“You’re already that cool, Lester. You just need to find a way to let it out.”
“Oh, okay, coach. Thanks for the inspirational speech.”
Dalton shook his head. “Sorry. That was total Dr. Phil cures your pain. But you know what I mean.”
“Do I?”
“Look, Mole, I’ve got something to do.”
Mole nimbly slid around and stood in Dalton’s way. “Need some help?”
“No.”
“No?”
Dalton sighed. He was wasting time arguing about it. “Okay, yes. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but actually I could use a lookout. You coming?”
“Now?”
“Now.”
“Right now?”
“Right now.”
Mole considered for a minute, patting down his unruly bangs, which only made them more unruly.
“You don’t think I will, do you?”
Dalton looked at Mole, searching for sarcasm. He didn’t find any. “Fine. Let’s go.”
“Righteous,” Mole said, not going. “I’m totally your boy.”
“You’re not moving.”
“I’m not?”
“Which means, at the very least, you’re gonna miss your next class.”
“Bumptious,” Mole said. “I hate my next class. My next class is such uddersuck.”
“You’re still not moving.”
“Pimptous,” Mole said. “I love danger. You know that. You’ve seen me in action.”
“That’s not a word. Pimptous.”
“You should buy a thesaurus,” Mole said.
“Will you please get the farck out of the way?”
Mole tapped his temple and closed his eyes.
“What are you doing?”
“Visualizing.”
“Oh my Bob.”
Mole opened his eyes and stepped aside. “Okay, I am now mentally geared. Ready?”
Dalton was already heading down the hall toward the Arts Wing.
With Mole stationed against the door of the janitor’s room, watching at the L of two hallways, Dalton knelt in front of Yearbook’s door, working a metal spoke into the lock. He raked the pins. It took exactly forty-one seconds for him to get the tumbler to pop.
“Just keep an eye open. Knock twice if there’s anyone coming and then walk away like you’re lost.”
“Got it. But only if you show me how to do that lock thing.”
“I’ll think about it,” Dalton said before closing the door behind him.
Half the room was a computer lab, except, just as Newport had said, there were no computers. There were terminals and power cords and broken keyboards, but the hardware had been carted off, probably to be cannibalized and sold in another wing. The other half of the room had been converted to an old-school photo lab. Dalton stepped into the darkroom, which was, amazingly, dark. A red safelight in the corner turned everything a barely visible hue, like being in a wine bottle. There were two long metal sinks filled with trays that were in turn filled with different-colored liquids. Chemicals. There were enlargers along both walls that looked like mini industrial cranes, and big plastic barrels labeled STOP, DEVELOPER, FIXER, and HYPO. The smell was odd, but not unpleasant, like sweet eggs.
THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #35
Splonge said, “That poor boy always smelled like a bad tube of cologne.”
There was a closet in the corner with spools of film hanging like snakes drying on a laundry line. Dalton scanned through them, mostly quickie snaps, kids grinning in the hallways or classrooms, waving and acting goofy or holding their hands up to the lens like celebrities doing the perp walk. There was a roll from a dance, and head shots of the various Fack Cult. Against the far wall were long tables laid out with different pages of the yearbook, scraps and mistakes and comps that had been discarded before the final version was sent to the printers. Behind the tables were a dozen tall file cabinets. Dalton opened the first. It was full of indexed contact sheets going back ten years. He rifled around until he found the current year, stuff from this semester, holding the sheets up to the safelight. It was mostly all the same kind of shots—smiling couples, hallway candids. And then there were some that were telephoto.
Ronnie Newport.
They were different from the rest in style, long shots of the cliques in the parking lot. Balls, Kokrock, Steel-toe Dystopia, Face Boi, Plaths. They obviously had no idea they were being photographed. There were shots of Ginny Slims that Newport had obviously taken from the front seat of his Nova. There was Dalton, sitting in the nurse’s office. There were Dalton and Mole, sweaty and bedraggled outside his parents’ house.
