Chain Letter Omnibus

by Christopher Pike

  “Fran is frightened,” he said. “If she doesn’t confess, let’s have her repaint the mascot tomorrow night and then pass the letter on. This will give us a breathing space to find more clues. You don’t mind if the Caretaker comes after you, do you, Kipp?”

  “As long as it’s like Neil thinks, that he or she won’t retaliate against me for not doing my duty by spreading the word about last summer.” Kipp took the letter back and reread it closely. “Hmm, yes, it does seem that the phrase, ‘You will be hurt,’ is pointed toward the individual while the other threat is there to keep the group as a whole from seeking outside help.”

  “It’s like we’re in a haunted house we can’t leave,” Neil said.

  A haunted house we’re afraid to leave, Tony thought. They could end their dilemma this minute by going to the police. But the threat of harm seemed preferable to certain disgrace.

  The phone rang. All three of them jumped. Boy, they made lousy heroes. Tony leaned over and picked it up. “Hello?”

  “What is this crap about the hourglass and our sins?” Joan demanded in her throaty voice. In spite of the situation, Tony had to smile. Every high school needed a Joan Zuchlensky. She separated the jerks from the phonies from the wimps. She was gorgeously gross; her angelic face let her get away with her crude personality—at least as far as the guys were concerned; she didn’t have many girlfriends. And her coarseness just made her all the more attractive. Her eyes were a darting gray, her lips thick and sexy, her hair a taunting platinum punk-cropped masterpiece. More than anything, she looked nasty, and Tony could attest to the fact that the package could live up to its wrapping. He had gone out with her a few times with the excuse that she was “an interesting person,” but in reality to see if he couldn’t further his sex education. Their last date, they had gotten into some heavy fooling around. If he hadn’t started rehashing in his mind all the sound advice he’d read online, frustrating Joan in the extreme, they would certainly have gone all the way. There was always next time. . . .

  “I take it you heard the news,” Tony said.

  “Yeah, Brenda told me all about it.” She paused and lowered her voice, and perhaps a trace of anxiety entered her tone. “What are we going to do?”

  “Fran will repaint the mascot, then we’re going to see if the ax falls on Kipp.”

  “Why don’t we go after the guy?”

  “As soon as we figure out who it is, we will.” What they would do with the person if they did find him was a question Joan thankfully didn’t ask.

  “As long as that mess in the desert stays secret. You know my old man’s a cop? I swear, he’d have me locked up if he found out.”

  “If the truth did come out, we could just deny it,” Tony said. That was not really as simple as it sounded. If they were questioned by the police, their guilt, especially Fran’s and Neil’s, would be easy to read. And the Caretaker might very well know where they had buried the body.

  Joan laughed. “And here I was getting so bored with these last few weeks of school! It looks like they’re going to be wild.” She added, “Hey, I’ve got to go. Let’s talk tomorrow at lunch. And let’s get together some other time, huh?”

  “Sure.” Lust was not at the forefront of his mind. Whoever had said danger was an aphrodisiac had said so in safe surroundings.

  They exchanged good-byes, and Tony turned back to his companions. Kipp was meticulously shredding his copy of the chain letter. Neil was massaging his right leg just beneath the knee. He had injured the leg in P. E. a couple of months back and was supposed to have arthroscopic surgery on the cartilage sometime soon. Neil was having a lot of health problems. He had recently been diagnosed as diabetic. He had to inject himself with insulin daily and had to monitor his diet religiously. He said it was a hassle but no big deal.

  “When are you going to get that joint worked on?” Tony asked.

  Neil quickly withdrew his hand from the sore area. “My mom and I are still trying to put together the doctor’s fee. We’re almost there.”

  Neil’s father had died when Neil was three, and his mother had never remarried. She worked two waitress jobs—lunches at a Denny’s Coffee Shop, dinners at a Hilton restaurant—and Neil put in long hours at a twenty-four-hour gas station. They barely seemed to get by. Tony had a couple of grand in the bank, but knew it would be useless offering it to Neil, who could be unreasonably proud at rimes.

