*

Outside an army of reporters and satellite vans had gathered, and we were faced with the challenge of moving away from our safe, dry encampment. We used the back door, sneaking through the fenced yard, and into the garage, which was built to serve three families.

I slipped into the passenger side of the car as Joe hit the button, lifting the garage door. A swell of soggy people stepped back as the solid door slid outward. They surged forward as the door settled into the roof of the struc­ture. Joe rushed to the car. I could hear the rumble of shouted questions and the last of the rain drops. One man’s voice beat out the rest once the car door opened. “Why do you think these kids did this? Was there a reason?” Joe slammed the door and started the engine.

He backed out, honking his horn as he did. He continued on slowly, but determinedly. The reporters had no choice but to let him out. Once realizing that he wasn’t stopping, they took off, heading towards the front of the building where their vehicles were parked. As we made the street, a line formed behind us.

The night before we were sitting at the light at 127th and Pullman, and I remember staring at my hands. And then we were home. The entire trip was a blink in a very long day.

Our return trip on Saturday lasted a lifetime. We pulled away from his building and sat at the corner for a long time before traffic cleared and he made a left. He tried to hurry, but the cars behind us caught up too easily. We crossed the CSX tracks and drove between the municipal golf course and the driving range. Storm sewers end with the houses just east of the tracks. That day I remember watching rain water gather in the crevices and drain into ditches at either side of the road, and then run downhill from there. I wondered if the people behind us noticed that.

Joe grunted and banged on his steering wheel as he glanced in the rear­view. I glanced back in time to see a car veered out of line. It slipped back into place as three more vehicles came from the op­posite direction. I wasn’t comfortable and Joe was on the edge of panic.

On the other side of the Grand Trunk tracks, the land bottoms out. On the left is another golf course, and on the right is a cemetery. Water pooled in the cemetery. The sun began to break through the clouds. I have a very vivid memory of the sun reflecting off the water, and I remember how few grave stones were visible above the water level.

We made the turn just before the light turned red. Joe floored it. We turned again, this time onto 127th Street, just as the light changed again.

I tried to think of something else. I craned up to see the corner at 127th and Pullman. The ambulance was gone and a wooden sign proclaiming ‘Home of the Theodore Roose­velt Fighting Horsemen,’ was visible. There’s a creek that travels between sign and the back fence. I’m sure that’s where the cops were the night before. The creek cuts way be­low the level of the street and is hard to see from the intersection. I pushed up in my seat, attempting to see it. I couldn’t. Then I pushed down in an effort to see the top of the bridge. The reporters remained.

When Joe’s voice caught my attention, we were stopped at the gate at 127th Street. A damp chill penetrated his open window.

“Honest to God,” Joe declared, “I’m the dean.”

“Sir,” and Illinois State trooper explained, “I don’t care if you’re a reincarnation of John Paul himself. You can’t use this entrance. Drive along the other way.”

“Would you look at my school ID?” He pulled aside his jacket. He had clipped it to a shirt pocket. I stretched up again. If there were kids back there, I couldn’t see them. The sta­dium was built on a forty-five degree an­gle from the building. I could see fences, a goal post, and even part of the stands.

“The other entrance,” the trooper insisted.

“The Ottawa entrance is unguarded!” Joe demanded.

“No, of course not. If you are the dean, the Portland PD will let you in.”

After a moment of panic, Joe settled down. He backed onto 127th just as our followers made it through the last light. They sped to catch up. The first car barely missed Joe. The driver slammed on his brakes. The next vehicle was a satellite van. With the sounds of screech­ing brakes, crunching metal and shattering glass, the van slammed into the first car. Sev­eral more cars crashed into him. Joe sped off, turning right onto Ottawa. I glanced back in time to see some of the more staunch characters leave their vehicles and try to follow us on foot.

The school building sits back from the corner of 127th and Ottawa. One wing fronted by lawn and trees skirts 127th. The other wing hugs the side­walk on Ottawa Street.

Another troop of reporters waited, as they had the night before, in parking lots and along parkways on the opposite side of Ottawa. As we turned, they waved at us, holding out microphones and yelling questions. Joe shook his head in disbelief.

We parked next to the entrance. A massive gate support listed to one side and the gate had been removed. Squad cars circled the outside entrance with their lights flashing in silent circles.

“What are they doing in there?” Joe asked Bill Ramos. Clouds of steam emerged with his words. Overnight, the temperature dropped.

“Believe it or not, they’re praying. You know that Priest. St. Michael the Archangel?” Bill looked haggard. As I had said, he had been there all night, and it looked like he had a few more hours ahead of him.

“Father Patocky?”

“No, that kid’s uncle. Father Flaherity. He’s in there with them.”

Joe reacted, charging through the fence opening. He ran past the boiler room, splashed through puddles, and turned the corner into the back parking lot. When I caught up, he was bat­tling his way through a crowd of kids, in the direction of the stadium entrance. I jumped, trying to see over heads. I hur­ried, excusing myself as I pressed past one body after an­other. When I fi­nally made it to the front steps of the stadium, Joe had caught up with Fa­ther Tim. The Dean of Students physically forced the priest about. Tim is tall, but slight. Joe is taller and broad.

