Bloodstream

by Tess Gerritsen

  “You must mean the dinoflagellate, Pfiesteria.”

  “Yes. It could parallel what’s happening here. That’s why I want to know about the Gows. Specifically, whether there were heavy rains the year they died. Government flood data doesn’t go back that far. I need historical news accounts.”

  Vince finally understood. “You want to see my newspaper clippings.”

  “It might have the information I’m looking for.”

  “A flood.” Vince sat back, frowning, as though a memory had just floated to the surface. “This is weird. I do seem to recall something about a flood …” He swiveled around to the filing cabinet, yanked open the drawer, and shuffled through folders. “Where did I see that? Where, where …” He pulled out a file labeled: “November, 1887, Two Hills Herald.” It contained a stack of photocopied news articles.

  “The rain would have happened in the springtime,” said Lincoln. “You wouldn’t see it in the November clippings—”

  “No, this had something to do with the Gow case. I remember jotting it down.” He flipped through the photocopies, then paused, staring at a wrinkled page. “Okay, here’s the article, dated November twentythird. Headline: SEVENTEEN-YEAR-OLD SLAUGHTERS OWN FAMILY. FIVE DEAD. Goes on to mention the victims, Mr. and Mrs. Theodore Gow, their children, Jennie and Joseph, and Mrs. Gow’s mother, Althea Frick.” He set the page aside. “I remember now. It was in the obituaries.”

  “What was?”

  Vince flipped to another photocopied page. “The one for Mrs. Gow’s mother. ‘Althea Frick, age sixty-two, slain early last week, was buried November thirtieth at a combined graveside service for the Theodore Gow family. Born in Two Hills, she was a daughter of Petras and Maria Gosse, and was a devoted wife and mother of two. She was married for forty-one years to Donat Frick, who drowned this past spring …’” Vince’s voice suddenly faded, and he looked up with startled eyes at Lincoln. “‘ … in the Locust River flood.’”

  They stared at each other, both of them stunned by this confirmation. At Vince’s feet, a space heater hummed on, its element glowing bright orange. But nothing could penetrate the chill Lincoln felt at that moment. He wondered if he would ever feel warm again.

  “A few weeks ago,” said Lincoln, “you mentioned the Penobscot Indians. You said they refused to settle anywhere near Locust Lake.”

  “Yes. It was taboo, as was the lower half of Beech Hill, where the Meegawki Stream runs. They considered it an unhealthy place.”

  “Do you know why it was considered unhealthy?”

  “No.”

  Lincoln thought it over for a moment. “The name Meegawki—I assume that’s from a Penobscot word?”

  “Yes. It’s a bastardization of Sankade’lak Migah’ke, their name for the area. Sankade’lak, loosely translated, is their word for stream.”

  “And what does the other word mean?”

  “Let me look it up again.” Vince swiveled around and took down from the shelf a battered copy of The Penobscot Language. Quickly he flipped to the appropriate page. “Okay. I’m right about Sankade’lak. It’s the Penobscot word for ‘river’ or ‘stream.’”

  “And the other?”

  “Migah’ke means ‘to fight’ or …” Vince paused. He looked up at Lincoln. “‘To slaughter.’”

  They stared at each other.

  “That would explain the taboo,” said Lincoln softly.

  Vince swallowed. “Yes. It’s the Stream of Slaughter.”

  17

  “Fat ass,” whispered J.D. Reid from the trombone section. “Barry’s got a fat ass!”

  Noah glanced up from his music and sneaked a peek at his stand partner, Barry Knowlton. The poor shlump was tightly gripping his saxophone, trying hard to concentrate on staying with the beat, but his face had turned red, and he was sweating again, which was what Barry did whenever he got stressed. Barry Knowlton sweated in gym. He sweated while conjugating verbs in French class. He sweated whenever a girl just spoke to him. First he’d blush, then little droplets would bead up on his forehead and temples, and before you knew it, Barry would be dripping like an ice cream cone in a heat wave.

  “Man, that ass is so fat, you could launch it into space and we’d have ourselves another moon.”

  A drop of sweat slid down Barry’s face and plopped onto his sax. He was gripping the instrument so hard his fingers looked like bare bone.

