Lockdown Read online

  Cover image lockers © Veer.com and Killer in the dark hall © Özgür Donmaz courtesy of iStockphoto.com

  Cover design copyrighted 2009 by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  American Fork, Utah

  Copyright © 2009 by Traci Hunter Abramson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect

  the position of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real.

  First Printing: February 2009

  978-1-60861-516-2

  For the fallen

  Acknowledgments

  My abiding appreciation goes to those individuals who continue to help and support me through the writing process. Although I know I’m repeating myself, I want to thank Rebecca Cummings for her incredible insight and her willingness to help me explore the possibilities in this story as well as for her sensitivity in helping me address such a difficult subject.

  I also want to express my gratitude to Nikki Abramson and Lynn Gardner for their invaluable insight as this story took shape.

  Thank you to the wonderful people at Covenant who continue to encourage me throughout the writing and editing process. I especially want to thank Kathryn Jenkins and Kat Gille for understanding how important this story is to me and for helping me strive to make it better.

  Also, thank you to D. P. Lyle, M.D., for providing much of the medical advice I needed as this story unfolded.

  Finally, I want to thank my family for their love and support. I don’t know what I would do without you.

  Dear Reader

  April 16, 2007, was a difficult day for most Virginians and indeed many people around the world. A tragedy struck that could have happened anywhere, but it happened here within the boundaries of the state I have called home for nearly twenty years. On that cold, blustery day at Virginia Tech, lives were lost in a horrific and very public way.

  Many of us were glued to the television while we waited for news about our friends and loved ones. Many others headed for their cars to drive to Blacksburg to make sure their children were indeed safe and to bring them home where they could be kept that way.

  Those in my area of Virginia were fortunate. Ours were not among the fallen. Still, our hearts and prayers went out to those affected. We prayed not only for the wounded and the families who lost someone that day, but also for the many survivors who were left behind to struggle with the memories.

  After watching the news for far too long, I finally walked away from the horrifying stories and sat down at my computer. Writing this book helped me heal and overcome the “what ifs” that played through my own mind. I share it in the hope that it may help others find the hope and peace that can come in the days after.

  Best regards,

  Traci Abramson

  PROLOGUE

  Riley Palmetta glanced at the classroom door when it opened. She didn’t recognize the student who poked his head inside, so she turned her attention back to her German professor. Only one more week of classes, she reminded herself as she battled another wave of senioritis. The birds chirping outside the window only served to remind her of the balmy spring weather.

  Letting out a little sigh, Riley let her mind wander. With graduation just around the corner, she could almost taste freedom. Finals week would be rough, but then everything would be smooth sailing from there. She considered her struggles of the past four years—the part-time jobs, the internships, the endless studying, and the mountains of scholarship applications. “Free time” was still a foreign concept to her, but she looked forward to finding out exactly what it entailed.

  She supposed she had always been driven, even in high school, when she had taken every advanced-placement class offered so she could whittle down the time it would take her to earn her college degree. Her parents, neither of whom had attended college, still didn’t understand Riley’s inexplicable desire to succeed or her insatiable need to learn. More precisely, they couldn’t understand that Riley actually liked making goals and working toward something.

  In an attempt to keep her closer to home, her father had continually insisted that Oswell Barron University was too exclusive and too expensive, but Riley hadn’t listened. The private university in Bainbridge, North Carolina, a small college town half an hour north of Durham, was everything she wanted in a school. Its size, location, prestige . . . even the scholarship opportunities had been a perfect match. Now, after four years of college, Riley was just a heartbeat away from collecting her engineering degree—and she had done it without a single penny of debt.

  She glanced at her watch, already wishing the class was over even though they still had another thirty minutes to go. She turned her eyes back to the professor just in time to hear a hammering noise and see him drop limply to the ground. A moment later the noise repeated itself, and the boy in front of her slumped down onto his desk as screams echoed through the room. Riley looked up to see the slender, dark-haired man point his gun and shoot off another round.

  This can’t be happening! Riley thought as the girl beside her fell to the floor. Instinctively, Riley dropped down beside her. She couldn’t believe her eyes. This man was actually shooting at them! Blood dripped onto the floor in front of her from the lifeless form sprawled over the desk—a lifeless form that had been planning to study with her tonight.

  Her heart pounding, Riley squeezed her eyes shut to block out the horrifying images. She grappled with reality, her mind whirling. Suddenly, the gunfire stopped, and she heard footsteps in the hallway along with a panicked voice a few rows back.

  She didn’t even have time to lift her head to see who else had survived before another spray of gunfire erupted in the classroom. The smell of blood overwhelmed her, and she heard a little voice in her head tell her to play dead—that if she wanted to live, she had to appear as though she were among the fallen.