“Out,” Joe ordered. “Before I have your ass thrown in jail.”

“This is a peaceful gathering,” Father Tim said.

“And so was last night’s gathering. Out. Before another one of your nutso relatives blows someone else away.”

The students closest to Joe started to protest. They shouted to the oth­ers about them, and they shouted at Joe. “Leave him alone!”

“Let us be!”

“All we’re doing is praying!”

He turned in surprise, taking in those about him. “You want to pray!”

“Yes!”

“Fine, we’ll schedule a memorial.”

“When?”

“Where?”

“With Father Tim?”

He lurched forward, bearing down on a girl next to him. “No. Not him,” Joe yelled, blowing steam into her face.

“We want Father Tim.” She leaned back, but refused to let him intimidate her.

“No.” He waved his arm at them. “Father Patocky, Reverend Young. Any priest or minister in Chicago. Not him.”

The crowd began to get ugly, and wave their fists. Father Tim climbed the steps to the stadium entrance. With two fingers jammed be­tween his lips, he whistled and waved his arm. “Stop! Now! All of ya!” He waited, and one by one members of the crowd silenced. “That’s fine. Bring in Reverend Young; let her pray for the souls of those we lost. We’re pray­ing to the same God. Bring in Father Patocky, too. Maybe Pastor El­lis. I’m going home, and you should, too.” Father Tim descended the stairs, and stepped into the crowd. The kids parted for him like the Red Sea parted for Moses.

As he left, they followed him. Slowly, sadly. Some sobbed, some prayed. Someone started to sing. “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me...” It picked up throughout the group. As they filed out of the back lot, their words be­came stronger.

Once the lot had emptied, I turned on Joe. He bent over and picked up a rose. I hadn’t noticed. The steps where Father Tim had stood were covered with flowers, teddy bears, balloons, candles, notes and crosses. Joe laid the rose carefully on top of the pile, and picked up another flower that had fallen onto the asphalt.

“How could you do that?” I demanded.

“Do what?” As if he’d forgotten what had just happened. He concentrated on picking up dropped flowers.

“Send him away like that. Those kids. They just wanted to pray.”

“They could pick someone better than Tim Flaherity.”

“That’s it? Tim Flaherity?”

He shook his head, and moved closer to me. His complexion burned red hot. “His fucking nephew just blew away my kids in my stadium. And you want to know why I don’t want him or the rest of his crazy family around?”

“Does that include Lisa and Brenna?”

“You don’t think it should?”

“And you don’t think they hurt just as badly as everyone else in this town?”

“How could they?”

“Tim didn’t shoot anyone and neither did Brenna or Lisa. According to the cops Lisa saved lives last night. If anything, they’re blaming themselves for not stopping this before it started.” My bravado failed. “So are you.”

He stopped in his path, his shoulders buckling. His eyes watered. A long moment passed and I suddenly realized how cold I was. My feet were wet and I wanted to change my shoes.

He came about, placing one hand on my shoulder, and pulling me into him. He kissed me on the lips, and held on for a moment. Then he pushed away. “The only thing I could think about while all of that was going on last night, was protecting you. Thank God, you’re here.” He stepped back. “Still. We survived. I’m damning myself for that, and I’m damning myself because I didn’t stop it.” He wiped his face then, and walked away.

“Joe?” I ran after him. “Joe?” He slowed and I caught up. We walked side by side. I mean I had a thousand things to ask him or say to him. The anger and the hurt in his eyes, the set of his jaw. Never mind. I’d talk about this when we could think about our words with less emotional attachment. “I have to feed my cats,” I said as we walked along. “Would you mind?”

He nodded and we proceeded on, taking it slowly and quietly. We could hear the words of the hymn fade into the distance. That was suddenly replaced with the sounds of sirens and yelling from the opposite direction. We shared a look. I think it dawned on us at the same time that we left one hell of a mess out on 127th Street. We ran for his car. Only one Portland squad remained at the entrance, and it was empty.

We took off, heading away from the accident. As we turned the corner off of Ottawa and onto Elm, a car pulled out of the student lot where media waited. Joe noticed when he turned again and that car stayed behind us. “Crap.” He took the underpass on 135th Street to avoid getting caught by a train.

He turned a couple of times taking us into the business sector, past the municipal complex and another clutch of news vans. At the one hundred year old City Hall, a worker with black and purple bunting draped over his shoulder and wrapped about his neck, climbed a stepladder to one side of big glass doors. Mayor Carmen Herrera, several aldermen and a handful of reporters stood on the steps. I could imagine her saying that there wasn’t enough po­lice protection or blaming someone else not aligned in her politi­cal corner.