  Noah turned and said, “Lay off him, J.D.”

  “Ooh. Now skinny ass is jealous of all the attention. I got some view back here. Fat ass and skinny ass, side by side.”

  “I said, lay off!”

  The rest of the band had suddenly stopped playing, and Noah’s lay off seemed to shout out across the abrupt silence.

  “Noah, what is going on back there?”

  Noah turned to see Mr. Sanborn frowning at him. Mr. Sanborn was a cool guy, one of Noah’s favorite teachers, in fact, but the man was blind when it came to seeing what was happening in his own classroom.

  “Noah’s trying to pick a fight, sir,” said J.D.

  “What? He’s the one trying to pick a fight!” protested Noah.

  “I don’t think so,” jeered J.D.

  “He won’t let up! He keeps making stupid comments!”

  Wearily Mr. Sanborn crossed his arms. “What comments, if I may ask?”

  “He said—he said—” Noah stopped and looked at Barry, who was tensed up like a bomb about to explode. “Insults.”

  To everyone’s shock, Barry suddenly kicked the stand over and it clanged to the floor, scattering sheets of music everywhere. “He called me a fat ass! That’s what he called me!”

  “Hey, it’s not an insult if it’s true, is it?” said J.D.

  Laughter erupted in the band room.

  “Stop it!” yelled Barry. “Stop laughing at me!”

  “Barry, please settle down.”

  Barry turned on Mr. Sanborn. “You never do anything! No one does! You let him screw around with my head, and no one gives a shit!”

  “Barry, you have to calm down. Please go into the hall and cool off.”

  Barry slammed his saxophone down on the chair. “Thanks for nothing, Mr. Sanborn,” he said, and walked out of the room.

  “Ooh. Full moon receding,” whispered J.D.

  Noah finally snapped. “Shut up!” he yelled. “You just shut up!”

  “Noah!” said Mr. Sanborn, whacking his baton against the stand.

  “It’s his fault, not Barry’s! J.D. never lets up! None of the kids do!” He looked around at his classmates. “All of you, you’re always screwing around with Barry’s head!”

  Mr. Sanborn’s baton was now whipping the stand furiously.

  “You’re all jerks!”

  J.D. laughed. “Look who’s talkin’.”

  Noah shot to his feet, every muscle tensed to lunge at J.D. I’m gonna kill him!

  A hand grabbed Noah by the shoulder. “That’s enough!” shouted Mr. Sanborn, hauling Noah backwards. “Noah, I’ll deal with J.D.! You go cool off in the hallway.”

  Noah shook him away. The rage that had peaked so dangerously was still pumping through his body, but he managed to wrestle it under control. He shot a last look at J.D., a look that said: Cross me again and you’re toast, and he walked out.

  He found Barry standing by the lockers, sweating and sniffling as he struggled with his combination. In frustration, Barry punched the locker, then turned and sagged back against it, his weight threatening to buckle the metal. “I’m going to kill him,” he said.

  “You and me both,” said Noah.

  “I mean it.” Barry looked at him, and Noah suddenly realized, he does mean it.

  The bell rang, signaling the end of the period. A flood of kids spilled out of the classrooms, eddying into the halls. Noah just stood there, staring as Barry walked away, a sweating blimp swallowed up in the crowd. He didn’t notice Amelia until she was standing right beside him. Touching his arm.

  He gave a startled jerk and looked
at her.

  “I heard about you and J.D.,” she said.

  “Then I guess you heard I’m the one who got kicked out of class.”

  “J.D.’s a jerk. No one’s ever stood up to him before.”

  “Yeah, well I’m sorry I did.” He spun his combination and opened the locker. The door swung open with a bang. “Not worth opening my big mouth.”

  “It is worth it. I wish everyone was brave enough.” Her head drooped, the golden hair sliding across her cheek. She turned away.

  “Amelia?”

  She looked at him. So many times before, he had sneaked furtive glances at her, just for the pleasure of looking at her face. So many times, he had fantasized about what it would be like to touch that face, that hair. To kiss her. He’d had opportunities, but had never mustered the courage to actually do it. Now she was gazing at him with such quiet intensity, he could not stop himself. His locker door hung open, concealing them from the hallway. He reached out, took her hand, and gently tugged her toward him.

