Finding Jake Read Online Free PDF Page A

attention pauses on me. I am about to wave, but her expression is strange. She recoils maybe. Or is it all in my head? Whatever it might be, the moment passes. Her eyes continue to scan and I continue to feel permanently attached to the wooden bench.
    “Are you okay?” the woman to my left asks. I think she might be the mom of a girl my daughter Laney knows.
    “Yeah, sure,” I begin to say, but notice she is staring at my hand. It rests on the shining veneer of the pew, although “rests” is a poor description. My hand, in fact, is twitching. I realize my thigh is as well.
    The woman looks scared for me.
    “Well,” I stammer. “I mean, you know . . .”
    “There’s a paramedic by the door. Do you want me to call him over?”
    “No, why?” I ask.
    “You don’t look—”
    “I’m fine, really. Thanks.”
    I turn away from her, confused.
    I realize I have not contacted Rachel. I struggle to remove the phone from the front pocket of my jeans. My fingers feel swollen as I dial, although they appear normal. By rote, I call her office. No one answers.
    When I disconnect the call, the ringer sounds. Rachel’s cell number shows up on the screen.
    “Where are you!” she blurts out when I answer.
    “Something awful has happened,” I mutter.
    “I know. The radio. Why didn’t the school call me? When did you . . . Where are you? Where are the kids?”
    “I’m waiting for them. I tried to get up to the school but they stopped me.”
    The line crackles. “Are they okay?”
    “I’m sure they are.”
    “Simon, the radio is saying that at least thirteen kids have been shot.”
    My mind tricked me. I had blocked out the scene earlier, the police officer with the blood-stained hands. Swallowing hard, I close my eyes and lower my head. The sensation intensifies. At the same time, my pragmatic mind figures the odds. Thirteen out of two hundred or so kids. Less than one in ten.
    “Simon? Are you there?”
    “Yeah. I’m waiting for them.”
    “At St. Michael’s?”
    I nod, not considering the fact that she can’t see me.
    “I’m on my way,” she says. The line goes dead.
    I need to move. They expect me to sit in a pew and wait. Although the other parents, the moms, seem able to follow this direction, I cannot. I slide out of the church pew and pace. I walk from one end of the church to the other, following the outer walls of the building. By the time I reach the exit for a second time, pacing is no longer enough. I push the door open.
    The sounds outside assault us all. Sirens scream and male voices bark out orders. I hear the idling engine of a hook and ladder and see it coming back down the school drive, leaving. I scan the police, looking for answers, but find nothing but chaos.
    “Sir,” someone says to my right. I turn to see a uniformed officer stepping up to me. He looks stern, unforgiving.
    “What’s happening? When—”
    “Back inside, now,” he orders.
    I do not move. He grabs my arm. I turn to face him. As I do, I catch a glimpse of one of the moms in the back row of the church. She stares out at me with a face pale from fear and disbelief. I lock eyes with her, and the drive that fueled my action vanishes. I let the officer guide me back inside. He gives me a stern yet quiet talking-to, the words lost to my spinning consciousness. Instead, the looks of the other parents chide me and I realize that the sudden shock of the outside world, that demon I let inside by opening the door, caused them pain. I walk away from the officer and sit down. He shakes his head and returns to his post outside.
    The first child arrives less than half an hour later and everything changes. Hope and prayer had buoyed the church up until the door opens and Scotty Truphant (he probably goes by Scott now, but Icoached him in basketball when he was seven; he was Scotty then) walks in. A half dozen other kids enter, flanked by SWAT officers. They point their assault rifles at the ground. I notice this because I’ve