  She kept her eyes closed as once again the gunfire momentarily ceased. Muscle by muscle she tried to relax. Perhaps this was just a bad dream, she thought to herself. Maybe she had dozed off again in class and at any moment the professor would wake her up. She didn’t jolt when the next spray of gunfire began, which she considered a miracle in itself. However, it also proved what she didn’t want to face: This wasn’t a dream.

  1

  Two years later

  Tristan Crowther drove through the historic section of Bainbridge as he headed for Oswell Barron University. Until today he had only seen the campus on television, and he was almost surprised by the peaceful setting as he pulled up near Sedgely Hall. He climbed out of his truck and glanced in the back, quickly checking under the tarp to make sure his gear had survived the trip.

  He took the time to study the three-story structure in front of him as he approached. The stone was weathered and gray, the hard lines of the building making it seem somewhat formidable. Adding to the gloom was the knowledge that twenty-three people had died inside the walls of Sedgely Hall just two years earlier. He still remembered the helpless feeling that had washed over him when he’d heard the news.

  But now he pushed those thoughts aside as his deep blue eyes scrutinized the building. The warrior in him evaluated the possibilities for entry and escape as he struggled to keep
his objectivity. He might have been helpless to stop the massacre two years ago, but he could make a difference now.

  The students and faculty of Oswell Barron University had spent the past two years trying to recover from the tragedy. Now, in an effort to prevent similar incidents from happening, they were offering their campus as a training ground for law enforcement officers. Tristan was part of the task force that would help create the training course, which would begin in three weeks.

  A light breeze ruffled Tristan’s hair, and he wondered vaguely if he should break down and get a haircut while he was here. He couldn’t say if it was laziness or an unwillingness to conform that caused him to avoid the barber as often as not. But then again, his shaggy hairstyle didn’t seem to deter the ladies. A slow smile crossed his face as a trio of girls walked in front of him and one of the girls turned to give him a sultry smile.

  Tristan’s eyes lit up with interest. He missed women. He missed everything about them—their sensitivity, their humor, even their complications. Not that he ever let a relationship get serious enough to be complicated. Dating for a couple of weeks was fun, but after that, expectations were bound to set in. Marriage wasn’t something he was looking for right now, and he had yet to meet a woman that tempted him to change his mind. Tristan was an expert in evasive maneuvers, and he invariably wiggled free before his dates started considering him “the boyfriend.”

  Besides, Tristan realized with a sigh, he couldn’t remember the last time he had been on a date. Then again, he couldn’t remember the last time he had found the opportunity, either, since his entire Navy SEAL team had been deployed in the Middle East for the past four months. And since their unit specialized in hostage and terrorist situations, they were accustomed to being called up at a moment’s notice. Now, however, Tristan and everyone in his unit were thrilled with the prospect of being stateside for the foreseeable future.

  As Tristan watched the three girls walk away, his grin widened. He was going to enjoy this assignment. Not only were they going to be in the same place for several weeks straight, but the town of Bainbridge was close enough to their home base in Virginia Beach that they had been given the option of bringing their personal vehicles with them on this assignment. Tristan was thrilled that he wouldn’t be stuck sharing the one government van that had been allocated to them with the other five members of his unit.

  With his grin still in place, Tristan walked into Sedgely Hall and located the room that would serve as the SEALs’ temporary office. Seven desks had been set up in a straight line along one wall, complete with matching computers and the usual office supplies neatly organized on top. In the center of the room was a long work table, which so far remained empty, surrounded by several chairs. Two televisions, each on a moveable cart, had been pushed against the far wall. And in the corner, Tristan’s longtime friend Quinn Lambert was muscling a full-sized refrigerator into place.

  Then Tristan noticed a pair of long legs sticking out from beneath a desk. He immediately identified them as belonging to Seth Johnson. Seth didn’t crawl out from under the desk when Tristan walked in, but he had apparently noticed Tristan’s presence. “It’s about time you got here,” he called out in a deep voice that carried the slight ring of the South. “Come help me finish wiring these computers.”

  “Where is everyone else?” Tristan asked as he lowered himself into a chair and turned on the computer.

  Before Seth could answer, their intelligence officer and another member of the SEAL team walked through the door carrying two large bags and a case of water bottles. Amy Miller dropped her load on the work table as Brent, her husband, walked over to set the water bottles on the floor by the refrigerator.

  “I sure hope that’s lunch,” Seth said, finishing up one of the work stations and then scooting out from under the desk. His molasses-colored skin shone with perspiration, and his dark, nearly black eyes honed in on the packages Amy had just set down. With a smile, he dusted his hands off and straightened to his full height of enormous.

  By normal standards, Tristan would have been considered tall, but on this team 6’2” was merely average. Seth was a full 6’7”, and Brent was only an inch or two shorter. Ironically, their commanding officer, Kellan Bennett, was the shortest of the bunch at 5’10”, with Quinn hovering at around six feet.