  She came willingly, her eyes wide, her cheeks flushing as she leaned close. Their lips brushed so softly, it was almost as if it didn’t happen. They looked at each other, a wordless confirmation that it had not been long enough. That they were both willing to try again.

  They came together in another kiss. Firmer, deeper, drawing courage from each other’s lips. He put his arm around her, and she was as soft as he’d imagined, like sweet-smelling, lustrous silk. Now she had her arm around him as well, her hand clinging to the back of his neck, claiming him.

  The locker door slammed wide open, and suddenly there was someone else standing there.

  “What a touching scene,” sneered J.D.

  Amelia jumped back, staring at her stepbrother.

  “You cheap little tease,” said J.D., and he gave her a shove.

  Amelia shoved right back. “Don’t you touch me!”

  “Oh. You’d rather have Noah Elliot feel you up?”

  “That’s it!” said Noah. He advanced on J.D., his hand already closed in a fist. Then he froze. Mr. Sanborn had just walked out of the band room and was standing in the hall, eyeing them both.

  “Outside,” said J.D. softly, eyes glittering. “The parking lot. Now.”

  Fern Cornwallis dashed out of the building and ran through ankle-deep snow toward the faculty parking lot. By the time she reached the brawling boys, her brand new leather pumps were soaked through and her toes were numb. She was in no mood to be reasonable. She shoved her way into the circle of spectators and grabbed one of the boys by his jacket. It’s Noah Elliot again, she thought furiously as she hauled him away from J.D. Reid. J.D. snorted like a mad bull and rammed his shoulder into Noah’s chest, sending both Noah and Fern sprawling.

  Fern landed flat on her back on the pavement, grinding sand and dirt into her wool suit. She scrambled to her feet, snagging her nylons in the process. Uncontrollable rage pulsing through her, she charged right back into the fight, this time grabbing hold of J.D.’s collar. She yanked him back so hard his face turned purple and he made choking sounds, but he continued to flail his arms, fists waving in Noah’s general direction.

  Two teachers dashed to Fern’s aid, each one grabbing an arm, and they dragged J.D. backwards across the pavement.

  “You stay away from my sister, Elliot!”

  “I never touched your sister!” Noah yelled back.

  “That’s not what I saw!”

  “Then you’re blind and stupid!”

  “I see you two together again, I kick both your asses!”

  “Stop it! Both of you!” screamed Amelia, pushing forward and planting herself between the two boys. “You’re such a loser, J.D.!”

  “Better a loser than the school slut.”

  Amelia’s face flushed bright red. “Shut up.”

  “Slut,” J.D. spat out. “Slut, slut.”

  Noah broke free and rammed his fist into J.D.’s mouth. The loud thunk of bone on flesh was as startling as gunshot in the crisp air.

  Blood splattered on the snow.

  “Some sort of action has to be taken,” said Mrs. Lubec, the sophomore history teacher. “We can’t keep putting out small fires, Fern, while the whole forest burns down around us.”

  Fern huddled in a borrowed sweatsuit and gulped her cup of tea. She knew everyone sitting around the conference table was watching her and waiting for some sort of decision, but they could damn well wait a little longer. She had to get warm first, had to get the feeling back in her frostbitten bare feet, which were now swaddled in a towel under the table. The sweatsuit smelled like perspiration and stale perfume. It smelled like its owner, chubby Miss Boodles, the gym teacher, and it was stretched and saggy around the hips. Fern suppressed a shudder and focused on the five people sitting around the conference table. In two hours, she was scheduled to meet with the district superintendent of schools, and she had to present him with a new plan of action. For that, she needed guidance from her staff.

  In the room with her now was the vice principal, two teachers, the school guidance counselor, and the district psychologist, Dr. Lieberman. Lieberman was the only man in the room, and he’d assumed that superior attitude that men often adopt when they’re the lone rooster among hens.

