Time Bomb Read Online Free

be to convince parents not to keep their children out of school for extended periods.”
    “What’s extended?”
    “More than a day or two. The sooner they get back, the easier it will be for them to adjust.”
    She sighed. “All right, we’ll get on it. What do you need in the way of equipment?”
    “Nothing much. Some toys—blocks, figurines. Paper and pencil, clay, scissors, glue.”
    “We’ve got all of that.”
    “Will I need a translator?”
    “No. Most of the kids—about ninety percent—are Latino but all of them understand English. We’ve worked hard at that. The rest are Asian, including some pretty recent immigrants, but we don’t have anyone on staff who speaks Cambodian or Vietnamese or Laotian or Tagalog or whatever, so they’ve come along pretty fast.”
    “Ye olde melting pot.”
    “Uh-uh, forbidden phrase,” she said. “The memo god commands us to use
salad bowl
.” She raised a finger and recited: “Every ingredient maintains its integrity, no matter how much you toss it around.”
    We left her office and stepped out into the hall. Only one cop remained, patrolling idly.
    She said, “Okay. Now what about your fee.”
    I said, “We can talk about that later.”
    “No. I want things straight from the beginning—for your sake. The School Board has to approve private consultants. That takes time, going through channels. If I put in a voucher without prior approval, they can use that as an excuse not to pay you.”
    I said, “We can’t wait for approval. The key is to get to the kids as soon as possible.”
    “I realize that, but I just want you to know what you’re dealing with. Also, even if we go through channels, there’re bound to be hassles getting you compensated. The Board will probably claim it has the resources to do the job itself; therefore there’s no justification for bringing in anyone from the outside.”
    I nodded. “Same song and dance they pull with the parents of handicapped kids.”
    “You’ve got it.”
    “Don’t worry about it.”
    “I worry about everything. It’s my job,” she said. Most of the softness in her eyes had melted away.
    I said, “It’s okay. Really.”
    “You realize we’re talking potential freebie?”
    “I realize. That’s fine.”
    She looked at me. “Why are you doing this?”
    “It’s what I went to school to learn how to do.”
    There was distrust in her eyes. But she shrugged and said, “Who am I to look a gift horse?”
    We walked toward the first classroom. A door at the end of the corridor swung open. A tight cluster of nine or ten people poured out and barreled in our direction.
    At the group’s nucleus was a tall white-haired man in his sixties wearing a gray sharkskin suit that could have been purchased for Eisenhower’s victory party. His face was stringy and hawkish above a long, wattled neck—beak nose, white toothbrush mustache, pursed mouth, eyes buried in an angry squint. He kept up a vigorous pace, leading with his head, pumping his elbows like a speed-walker. His minions were whispering at him, but he didn’t seem to be listening. The group ignored us and blew by.
    I said, “Looks like the esteemed assemblyman’s run out of words.”
    She closed her eyes and exhaled. We continued walking.
    I said, “What do you know about the sniper?”
    “Just that he’s dead.”
    “It’s a start.”
    She turned sharply. “A start at what?
”
    “Dealing with the kids’ fears. The fact that he’s dead will help.”
    “You’re going to get into gory details with them right away?”
    “I’m going to be truthful with them. When they’re ready for it.”
    She looked doubtful.
    I said, “The key is for them to make some kind of sense out of a crazy situation. In order to do that they’ll need as much accurate information as possible. Facts. About the bad guy—presented at their level, as soon as possible. The mind abhors a vacuum. Without facts, they’ll fill their heads with fantasies of him that could