Dalton was about to close the door, when he noticed that behind the last file was a manila envelope with three contact sheets. It was sealed with duct tape. Dalton tore it open. The first one had grainy shots of the roof. Telephotos of a shadowy figure wearing a Jason mask and what looked like a rifle.
Boomshakalaka.
Newport had managed to take pictures of an actual, real-life Lee Harvies. Why hadn’t he told anyone? The Lee Harvies was lean and rangy, wearing all black, not much to go on as far as IDing him. There were a few shots of the guy looking through a scope, which reflected light at the lens, partially ruining them. Then there were pictures of the empty roof and the parking plaza and a grassy mound beyond the small book depository that was off the library. The second sheet was of various Foxxes, some of Cassiopeia. Her talking to Jenny Two. Or maybe Jenny Three. Her talking to Tarot as he loaded up his van. The last sheet had a bunch of shots of Jeff Chuff. In fact, all of them did. Except for the ones that Wesley Payne was in with him. The date at the top was from the week before Wesley was killed. The shots were like an action series, taken one after another in succession. Chuff and Wesley arguing on the edge of the football field. Chuff gesturing wildly. Wesley staring at his feet. Chuff actually shoving Wesley behind the porta-potty, like they were about to fight. Then just shots of the porta-potty alone. Four of them. End of roll. BAM.
Dalton heard a noise.
A silent click.
He didn’t bother to turn around, quietly sliding the cabinet door shut, about to tiptoe away, as five strong fingers grabbed him by the back of the neck. Very strong fingers. They dug into the muscle fascia along his spine.
“Farck!” he said aloud as the hand pushed, forcing him across the room. He winced with pain, swinging his leg backward in some lame Jackie Chan maneuver that missed entirely. The fingers gripped harder, aiming him toward the long metal sinks. He struggled to pull free, but it was no use. The hand shoved him against the lip of the sink, knocking the wind out of him, and then forced him face-first over the trays. Dalton tried to straighten his back but was levered even farther. The end of his tie went completely into the chemicals, slowly followed by the rest of it. In Nine Seconds Over Boise, Lex Cole was almost fed into an automated peeler. He’d managed to escape by crowning the henchman with a petrified russet.
Terrific. Thanks, Lex.
There was nothing in the sink Dalton could grab on to except sponges or tongs. In any case, he was using both hands to keep himself from going entirely over.
“Wait!”
The hand pushed harder. The fumes were horrible, wavering like heat coming off the desert floor.
“You… killed… Wesley… Payne.”
The hand let go.
Dalton coughed, leaking snot and tears, choking in lungfuls of fresh air. He was blind, completely at the hand’s mercy, positive it was about to grip him again, maybe even someplace worse, but it didn’t. He pulled the tails of his shirt out and flailed around for a spigot, dabbing gently at his eyes until he was able to open them. At first he could just see a halo, someone standing there. Tall, a dark outline. A yellow outline.
It was wearing a yellow dress.
“What are you doing in here, Rev?” Principal Inference demanded. “This darkroom is for Yearbook use only.”
“Mother of Bob, what’s wrong with you?” Dalt
on spat. His mouth tasted like cat litter.
“My father, Hannibal Inference, always told me that when a puppy shites on the carpet, you push his nose in it, so he learns a lesson.”
Dalton blinked. There was violence in the angle of her sinewy neck.
“I’m looking for your money,” he said, in a higher and whinier voice than he would have liked. “Isn’t that what you want me to do? Splonge said—”
“Forget Splonge. I know why you’re in here, so cut the bloshite.”
Dalton coughed, not wanting to contradict her when he could still barely breathe. “Yeah, the pictures. The new yearbook.”
“What pictures?”
Dalton pulled off his tie, which reeked of developer, and threw it into the trash. “Wes Payne and the skull straw. Euclidian blood. Someone’s idea of a joke. Had to check it out.”
She looked at him blankly, adjusting her dress.
“You mean you haven’t seen the new yearbook?”
“I’ve had a hundred thousand other things on my mind.”
