Sons of Fortune

“Thank you, Mr. Davenport, you’re a man of your word.”

“So what do you want now?” barked the chief.

“Nothing from you, Chief, I prefer to go on dealing with the senator. Mr. Davenport, I need you to come across and join me; that’s the only way I have a chance of getting my case heard.”

“I can’t allow that to happen,” said the chief.

“I don’t believe it’s your call, Chief. It’s up to the senator to decide, but I guess you’ll have to sort that out among yourselves. I’ll call back in two minutes.” The phone went dead.

“I’m happy to agree to his demand,” said Fletcher. “Frankly there doesn’t seem to be a lot of choice.”

“I don’t have the authority to stop you,” said the chief, “but maybe Mrs. Davenport can spell out the consequences.”

“I don’t want you to go in there,” said Annie. “You always think the best of everyone, and bullets aren’t that discriminating.”

“I wonder how you’d feel if Lucy was one of the children trapped in there?”

Annie was about to reply when the phone rang again. “Are you on your way, Senator, or do you need a body to help you make up your mind?”

“No, no,” said Fletcher, “I’m on my way.” The phone went dead.

“Now listen carefully,” said the chief, “I can cover you while you’re in the open, but you’re on your own once you’re in that classroom.” Fletcher nodded and then took Annie in his arms, holding her for several seconds.

The chief accompanied him along the corridor. “I’m going to phone the classroom every five minutes. If you get a chance to talk, I’ll tell you everything that’s happening on our end. Whenever I ask a question, just answer yes or no. Don’t give Bates any clues as to what I’m trying to find out.” Fletcher nodded. When they reached the door, the chief removed his cigar. “Let me take your jacket, Senator.” Fletcher looked surprised. “If you’re not concealing a gun, why give Bates any reason to believe you might be?” Fletcher smiled as Culver held the door open for him. “I didn’t vote for you last time, Senator, but if you get out alive, I just might consider it next time. Sorry,” he added, “just my warped sense of humor. Good luck.”

Fletcher stepped out onto the playground and began to walk slowly down the path toward the main classroom building. He could no longer spot any of the sharpshooters, but he sensed that they weren’t far away. Although he couldn’t see the TV crews, he could hear their tense chatter as he stepped into the light of their massive arc lamps. The path that led to the classrooms couldn’t have been more than a hundred yards. To Fletcher it felt like walking a mile-long tightrope in the blazing sun.

Once he’d reached the other side of the playground he climbed the four steps to the entrance. He entered a dark, empty corridor and waited until his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. When he reached a door stenciled with the words MISS HUDSON in ten different colors, he knocked quietly. The door was immediately yanked open. Fletcher stepped inside to hear the door slam behind him. When he heard the muffled sobbing, Fletcher glanced across to see a group of children huddled on the floor in one corner.

“Sit there,” commanded Bates, who looked as nervous as Fletcher felt. Fletcher squeezed into a desk built for a nine-year-old on the end of the front row. He looked up at the disheveled man, whose ill-fitting jeans were torn and dirty. A paunch hung over his waistline, despite the fact that he couldn’t have been more than forty. He watched carefully as Bates crossed the room and stood behind Miss Hudson, who remained seated at her table in the front of the class. Bates held the gun in his right hand, while placing his left arm on her shoulder.

“What’s happening out there?” he shouted, “what’s the chief up to?”

“He’s waiting to hear from me,” said Fletcher in a quiet voice. “He’s going to phone in every five minutes. He’s worried about the children. You’ve managed to convince everyone out there you’re a killer.”

“I’m no killer,” said Bates. “You know that.”

“Perhaps I do,” said Fletcher, “but they might be more convinced if you were to release the children.”

“If I do that, then I won’t have anything to bargain with.”

“You’ll have me,” said Fletcher. “Kill a child, Billy, and everyone will remember you for the rest of their lives; kill a senator, and they’ll have forgotten by tomorrow.”

“Whatever I do, I’m a dead man.”

“Not if we were to face the cameras together.”

“But what would we tell them?”

“That you’ve already been to see me twice, and you’d put forward some sensible and imaginative ideas on gun control but no one took any notice. Well, now they’re going to have to sit up and listen, because you’re going to be given the chance to speak to Sandra Mitchell on prime-time news.”

“Sandra Mitchell? Is she out there?”

“Sure is,” replied Fletcher, “and she’s desperate to interview you.”

“Do you think she’d be interested in me, Mr. Davenport?”

“She hasn’t come all this way to talk to anyone else,” said Fletcher.