  “The way your body’s falling apart, pretty soon we’re going to be measuring you for a box,” Kipp said good-naturedly, though Tony would have preferred if he had kept his mouth shut. Kipp’s sense of humor did not always run the right side of good taste. Sometimes he sounded like . . .

  Like someone who could write a weird letter?

  Tony knew he had better stop such thoughts before they could get started. If he didn’t, he’d never get to sleep tonight.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Neil agreed, not offended. “I’ve had so much bad luck lately . . . ” His eyes strayed to the remains of the letter. “. . . I sometimes wonder if someone ain’t put a hex on me.”

  The opposite of hardheaded Kipp, Neil was superstitious. Kipp often teased him about it, and he had the bad sense to do it now.

  “A ghost, maybe, in a tan sports coat?”

  “Kipp, for God’s sake!” Tony said, disgusted. The man had been wearing a tan coat.

  “It’s possible, I think,” Neil said softly, his eyes dark. “Not the type of ghost you’re talking about, but another kind, I mean.”

  Kipp giggled. “What do you mean?”

  “Hey, let’s drop this, OK? It’s dumb and it doesn’t help us.” Tony stood and went to the window. The football game had ended and the kids had disappeared. The street was quiet. Soon his parents would come home. He wanted the guys gone before they arrived. It was getting dark.

  “I mean, none of us is a doctor,” Neil continued as though he had not heard him. “You read online how someone’s heart stops, their breathing stops, and then, a few hours later, they’re up and walking around. It happens quite a lot, I understand. And sometimes these people talk about the strange things they saw and the strange places they went to while they were dead. Usually, it sounds nice and beautiful. But this one man I read about who tried to commit suicide talked about a place that sounded like hell. It made me sick reading about it. But what I wanted to say was that these people who die and come back sometimes develop powers. Some can heal, while others can read minds and transmit thoughts. It’s supposed to depend on how they died, whether they were scared or not.”

  Could there be a death worse than premature burial? Tony asked himself. Edgar Allan Poe had spent a lifetime obsessed with the idea, and he had been a devotee of horror. It was obvious that this is what Neil was driving at.

  And the grave they had dug had been shallow.

  Shallow enough to escape from? Maybe . . .

  Dead dammit!

  He simply could not allow these paranoid possibilities a chance to start to fester. They had checked and rechecked: No pulse, no breathing, no pupil response, no nothing. Dead, absolutely no question.

  “And what else have you learned reading The National Enquirer?” Kipp asked sarcastically.

  Neil did not answer, hanging his head toward the floor. Tony crossed the room, put his hand on his shoulder. Neil looked up, his green eyes bright.

  “The person who sent this letter is alive,” Tony said firmly. “It might even be, like you suggested, someone in the group. But it’s certainly not a psychic zombie who can give us diabetes from a distance or force us to turn ourselves in against our will.”

  Neil smiled faintly, nodded. “Sure, Tony. I’m just sort of scared, you know?”

  Tony squeezed his arm. “You’re no different from the rest of us. No different from even Kipp here, though he would be the last to admit it.”

  “Judges and juries frighten me more than witches and werewolves,” Kipp muttered.

  On that pragmatic note, the discussion came to an
end. Tony walked them both to the front door and told them that as long as they stuck together they’d be all right. It sounded like a decent send-off remark.

  He had been worried about getting to sleep that night but as he climbed the stairs back to his room, he felt suddenly weary and collapsed on his bed with his pants still on, his teeth unbrushed and his window wide open. Coach Sager had put them through a grueling workout in track practice that afternoon, but Tony knew it was wrestling with the unknown Caretaker that had worn him out. If only he could sleep now he could recover his wits for tomorrow.

  And he got his wish, for within minutes he began to doze, or rather, he started to dream, which must have meant he was asleep. But the sleep was anything but restful. A shadow stood over him all night, forcing him to labor on a task that seemed impossible to complete. They were in a deserted field and he was working with his bare hands, digging a grave that would never be deep enough.

