Time Bomb Read Online Free Page A

be much worse than reality.”
    “Just how much reality do you think they need to absorb?”
    “Nothing gory. Basics. The sniper’s name, age, what he looks . . . looked like. It’s crucial that they see him as human.
Destructible
. Gone forever. Even with facts, some of the youngest ones will be incapable of understanding the permanence of his death—they’re not mature enough, developmentally. And some of the older ones may regress because of the trauma—temporarily ‘forget’ that dead people don’t come back to life. So they’re all vulnerable to fantasies of the bad guy returning. Of his coming back to get them again. Adult crime victims go through it—after the initial shock’s worn off. It can lead to nightmares, phobias, all kinds of post-traumatic reactions. In children the risk is higher because kids don’t draw a clear line between reality and fantasy. You can’t eliminate the risk of problems, but by dealing with misconceptions right away, you minimize it.”
    I stopped. She was staring at me, grimly, the brown eyes unwavering.
    “What I want,” I said, “is for them to understand that the bastard’s truly
destroyed.
That he’s not some supernatural bogeyman that’s going to keep haunting them.”
    “Bastard” made her smile. “Okay. Just as long as it doesn’t end up scaring them more—” She stopped herself. “Sorry. You obviously know a heck of a lot more about this than I do. It’s just that they’ve been through so much for so long, I’ve gotten protective.”
    “That’s okay,” I said. “Good to see someone caring.”
    She ignored that. This one definitely didn’t like compliments.
    “I don’t know a thing about the
bastard
,” she said. “No one saw him. We just heard the shots. Then there was a lot of panic—screaming and shoving. We were trying to stuff the kids back into the building, keeping their heads down. We ran as fast and as far away as we could, trying to make sure no one got trampled. No one even knew it was over until that guy Ahlward came out of the shed, waving his gun like a cowboy after the big draw. When I first saw him, it freaked me out—I thought
he
was the sniper. Then I recognized him—I’d seen him in Latch’s group. And he was smiling, telling us it was all over. We were safe.”
    She shuddered. “Bye-bye, bogeyman.”
    The lone patrolman had tilted his head toward our conversation. He was young, handsome, coal-black, perma-pressed.
    I walked up to him and said, “Officer, what can you tell me about the sniper?”
    “I’m not free to give out any information, sir.”
    “I’m not a reporter,” I said. “I’m a psychologist called in by Detective Sturgis to work with the children.”
    Unimpressed.
    “It would be useful,” I said, “for me to have as many facts as possible. So I can help the kids.”
    “I’m not free to discuss anything, sir.”
    “Where’s Detective Sturgis?”
    “I don’t know, sir.”
    I returned to Linda Overstreet’s side.
    She’d heard the exchange. “Bureaucracy,” she said. “I’ve come to believe it’s a biological urge.”
    A door farther down the corridor opened, disgorging another group. This one revolved around a man in his early forties, mid-sized and chunky. He had a roundish, freckled face under an early-Beatles mop of gray-streaked dark hair which covered his brow. His clothes were formula junior-faculty: oatmeal-colored tweed sport coat, rumpled khaki pants, black-and-green plaid shirt, red knit tie. He wore round tortoise-shell eyeglasses, the kind the British health service used to give out for free. They rested atop a nose that would have done a French bulldog proud. The rest of his features were too small for his face—pinched, almost effeminate. I thought of old pictures I’d seen of him. Long-haired and bearded. The facial hair had made him look more seasoned, twenty years ago.
    The academic image was enhanced by the people around him—young, bright-eyed, like students vying