Staying Alive. Debra Webb
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A new kind of tension flared but Claire tried to ignore it. She didn’t have to tense up any time changing names and running away was mentioned. Darlene knew nothing about that part of Claire’s life. Her comment was in no way personal. She and Claire had been friends for a long time. Claire was just being paranoid.
Darlene poured a cup of coffee and took a swallow before changing the subject. “Did you hear about that big takedown this weekend? It happened at the University Village.” She leaned in close. “Yours truly was there.” Another of those eyebrow-raising looks followed the statement. “I saw the whole thing happen. It was really freaky.”
Claire racked her brain for some memory of a big news event over the weekend. She finally lifted her shoulders in admission of her failure to stay abreast of current events. “Sorry. I spent half the weekend sleeping in and the other planting spring flowers.” The reality sounded even more pathetic out loud.
Darlene glanced around covertly as if what she had to say was top secret, then she tugged Claire farther from the door. “Hamid Kaibar. He’s on some kind of top ten terrorist watch list. Undercover agents pounced on him right in front of the Pottery Barn.”
Claire felt a frown working furrows across her brow. “Do they have a top ten list?” Okay, she obviously didn’t stay up to speed on that sort of thing to the extent that her friend did. But this sounded like something she should know.
Darlene rolled her eyes. “Duh. They have all kinds of lists. Anyway, this guy is supposedly connected to, like, the most infamous, evil terrorist on the planet. Abdul Nusair. Surely you’ve heard of him.”
Claire definitely recognized that name. She nodded. “I’ve heard of him.” She didn’t follow the whole terrorist business too closely in an effort to ensure she slept at night. It was simply too disturbing. She was happy to leave it to her government to take care of the situation. She had faith in those she elected to office.
Still, with one of the top ten terrorists in the world captured in Seattle, at a mall near the Washington University campus at that, she probably should do a better job of keeping up. She did vaguely recall hearing that border states such as the one in which she lived were particularly vulnerable to the risk of terrorists slipping in undetected. She felt certain the government had taken additional precautions in those states. A couple of local politicians had voiced concerns, she remembered now that she thought of it. State Representative Reimes had been very vocal about it in a number of forums. Some of the teachers had suggested that he might not get himself reelected if he kept pushing the boundaries about terrorist profiling. Not that they discussed politics regularly but Reimes’s son attended Whitesburg Middle.
“Apparently,” Darlene said, “sometime tomorrow they’re transporting the prisoner to some secret facility where he’ll be properly interrogated. Mr. Allen thinks he may be the key to capturing Nusair.”
Dale Allen was the principal of their school. A former social studies teacher, he liked staying in the know on the subject of world events.
“That should make his friends a little nervous,” Claire suggested. “I wouldn’t want to be the one responsible for asking him questions.”
Darlene indulged her thirst for more caffeine before going on. “It makes me wish I’d bought some protection years ago. And learned how to use it properly,” she added, her tone uncharacteristically somber.
“Sometimes that can do more harm than good.” Claire really hadn’t meant to make the comment but it was out of her mouth before she could stop it.
“And just what would you know about the subject? As I recollect, I was the one who had to chase that bird out of your classroom a week or so ago. I believe your excuse was something like ‘I’m afraid I’ll hurt the poor thing.’”
“I grew up in rural Alabama,” Claire reminded her. This wasn’t exactly the kind of childhood memory one shared with anyone other than close friends. “My father insisted that his offspring know how to handle a rifle for protection as well as survival reasons.”
Darlene’s eyes widened. “By survival you mean hunting, right? For food. As in stalking Bambi in the forest?”
Claire rolled her eyes. “I never stalked Bambi. But yes, I mean hunting. It’s a Southern thing.”
A devilish grin spread across her friend’s face. “Like your accent.”
“I don’t have an accent anymore,” Claire argued, unable to actually get annoyed at the other woman’s teasing. Darlene loved ribbing Claire about her Southern accent. All her friends did. “I’ll have you know that five years in Seattle has all but abolished any hint of my Southern roots.”
An incredulous laugh danced across Darlene’s lips as she freshened her coffee. “You just keep telling yourself that, darlin’.”
Claire cleared her throat. “I may have a slight Southern intonation, but my diction is impeccable. I never leave off the G in i-n-g, darling.”
Darlene laughed again. “Oh, touchy, touchy.”
The insistent, high-pitched shrill of the fire alarm shattered the silence in the hall outside the lounge. Well-honed instincts launched Claire and Darlene, as well as every other teacher in the wing, into action.
Double-checking the rooms to confirm all was as it should be, then locating their students and ensuring they evacuated the building as quickly and safely as possible came as much second nature as breathing.
“I can’t believe this,” Darlene huffed as they hustled along the empty corridor and through the double doors that led to the fine arts section at the far end of the wing. “Why would they have a fire drill when it’s raining outside?”
The hurried steps of the other teachers in the corridor echoed behind them. “Maybe it’s not a drill.” Claire’s pulse rate accelerated at the idea. Though they were well prepared for most any type of emergency, no teacher looked forward to the possibility of a real emergency. Too many things could go wrong. Too many variables to name when dealing with children. One mistake, one oversight, could cost a precious life.
Claire caught sight of Mrs. Patricia Talley, the art teacher, and hastened her step to catch up with her class. “Hey, Pat.” She surveyed her students and smiled at the other woman. “Is this a drill?”
Pat shrugged her thin shoulders. She was the tiniest woman, scarcely five feet tall, with a full head of gray hair despite being only in her early forties. “I sure didn’t hear anything about it if it is.”
Claire glanced around the building as they exited. She didn’t see any sign of smoke. Didn’t hear any approaching sirens outside. Surely it was a drill, but generally the staff received advanced warning. Apparently someone had forgotten to mention this one.
Rain or no rain.
And it was definitely still raining.
The children didn’t seem to mind, however. They laughed and turned their faces up at the sky to allow the big drops to splash noses, open mouths and joyous, dimpled cheeks.
Claire hustled along, counting heads as the nice straight line of students marched across the inner courtyard toward their designated safe place. She felt proud as she counted heads along the way. Her kids were reacting exactly as trained.
She mentally acknowledged each little face as she counted. Eighteen. Nineteen.
Wait.
She paused, surveyed the faces again. There were supposed to be twenty. No one was absent today unless a student had been checked out during this period, which had scarcely begun.
Uneasiness trickled through her.
“Pat, did one of my students check out?” The urgency of the question had Claire’s heart slamming mercilessly against her sternum. She mentally skimmed the names until she landed on the one whose face she had not seen in the line. Peter Reimes.
Pat