“Well, you should take a peek. It’s ugly. Check out the centerfold, and then you’ll know why I’m in here.”
“Forget the centerfold. I want a status report on the cash. Now.”
Dalton cleared his throat. “I know where it is.”
“You do?”
“In a locker.”
She inhaled sharply. “Which one?”
“I’m not sure.”
Inference shook her head. “We swept every locker in school. Plenty of contraband, but no cash. So that’s an F minus, Rev. You are now officially failing.”
“The key has a number 9 stamped on the back. That mean anything to you?”
“Let me see it.”
“I don’t have it with me.”
Inference eyed Dalton as if she were about to grab him again, hold him down, and search his pockets. He waited, trying to decide on a plan to fight her off. Or maybe just give it to her. There was no noise in the room except their ragged breathing. Then she blinked, taking a step back. Lipstick was smeared on her cheek, dried spit caked at the corners of her mouth.
“I’m sorry. I’m acting… very unprofessionally.”
Dalton nodded, relieved. “It’s a problem I run into a lot myself.”
Her voice was low and measured, almost plaintive. “It’s just that… I need that money back, Rev. You have no idea.”
He did have an idea. He could hear exactly how scared she was.
“Do you know how many piglets I have on the Salt River tit? The mayor, the school board, the Fack Cult union, the PTA. It never ends.”
“If it makes you feel any better, as far as I’m concerned, the deal still stands. I find your cash, I’ll take my percentage. And I’ll make sure you get yours.”
“I’m going to get mine, all right.”
Inference straightened her dress and her broach and her hair, then walked to the door, holding it open, her face hardening again. “You’re running out of time, Dick. I’m beginning to smell an expulsion in your future.”
“It wouldn’t be my first.”
“An expulsion, Rev, would only be the first item on a very long list of unpleasant things I could do to you.”
The heavy door slammed in his face like a backfiring Winchester. A few kids scattered. Some just shrugged and rolled their eyes. Dalton blinked in the harsh light of the hallway. He could still see enough, though, to tell that Mole was gone.
CHAPTER 19
CLIQUE. CLICK. BANG.
Dalton locked the door of his room and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling for almost an hour. He had one day left. He needed to go to the party, find Chuff, convince him, find Tarot, convince him too, and get home in one piece. He felt nauseated from breathing in the darkroom. He felt nauseated thinking about Macy. He had too many questions and no answers. It sucked.
Choices:
1. Quit.
2. Keep pushing until the guilty mug fesses up.
3. Develop an addiction to photo developer, start wearing all black.
4. Pack harmonica, buy canned chili, and hop last train to Clarksville.
5. Sit on my farcking ham until someone else handles it.
6. Invent steak knife home acupuncture kit, become insanely rich.
7. Develop killer sexting app, become even richer.
When it was almost six, Dalton got up, changed his crisp white shirt, exchanging it for a crisper white shirt, and put on a new tie. He called Macy six times. No answer. He called Mole six times. No answer. Turd Unit stuck a fork through the space between the door and the frame, popped the lock, then came into the room and jumped up and down on the bed. Dalton didn’t have the energy to tell him not to. Instead, he twisted the skin on the back of his brother’s arm until Turd Unit pleaded and swore, going “ow wow ow wow” even though they both knew it didn’t really hurt. He pouted in the corner for a while, rubbing his arm. Dalton made a face. Turd Unit didn’t laugh. Dalton whacked him with a pillow, a perfect shot. Turd Unit didn’t laugh. Dalton finally sighed and stuck his hand in his armpit and made the fart sound his brother loved so much. This time, Turd Unit broke into raucous giggles, which gave way to breathless hilarity, writhing around on the carpet as though someone had poured kerosene in his underwear. Dalton chuckled while slicking his scalp with water and a tiny dab of gel. He shaved the hairs that had settled sporadically on his cheeks and chin, quietly wishing there were more of them.
“Stiff Sheets shaved all six of his hairs!” Turd Unit screamed, slamming around on the bed again.