  Amy turned to face Seth, her delicate features and slender frame almost disguising the fact that she was six feet tall herself. “You’re in luck. We found a great deli near our apartment complex.”

  “How’s it coming?” Brent asked Seth as he dug a water bottle from the case.

  “Only two more to go.” Seth glanced over at the desks and shot a questioning look at Amy. “But why do we have seven desks? There are only six of us.”

  “One’s for the expert who’s going to be working with us. She has all of the information on our training objectives, and she’s familiar with the university’s lockdown procedures.”

  “She?” Quinn asked, his impatience evident in that one word.

  But Amy shrugged off his unspoken concerns. “You wanted the best source of information. I got it for you.”

  “Come on, Quinn,” Tristan said lightheartedly. “It will be nice for Amy to have someone to play with.”

  “Oh, give me a break,” Amy said with laughter in her voice. Though the SEAL teams didn’t allow women in their units, Amy’s role as civilian intelligence officer had proven her an integral addition to the five-man unit known as the “Saint Squad.” The nickname was a result of the fact that all five members—six, including Amy—belonged to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

  The squad had originally been formed when Kel Bennett had been promoted. Knowing that Kel was LDS, the commander of SEAL team eight had reorganized and put all four of the Mormon boys together in one unit. Seth Johnson had originally been the odd man out, but then he too had converted three years earlier.

  Kel walked through the door as everyone was sitting down to eat. “Good, everyone’s here.” He paused long enough to select a sandwich for himself and then looked up at his team. “Brent and Quinn, I need you to finish unloading our gear after lunch.” He glanced over at Amy. “Can you track down our training coordinator? I’d like to meet with her as soon as possible, but I don’t think I have a working phone number for her.”

  “Sure, Kel, but I’m supposed to pick up our room keys at one o’clock. I can stop by afterward.”

  “I’ll do it,” Tristan offered impulsively. “Just tell me who she is and where to find her.”

  “She’s in a temporary office across campus,” Kel told him. “I’ll get you the building and room number. Head over there as soon as you’re done eating, and let’s try to meet back here at one thirty if she can make it.”

  “Consider it done.”

  * * *

  She was ready, she hoped. The funding report had passed its final review, and now she had seven neatly organized binders stacked on the corner of her desk. The Navy SEALs were arriving today and were probably settling into their new space even now. Riley took a deep breath and hoped she could really pull this off.

  Her decision to stay at Oswell Barron to pursue her master’s degree in criminal psychology had been her attempt at healing, but she knew that two years still hadn’t been long enough for her to come to terms with the tragedy. When the president of the university had suggested she join the task force that had been created to prevent such attacks from happening again, Riley had found herself saying yes before she thought it through.

  No matter how hard this assignment would be, Riley knew that her personal involvement might make all the difference between mediocrity and success. She knew firsthand how much could happen in a single minute, or even a few seconds. Now she hoped she could finish the job she’d started two years earlier.

  Only twice had she stepped foot inside Sedgely Hall since the massacre. The first time had been just a month after the tragedy, a kind of ritual she had gone through to prove she cou
ld do it. For days afterward she had fought against memories of the indescribable horror that had stared back at her when she’d finally dared to open her eyes after the shooting stopped. Riley knew she still couldn’t explain how difficult those memories were for her. For that reason, she had decided not to tell the Navy SEAL team that she had been in Sedgely Hall that fateful day.

  The second time Riley had returned to the scene of the crime had been two days ago, when she had forced herself to enter the building to check on the temporary office for the SEAL team. She hoped working in that building day after day surrounded by five Navy SEALs would help her overcome her anxiety, but she knew only time would tell. The counselor she had seen in the months after the shooting had encouraged her to face her fears, but now that the day was fast approaching, Riley wasn’t sure she was ready to face them after all. Her memories of that awful day were still too vivid.

  While the police were still swarming all over campus after the massacre, Riley’s parents had arrived to take her home. But Riley had insisted on staying. She had quietly grieved with her friends, unable to admit to anyone outside her family that she had been there when it all happened. Over the days that followed, she had caught glimpses of the firsthand accounts on the news. She had even seen another survivor from her German class recount what had happened. But Riley had stayed silent.

  She had watched as other students grappled with the tragedy, often trying to find a link to the victims even if it was a long stretch. So many thought they needed to prove they had a right to grieve, as though their close proximity to the massacre wasn’t cause enough.

  At first Riley had simply been unable to describe the overwhelming emotions that had swamped her when she had witnessed firsthand the aftermath of the gunman’s rampage. Then she had been unwilling to let her private horror turn into just another story for the gossip mill. By the third day, she had been eager to escape the constant presence of reporters and had left campus and returned with her family to their home in Norfolk. Besides a few other survivors, only her family, a handful of law enforcement officers, and a couple of faculty members even knew she had been inside Sedgely Hall that day.