  Chapter Three: Last Summer

  The concert had been great. Tony’s ears were ringing and he couldn’t hear himself think, much less hear what the others were talking about. The crowd was thinning but it was still hard walking. There were no lights in the Swing Auditorium parking lot and out here in the valley there wasn’t nearly the background glow of electric L.A. It was like being stuck in a black cave with a herd of cattle. He stumbled on broken asphalt and almost tripped Joan, who was holding on to his hand. He felt loaded and hadn’t even had a drink. Then again, there had been enough dope smoke in the air to waste the security guards.

  “What did you say?” Tony yelled at Joan.

  “I didn’t say anything!” Joan yelled back, sounding ten miles away but leaning close enough to make him wonder if the evening’s fun wasn’t only beginning. She was wearing tight white pants, a skimpy orange blouse, and her hair was all over the place, including in his face.

  “It was I!” Kipp giggled, hanging on to Brenda, the two holding each other up. They had sure put away the beer on the long drive out to the auditorium. There were still several six-packs left. “Where the hell did I put my car?”

  “There it is!” Brenda laughed, pointing so vaguely that she could have meant half the parking lot.

  “I drive a Ford, not a Volkswagen!” Kipp shouted. “Hey, Neil, do you remember where my blue baby is?”

  Neil did not have a date but they had brought him because he loved music and because he was such a great guy to have around when you were trying to find your car. He didn’t drink and appeared impervious to marijuana smoke. He answered Kipp, but his voice was lost in the crowd and the ringing ears.

  “You’re going to have to speak up!” Kipp shouted.

  Using hand signs, Neil managed to get across the message that they should follow him. Tony stumbled obediently on his heels, bumping into Joan whenever possible, with her hanging on to his pants pockets, giggling and cursing up a storm as they dodged people and slid between jammed cars. The maze seemed endless. Finally, however, Neil halted and by golly if they weren’t standing next to Kipp’s pride and joy—a super-charged ’97 Ford. Kipp had parked at the far end of the lot where they could supposedly enjoy a quick getaway. Too bad the exits were all on the other end of the lot.

  The wait in the traffic was tedious. The concert had strung them all up and now they had to move like snails. A half hour later and they were still captives of the carbon-monoxide-spouting train. To pass the time, Kipp—who was driving, naturally—and Brenda set to work on the remainder of the beer. Joan even had a couple of cans, though her dad always gave her a sobriety test when she got home from being out late, and Tony thought what the hell and put away a couple of beers himself. The alcohol seemed to dull the ringing in his head. Neil took a can, too, after prodding from Brenda, but nursed it carefully.

  They were on the verge of a breakthrough to the street that led to the freeway when someone knocked on their window.

  “Alison!” Brenda squealed when Kipp rolled down the window, letting in a fog of exhaust. “Wow! It’s sooo amazing running into you here!”

  “Brenda, I was with you when we bought tickets for this concert,” Alison said, ducking her head partway into the car. Her curly black hair was held back with a pin and there were oil stains on her hands. She looked slightly exasperated, unusual for her—Alison always impressed Tony as being in control. He was sitting in the backseat and, for reasons known only to his sober mind, he immediately took his hand off Joan’s knee. “Hi Neil! Hi Joan!” She smiled. “Like the concert, Tony?”

  He grinned. “Wasn’t loud enough.”

  “Having car trouble?” Neil asked from the dark corner of the backseat. The car in front was moving and if they didn’t move too, the horns would start quick. Alison held up her oily hands.

  “Yes. Fran and I are killing the battery. It just refuses to turn over. Could you please . . . ”

  “Call the auto club,” Joan interrupted. “I’ve got to get back soon or my old man will be out on the porch with his shotgun.” The car behind them honked. “Come on, Kipp. Move it.”

  “Pull over to the left,” Tony said, though he knew Joan’s dad disliked him and would only be too happy to have an excuse to castrate him with buckshot. Joan scowled but held her tongue.

  “Sure,” Kipp said. Alison stepped back and he swung out of line, their personal slot vanishing quickly. The glaring rows of headlights at their back made it a sure bet it would be a while before they got another shot at the freeway.