Dalton knuckled his brother’s belly, coaxing an exaggerated “woof,” then walked downstairs, past his father, careful not to step in front of the TV. The old man said nothing, keeping his death grip on the remote. Dalton checked in the basement for a body hanging over the laundry. Nope. Then he avoided the kitchen, slipping out the back door. His mother called, “Dalton, honey? Dalton?” but he pretended not to hear.
The scooter started on the third try. He lifted his helmet and a note fell out. Another index card.
CONNECT THE DOTS. THE MONEY HAS A MIND OF ITS OWN. IT HAS GONE WHERE IT FEELS WARM AND SAFE. WHAT GOOD IS A KEY IF YOU IGNORE THE LOCK?
DUH.
STICK IT IN AND TWIST.
Dalton stuck the card in his back pocket with the others and gunned the engine, letting the exhaust roar. Then he let go of the clutch with a guttural chirp, aiming the tiny rocket across town, arcing across the troposphere, the black machine ready to run down and plant its nose cone right in the center of Lu Lu Footer’s party.
It was a huge Doric-columned house, three slabs of faux-marble pretension, with a cobblestone driveway that wound through the trees. There were dozens of cars parked haphazardly, kids standing at the mouth of the garage, chasing each other in circles, boys pretending not to care and girls pretending not to want to get caught. They rolled in the grass or just talked. They smoked and spat and lifted red plastic cups to their mouths in unison, up and down every twelve seconds.
Dalton parked his scooter between a pair of Mercedes, one silver and one red, then locked the helmet to the back wheel. A pair of Face Boi leaned against the doors, arms crossed, wearing looks of satisfied waiting.
“Nice sweater,” Dalton said. They didn’t answer, but one adjusted the cashmere sleeve knotted at his chest.
“No, seriously. I could use a sweater like that. Where’d you get it?”
The first Face Boi lifted his foot and picked a nonexistent piece of dirt off his docksider. The other one examined his nails.
Dalton gave up and walked over to the house. The front door was locked. He rang the bell.
“Well, don’t you look familiar,” Lu Lu Footer said, immediately yanking it open. She seemed about fourteen feet tall in a tiger-striped dress that wound around her body like a wet paper towel.
“You seem to have recovered from before.”
“What before?”
“In the hallway?”
“What hallway?”
They stared at each other.
“Hey,” Dalton finally said. “That dress fits you like a million simoleons.”
Lu Lu Footer’s expression changed from haughty smirk to slightly less haughty smirk. Then she slammed the door.
Dalton rang the bell and waited.
She opened it, saw him, and slammed it again.
Dalton pressed the buzzer.
She cracked the door, arms crossed. “Whoever put that picture in the yearbook put it there because of you, snooper. Because you came here. If it wasn’t for—”
“If it wasn’t for me, it’d be easier for you to pretend Wesley Payne never existed, just like everyone else.”
Lu Lu took a deep breath, about to slam the door again, but stopped herself. “You have a point. But I still don’t want you in my house.”
“Why not?”
“Because, snooper, I heard you were snooping in my darkroom.”
“I thought you gave up on everything. I thought you didn’t care about Yearbook anymore.”
“That was four hours ago.”
“I wanted to see if I could find out something about who put Wes Payne’s picture in the centerfold.”
Her face softened, but not much. “You don’t think it was me?”
“No.”
“Everyone else does. That’s why no one even came to my party.”
Dalton peered behind her. The house was packed.
She shrugged. “No one good, anyway.”
“Have I mentioned how great you look in that dress?”
Lu Lu Footer laughed. A tiny bit. Then she stepped aside and let him in. “But no going upstairs. It’s off-limits. I’m not kidding. Am I kidding?”
“It doesn’t seem like it.”
“Good. I’m watching you.”
Three girls ran by with champagne bottles in their hands. There were plastic champagne glasses on the floor. Dalton nosed one into a standing position and then flipped it upward with his boot, snatching it out of the air by the stem.
You Killed Wesley Payne Page 14