would have remained for a time, his presence reminding the students to be aware of the need for order and cleanliness. However, Mr. Chaco Cabrera was one of those who received school breakfasts, that they might better concentrate on the day’s study. So today, Tío would perform a few of the morning’s other tasks, and return to the cafeteria when he estimated young Chaco had eaten.

  Tío of all people would not wish to interfere with the boy’s education.

  By way of reward for his thoughtfulness, Mina Santos arrived as he was hooking the flag to its rope. This early, she was still wearing the face she was born with instead of the mask she would soon paint on. The girl trotted across the busy tarmac to the flagpole, dropping her oversized bag and taking the folded California flag from under his elbow. Mina was a young swan in a clutch of mallard ducklings, down to her name—which sounded as Spanish as her classmates’, although it was not, and nor was she. Not that there was a single thing wrong with ducklings. He just wished the child did not feel the need to hide her qualities quite so emphatically.

  He thanked her, and asked after her health.

  “I’m fine. Though the trial is making m
y mother crazy. I’m so sick of hearing about it I could scream.”

  “When does your friend Danny give his testimony?”

  “It might be today. He’s not sure.” With the US flag clipped and run a few feet up, she handed him back the bear flag. “Why is the state flag always under the American one?”

  “I imagine it is to do with priorities.”

  “We’re Americans before we’re Californians? I guess that makes sense. Are you a citizen?”

  “I am.”

  “That explains why you know more about the country than most of the people born here.” He smiled. As he pulled, hand over hand, the limp cloth began to stir, bringing the bear into view.

  “The American flag used to be a snake. ‘Don’t tread on me.’”

  “And Mexico chose an eagle eating a snake.”

  “Ha! The Persian flag had the lion and sun. Even modern Iran couldn’t come up with something on their flag that would eat a lion.”

  “A strong symbol indeed.”

  “People die for flags, don’t they?”

  “People die for what they represent.”

  With the breeze thirty feet up, the flags rippled: stars and stripes; bear with the lone star. The girl’s thick braid swung free as she tilted her head back. “When I grow up, I want a flagpole. I like the noise.”

  After a minute, she drew her eyes from the heavens and bent to catch up the strap of her bag. They moved across the drive toward the parked and rumbling buses. “Thank you for your help, Miss Santos.” He paused to let her go ahead of him. “I wish you an interesting day.”

  “It’s not going to be as interesting as I hoped.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”