  The freshmen English teacher said, “I think it’s time to clamp down harder. Be draconian. If it takes armed guards in the hallways and permanent expulsion of troublemakers, then that’s what we do.”

  “That’s not the approach I would take,” said Dr. Lieberman, adding with a noted lack of humility, “in my humble opinion.”

  “We’ve tried intensive counseling,” said Fern. “We’ve tried conflict resolution classes. We’ve tried suspension, detention, and pleading. We’ve even taken desserts off the menu to cut down on their sugar. These kids are out of control, and I don’t know whose fault it is. I do know that my staff is wrung out, and I’m ready to call in the cavalry.” She glanced at the vice principal. “Where’s Chief Kelly? Isn’t he joining us?”

  “I left a message with the dispatcher. Chief Kelly’s been delayed this morning.”

  “Must be those late-night vehicle inspections,” Mrs. Lubec wisecracked.

  Fern looked at her. “What?”

  “I heard it over at Monaghan’s. The Dinosaurs were all talking about it.”

  “What did they say?” Fern’s question came out more sharply than she’d intended. She fought to regain her composure, to keep the flush from rising to her cheeks.

  “Oh, Chief Kelly and that Dr. Elliot were really steaming up the car windows last night. I mean, it’s not like the poor man doesn’t deserve a break, after all these years …” Mrs. Lubec’s voice trailed off as she saw Fern’s thunderstruck face.

  “Look, can we get back to the problem at hand?” cut in Lieberman.

  “Yes. By all means,” whispered Fern. It’s only gossip. Lincoln defends the woman in public, and the next thing you know, the town thinks they’re sleeping together. Just a few months ago, Fern herself had been the rumored woman in his life. More false gossip, based on the long hours they’d worked together on the student DARE project. She forced the subject of Claire Elliot out of her mind, and focused her irritation on Lieberman, who was trying to wrest control of her meeting.

  “Brute authority doesn’t work well with this age group,” he was saying. “We’re talking about a stage of development where authority is precisely what they rebel against. Clamping down on these kids—asserting your power—doesn’t give them the right message.”

  “I’m beyond caring what message I give these kids,” said Fern. “My responsibility is to keep them from killing each other.”

  “Then threaten them with the loss of something that matters to them. Sports, class trips. What about that dance you had on the schedule? That’s a pretty major social event for them, isn’t it?”

  “We’ve canceled the harvest dance twice already,” said Fern. “The first time because of Mrs. Horatio, the second time because of all these
fights.”

  “But don’t you see, it’s something positive you can hold out to them. A carrot for good behavior. I wouldn’t cancel it. What other incentives do they have?”

  “How about the threat of death?” muttered the English teacher.

  “Positive reinforcement,” said Lieberman. “That’s the mantra we have to keep in mind. Positive. Positive.”

  “The dance could be a disaster,” said Fern. “Two hundred kids in a crowded gym. All it takes is one fistfight, and we’d end up with a screaming mob.”

  “Then you weed out the troublemakers ahead of time. That’s what I mean by positive reinforcement. Any kid steps one inch out of line, they don’t get to go.” He paused. “Those two boys today—the ones who got in the fight.”

  “Noah Elliot and J.D. Reid.”

  “Start off by making examples of them.”

  “I’ve suspended them for the rest of the week,” said Fern. “Their parents are coming to pick them up now.”

  “If I were you, I’d make it clear to the whole school that those boys won’t be allowed into the dance, and neither will any other troublemakers. Turn them into poster boys for what not to do.”

  In the prolonged silence, everyone looked to Fern for a decision. She was tired of being the one in charge, the one who got blamed when things went wrong. Now here was this Ph.D. Lieberman, telling her exactly what to do, and she almost welcomed the chance to defer to his judgment. To pass the responsibility to someone else.

  “All right. The dance is back on the schedule,” she said.

  There was a knock on the door. Fern’s pulse quickened as Lincoln Kelly stepped into the room. He was out of uniform today, dressed in jeans and his old hunting jacket, and he brought with him the scent of winter, the sparkle of snowflakes on his hair. He looked tired, but fatigue only emphasized his appeal. It made her think, as she had so many times before: You need a good woman to take care of you.