  Fran’s car was a Toyota Corolla, and Kipp promptly snorted his disgust for Japanese workmanship. While he tried jumping the battery, Tony checked for loose wires and Neil peered in the gas tank. All systems appeared go until Kipp put the jumper cables directly on the starter. It didn’t so much as click, and they knew where they stood.

  “Call the auto club,” Joan repeated when they paused for a hasty conference on what to do next. “You’re a member, aren’t you, Fran?”

  “I don’t know. Am I?”

  “I am,” Alison said. “I guess I could call . . . ”

  “No,” Tony said quickly. “It would take one of their men forever to get through this traffic. This is a run-down area. Neither of you would be safe waiting around. You’re coming home with us.”

  “But my dad will have to drive all the way out here tomorrow to fix it,” Fran complained.

  “He won’t mind the inconvenience once he understands it was to insure your safety,” Tony said smoothly, having absolutely no idea about Fran’s father’s position on such matters.

  “There’s no room in Kipp’s car for seven people,” Joan growled.

  “No problem,” Kipp belched, swaying. “You can sit on my hands.” Brenda punched him. “My lap, I mean.” Brenda hit him again.

  “Joan,” Tony said with a trace of irritation, “auto club employees do not install starters, especially in the middle of the night. It’s settled; now let’s get back in line. And Kipp, give me your keys. You’re drunk.”

  “If I was drunk,” Kipp mumbled indignantly, “would I have trouble seeing like I am now?”

  He handed over his keys a minute later.

  · · ·

  Two hours had gone by and they were lost. At least the traffic had disappeared. They hadn’t even seen another car in twenty minutes. Tony was sure he had gotten on the freeway going west toward L.A., but he wasn’t sure when or how he had switched freeways—not all the signs were lit up in this crazy part of the country—and Alison’s shortcut on the surface roads back to the correct freeway had definitely been a mistake. She was in the back this minute, poring over a tattered map with a flashlight, telling him to turn this way and that. The first gas station he saw, he was pulling over. In fact if he saw an ordinary house, he might stop. The surrounding fields seemed to stretch to infinity. They could have stumbled into the heart of the Australian desert.

  Nevertheless, they were having fun. They had plenty of gas and fine conversation and the beer tasted good and he was no longer worried about the alcohol slowing
his reflexes. He’d only had a few cans, anyway, and he was a big boy and had a hearty liver. He knew what he was doing and as soon as he knew where he was going he would be just fine. Joan’s mood had lightened considerably—her old man was away fishing, she had remembered—and she was laughing and the way her legs were rubbing against his was distracting but he wasn’t complaining. Even Fran was full of holiday cheer—she was unmistakably loaded—and Kipp had taken to reminiscing, which was always a riot. No one could lie with a straighter face than Kipp.

  “Should I tell them, Tony, about the time we snuck into Coach Sager’s house to steal his kitchen sink and caught him seducing one of Grant High’s teenyboppers?”

  “Tell them the whole story.” Tony nodded. Coach Sager was the football and track coach. They had never been within a mile of his house, wherever that was.

  A road was approaching, narrower than the one they were on but running north and south. As the silhouette of the mountains was nowhere to be seen, Tony decided they must have come too far south. “Think I should make a right here, Ali?” he asked, slowing.

  “Is there a sign?” she asked, apparently lost in a part of the map that was mostly gray. He could see her in the rearview mirror. She’d let her hair down and was looking all right.

  “No sign.”

  “Might as well give it a try,” she said. “We must be too far east.”

  “But this road runs north.” Tony squinted. Either it was taking a long time for the brakes to take hold or else the road was approaching amazingly fast. He had to hit the pedal hard at the last instant to make the turn. There was a screech of rubber, and gravel sprayed the Ford’s underbelly. He flipped on the high beams, rubbing his eyes. The night seemed to be getting darker.

  “It was a Saturday night,” Kipp began. “We thought the coach was gone for the evening, you see, and we wanted to unhook his kitchen sink and put it in the attic so when he called the cops he’d have to tell them that they took nothing but the kitchen sink!” Kipp laughed at the prospect and the rest of them laughed with him.