Leaping Read Online Free Page B

Seclusion.
    Now
here, to the house, his grandfather's dream, that's when he'd moved in and he
found…he couldn't move at all, not really, but he was great at pretending to
move. That he could do…on occasion…for brief spells of time.
    For a few weeks, they
had loved him, held him up, and he had hidden while they created their idol
that was him…without him, the young pastor who had tried to stand before the
sixteen year old giant wielding an assault rifle…like the Chinese student in
Tiananmen square, before the oppressor's tank he'd stood. Like David of old
standing before Goliath with just a sling. Like Gandalf with the Balroc slamming his staff in the path of its
onslaught, "You shall not pass."
    They
had said all of those in various articles, not that he read them, but Alisha
did, and that was nearly the same.
    They
were tired now, those writers and wielders of laurel wreaths, the cheerers and worshippers
of the courage they'd ascribed him, the superman suit, but there were more
tragedies lining up all the time, and he was pushed to the back of the line
then off the hero's cliff altogether, and those who knew him best were left
with the truth…he was human and distant and no more brave than the next person
working his ideals in a church where boys came to practice walking the
aisle…for Boy Scout week.
    Henry Tulley was shot first, the proud grandfather watching
his grandson practice from the back row, straight from work. Henry wasn't a
leader, he had too much work to do, , but he came whenever he could, always on
the sidelines of his grandson's life, filling in for a father that never was,
and he'd watched his grand boy carry the flag and march in step, and all the
aisles a boy walked in his life, all-important, and this no different, but
Henry was first, nearest the door when the shooter came in, the first to go,
and that's when they knew, when their heads snapped up, when they looked to the
source of a noise these hallowed halls had yet to hear, for all the sins
confessed, for all the tears cried, it had never heard the pop of an assault
rifle, for all the talk of the blood of Christ and how it cleansed and forgave,
it had never seen that shocking red explosion, that far-flung spill that
quelled the few splatters of communion wine it had witnessed, brighter, bolder
was this spray this spill, warmer, no less life altering, no less
precious…sacred.
    Jordan
had met him in the center aisle, but not before James shot two more, the
flag-bearers at the end of the group, Seth Tulley and
Aiden Barnes. He paused and boys screamed and yelled and moved behind him, but
Jordan, hands out, kept approaching the shooter, and he recognized him, knew him,
"James," he said, "no…no…don't do this, no, no…."
    There was no remorse,
no repentance, but a set look, and James raised the rifle and Jordan dropped
and moved forward on his hands and feet, and more shots over his head and
screaming and like a crazed perversion of himself Jordan made a sound and
closed the gap, and this was the moment, where he reached James and took him
down, and the struggle, God the struggle and finally the rifle pressed on James
neck and Jordan…all his weight pushing that weapon into James' neck, pushing,
pushing against James' wild struggle, pushing down, crushing breath…until he
wasn't moving, until sometime later a voice, an agonized voice, and a hand on
his shoulder pulling him, pulling, telling him to stop, to stop. And he looked
up and it was one of the boys, tears tracking his soft face. "Stop
Jordan."
    He
had strangled James Carson. He was dead. But he didn't stop. "Go on and
wait for the ambulance," he told the boy. He stayed on top of James. He
held the rifle where it was. Minutes later, the sheriff had to pry Jordan's
hands from James' gun.
    He
didn't want to let it go…he couldn't on his own.

 
    Back
at his grandfather's house he stood, looking out the door, at the sea. He
wanted to walk into it again, to let it slam against