Joe circled about again and again. There seemed to be no one on the street that looked as if he belonged there. He drove up one block and down an­other, and past St. Michael the Archangel Church. The impromptu prayer session had moved there. Joe paused for a moment to watch. Father Tim stood on the outside steps of the old stone church, with his hands held above him. A man with a TV camera caught it all. Joe groaned and drove on. “That bastard has a thing about steps,” he commented.

He turned a block later. I lived another block from there. He pointed the car in that di­rection. No more wandering about, he had seen enough of Portland. He pulled over in front of my apartment, and I got out. He fol­lowed me in when that car that followed us from school pulled up behind us. Two guys jumped out. One held a video camera. “Can we talk to you?” the other one called. “Can you tell me who you are, and what you were doing at Roosevelt?” Joe’s hand immediately went to my back. He hurried. “Will you talk to me?” the guy called. He stayed back off the property as we raced to my door.

Once inside, Joe sneezed. He stayed by the door while I tended to Fluffy and Duffy. He sneezed again. I fed my cats, scratched them, and told them how much I missed them. “Annie, please,” Joe called. He’s so badly aller­gic, I could hear the snot backing up into his head. He sneezed again. “Let’s go.” I changed my shoes and socks, and gathered up a few other essentials, including a digital camera. I cursed myself for not carrying one in my purse as I used to do. It‘s just that they break so damned easily, and it costs more to fix them than to buy new ones. 

After his display against Father Tim, I was tempted to leave him suffer. He sneezed again and blew his nose. He’d be in the throws of a full blown cold in a short time. I said goodbye to Fluffy and Duffy, and took off. “I hate cats,” he whined as we exited.

He turned on the news once we got back to his place. I didn’t realize how bad this could be. There were five assassins, and eleven other individuals, including a cop, who had lost their lives due to gunshot wounds. There were several more wounded by gunfire. Because children were involved and because some of the families had not been contacted yet, names weren’t released. Joe wandered off when the man on the news broadcast described how a woman fell in the aisle during the stampede, and was trampled to death. He didn’t hear about all the in­juries that occurred due to panic. Several people had fallen in the stadium, and a car trying to escape the parking lot hit several more.

My cell phone rang as I watched the news. “You were suppose to e-mail me,” Tom Koehler said, referring to the story he asked me for earlier.

“I can’t,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“You can’t what?”

“I can’t put myself through this again.”

I cringed and waited for his reaction. “Here,” he said at last. “Talk to Terry.”

My heart sank. Terry O’Malley couldn’t get a story right if I wrote it for him. This was useless and I thought about saying so. I didn’t. Truthfully, Terry screws up so much, he makes my work look good. “Talk to me,” Terry began. “Tell me where you were last night.”

“In the announcer’s booth,” I began. “Joe Spyres is the announcer. Dean of students at Roosevelt. We’re dating.”

“How did these kids get on the field?”

“They were part of the Homecoming parade. Taking pictures for the year­book...” I let myself into the washroom and stayed there until Terry and I finished.

Later I caught up with Joe in his room. He took refuge in his bed, buried well beneath the covers. I crawled in next to him, and cuddled close. “What was that about?” he asked after a few moments passed.

“Just Tom. Wanted to know about last night.”

“Have you ever thought about how easy it would be to stay in bed? Never get up, never deal with problems like this?”

“Joe, stop. Come here.” I wrapped an arm about his head and pulled him against my breast. He threaded his arm beneath mine. I kissed his forehead. “I love you.” He paused for a moment and pulled me closer to him. He held on, and he gave into tears.

Bill Ramos returned to the police station once he knew that the kids with Father Tim weren’t returning. By that time, search warrants had been secured for the homes of each of the five assassins. According to what Bill told me, the police had questions about where the weapons came from, and if people other than the boys who died on the field the night before, were involved.

Bill and a detail went to the Boyle home first. They brought two big German shepherds with them, and the local FBI.

Before allowing them in, Rose handed him the diary. “I found this when I came home from work Friday night,” she said. “Read it. Burn it. I don’t care. If you wanted half an idea of what’s going on here, this will help some.”

According to Rose the dogs yipped and barked, and tore through the house. Bill com­mented that they had even pulled up carpeting. She waited outside. She wasn’t sure what they found, nor did she care. She said that when the police left, she locked the outside door and walked away. She wasn’t planning to return.

Claudia Devers was home when the police arrived. Bill said they had to force their way in. The woman threatened them with everything from a law­suit to finding her own weapon. How could they accuse her son of some­thing so awful? It wasn’t bad enough that they killed him, now they were trying to kill her. When she came too near an officer, the dogs growled and backed her away. She swore and tried to kick one. The dogs snapped and strained against their collars, forcing their handlers to struggle for control. Bill said they arrested her, charging her with hampering an investigation. He said it was to protect her from her own stupidity.

When finally allowed to work in peace, they unleashed the animals. They didn’t find weapons, or an explanation of where the weapons came from. Instead they found Claudia Devers’ stash of marijuana. It was enough to charge her with dealing. They also removed Warren’s computer.

Link to Chapter III