The pile of debris ahead of me wasn’t a pile; it was a mountain. It didn’t matter. I needed cover. I scrambled up the front, while chunks of stone were blown apart inches from my head.
The peak was too far away. I clawed at the rocks and pushed with my legs. Any moment a torrent of 7.62 mm rounds would tear through my torso and skull. The shots could be on their way right now.
The top got closer. A rock next to my head shattered at a bullet’s impact. My face suddenly tingled and I knew I had been hit by shards of stone.
I pulled myself over the crest and let myself roll to the other side.
The rubble gave way under me, creating an avalanche. I began to roll and tumble. Somehow I lost my weapon.
As I fell, cascading dust and powder masked everything around me. It was a long way to the bottom, much longer than it logically should have been. With every tumble, I felt sharp stones cutting and jabbing my arms and legs.
Finally, thankfully, I stopped rolling.
At the bottom of the stony heap, I didn’t move for a full five breaths. With my eyes closed, I mentally checked my joints and appendages, then flexed my fingers and moved my legs. My left arm hurt at the elbow, but I could still move it. After waiting another moment, I stood up, looked at the mound that was now sheltering me, and listened.
The night was quiet again. No weapons fire, no voices, no footsteps.
I turned to find my way around the debris and came face-to-face with a man holding an AK-47. Stars flickered over his head. He was dressed in army fatigues and a kaffiyah. He was clean shaven and had a strong jawline. He was the man I had shot on the roof. I knew I had shot him just behind his temple, but there wasn’t a mark on him. I looked past his assault rifle to his eyes. I had been right: they were filled with anger and hatred.
He smiled coldly and raised the weapon, pointing it at my face. My mouth went dry.
As he pulled the trigger, the muzzle flashed brilliantly, blinding me with white-yellow light.
I sat upright in my bed and let my bedroom come into focus. The presence of the room slowly faded in from the edges. I knew my eyes were open, but that muzzle flash, the night battle, the soldier I couldn’t kill, that reality remained in front of me.
Sweat rolled down my cheeks and I could feel my heart hammering in my chest.
After another moment, I consciously began regulating my breath to slow my heart. In a minute, it was almost down to a healthy race. I looked around. Everything was right where it should be...the dresser across from the foot of my bed, the mirror on the wall, the upholstered easy chair in the corner. The violence and the images that had just enveloped me hadn’t changed any of that.
I slowly swung off the bed and stood up — but didn’t move for a long time. Feeling a little uncertain in the darkness, I sat down on the edge of the mattress and let my hands rest on my thighs. My palms were cold.
Too slowly, the images in my head began to dissipate and the events of the evening crept in. That was too much reality for the middle of the night. I climbed over to my pillow and rolled onto my back. The ceiling hovered over me. Finally, I closed my eyes and attempted to go back to sleep
4
The Sanford Stein Day School was located just outside the Beltway in the northwest part of town. In fact, you could see the school from the highway. It was a sprawling, yet modest campus with lower school and middle school wings, a gym, and well-maintained ball fields.
I parked my Jeep next to the basketball court, grabbed my Monopoly box and a navy blue backpack, and headed toward an overhang-protected main entrance. As I approached the curved sidewalk near the entry doors, I thought about the school’s descriptive name. It was a “Day School,” a private Jewish school that taught a traditional general studies curriculum, complemented by a Jewish Studies program that included Jewish History, Hebrew Language, Bible, and other classic texts. I was never quite sure what the “Day” in “Day School” meant. I did know that this school was culturally in the middle of the Jewish spectrum, a Conservative tract that kept many of the traditions and was dedicated to community service.
I walked up to the main doors, two pairs of steel-framed glass and checked my watch: 8:15. My second period class would begin at 8:50. I shifted the Monopoly box from my left hand to my right and tried the closest door. The handle wouldn’t budge. Thanks to terrorism and concerns for general safety, entry doors, it seemed, were always locked. To the side was an intercom and I pressed the call button.
Looking through the glass door into the lobby, I could see the main office diagonal from me, about twenty feet to my left. The receptionist sat at her desk behind a sliding glass window. From where I stood, she appeared to be in her early fifties with an older Mary Tyler Moore look about her. She reached below her desk and the lock buzzed open. I crossed a well-polished tile floor, past a huge mural depicting smiling boys and girls, and over to the receptionist who had slid open the glass partition.
“I’m Gidon Aronson. I’m subbing in the Middle School this morning.”
“Yes, Mr. Aronson, it’s good to see you again.”
“Thanks.” I paused a moment. “It’s Janice, right?”
“That’s pretty good. I’m impressed,” she said smiling.
“I always remember the important people.”
She laughed. “Do you remember how to get upstairs?”
“I do. It’s where I put my keys that I can’t remember.”
“They’re probably with mine somewhere.”
I waved and headed down a blue and yellow corridor and around a corner to a staircase. In moments, I was on the second floor and rounding another corner. As I walked past a door on my right marked “Teacher’s Lounge,” I noticed that my heart rate seemed to have picked up. Twenty 7th graders whose regular teacher was away. What was there to be nervous about, right? Give me an assassin in a crowded banquet hall any time. Oh, relax. I knew what I wanted to do; I just needed to get into class and start rolling. I continued past wall mounted displays of student art — multi-colored cubist paintings that looked Picasso-esque — and down to the Middle School office. The door stood open.
The reception area was relatively small. To the left was the secretary’s desk partially hidden behind a chest-high partition and shelf. About ten feet behind the work station was a closed door with the nameplate “Dr. Saltzman, Headmaster” on it. To my right were two copying machines, and against another wall was a grid-like hive of teachers’ mailboxes. A number of them were overstuffed with papers, while others looked sadly empty, as if those teachers were unloved.
I turned back to the secretary’s desk. Empty. In fact, no one was in the room at all. Perhaps there was a meeting behind the headmaster’s closed door. A nearby analog wall clock clicked to 8:20. Class would start in thirty minutes and I wanted to arrive early so I could establish dominance over the 13 and 14 year olds. I knew where to go; I had subbed for Mrs. Cayhan before. I just needed her lesson plans. I stepped over to the collection of mailboxes and began looking at the names printed above each one.
“Can I help you?”
I turned to see a very striking, petite woman who was probably in her early thirties. She was slender with shoulder-length blonde hair framing her sparkling eyes. A tapered white sleeveless dress flattered her figure and revealed toned, tanned arms.
“I’m Gidon Aronson. I’m subbing for Mrs. Cayhan.”
“Right. I knew you’d be coming in. Carol told me.”
“You are...?”
“I’m sorry. I’m Katie Harris. I direct student services here.” She put out