Don't Scream (9780307823526)

by Nixon, Joan Lowery

  “I didn’t say it was her. It was that evil boy,” Mr. Chamberlin said.

  “These kids are not evil.”

  “That one is. I can tell. There’s pure evil in his eyes.”

  “Who are you talking about?” I asked.

  “The one with the evil in his eyes.” Mr. Chamberlin nodded to himself and smirked. “I could recognize it.”

  I backed up against Dad’s strong bulk for reasssurance. “We were on the sidewalk. We weren’t close enough for you to see his eyes.”

  “I know what I saw.”

  Dad tightened his arm around me, while Mom said, “Mr. Chamberlin, you’re tired and upset. I suggest that you go home now. Phil will go with you. As soon as Jessie and I get dressed, we’ll look around the neighborhood for your cat.”

  “Good idea,” Dad said. He took Mr. Chamberlin’s arm, helped him from the chair, and guided him out the front door.

  The moment the door closed behind them I grabbed Mom’s shoulders. “Mom! He’s crazy!”

  Mom nodded. “Don’t be disturbed by what he said, Jessie. He lives in a miserable world he created for himself, so just feel sorry for him and help him find his cat.”

  “Okay,” I said, although I was still shaky from Mr. Chamberlin’s accusations. “I’ll look around the elm tree and see if I can find any sign that Peaches was there last night.” Trying to smile, I added, “Maybe she climbed the tree and can’t get down.”

  “Maybe,” Mom said.

  I ran up the stairs, two at a time, and pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. No matter what I’d told Mom, or what I’d been trying to tell myself, I knew Peaches wasn’t stuck in the tree. We’d have heard her yowls all over the neighborhood. And I’d become more and more convinced that the animal I’d seen last night was Peaches.

  Why hadn’t I told them that I’d seen the tree “move”? Why hadn’t I admitted that I thought someone had been behind the tree? Because it sounded stupid? Because I hadn’t gone outside to find out then and there what was going on?

  Mom took off toward the far end of the block, and I made straight for the tree. The sky was a faint, flat blue, already faded with heat. Against it the large elm, its heavy limbs drooping, stood out starkly.

  I approached the tree, skirting the stack of boxes and plastic bags containing the Maliks’ trash. As waves of the fishy odor of heat-spoiled tuna rose from the top bag, I fought to keep from gagging.

  It took a moment for the idea to register. Tuna? Peaches? Had she been drawn by the scent of her favorite meal?

  Gingerly I approached the trash bag, but it hadn’t been torn open by a ravenous cat. The mound of black plastic remained securely tied shut.

  I gasped as another thought—too monstrous to ignore—slid into my mind. “No,” I whispered frantically. “No, no, no!”

  My curiosity and fear got the better of me; I untied the bag and looked inside.

  CHAPTER

  eight

  The trash had been picked up before Mark and I set off for school, but the remains of the strong, rancid fish odor clung to the air. I didn’t tell Mark about Mr. Chamberlin. I couldn’t bring myself to recount what Mr. Chamberlin had said.

  However, before our first class began, I told Lori everything that had happened—well, everything except about the tree “moving.” I still hadn’t come to terms with that.

  At first Lori was indignant at Mr. Chamberlin’s accusations, but she softened when I said, “There was no sign of Peaches anywhere in the neighborhood.”

  “Poor Mr. Chamberlin,” Lori murmured.

  “Mom and I looked everywhere.”

  Lori shivered, wrapping her arms around herself as she said, “I don’t know how you had enough courage to look in that trash bag, Jess. What if Peaches had been inside, all stiff and dead?”

  “I had to look,” I answered. “You don’t know how glad I was that Peaches wasn’t there.” I slowly shook my head as I thought about it. “There’s something weird about that trash bag, though. The can was filled to the top with tuna. Only a small amount was gone. Why would anyone throw away a whole can of tuna?”

  “Maybe it got left out of the refrigerator. Maybe it smelled bad when the Maliks opened it. That’s not such a mystery.”

  “I guess you’re right,” I admitted, but I still felt uncomfortable about it. The first bell rang. I pulled my textbook from my locker, slammed the door, and put Peaches’s disappearance out of my mind.

  It wasn’t until noon that I realized I hadn’t taken time to make my lunch, so I had to go through the cafeteria line. By the time I plopped down my tray—with its cardboard pizza, lukewarm applesauce, and runny red Jell-O—next to Lori, she was just finishing telling Scott and Mark what Mr. Chamberlin had said about us.

  I climbed over the bench and groaned. “Why did you tell them?” I asked.

  Lori looked surprised. “You didn’t say not to.”

  I glanced first at Mark, then at Scott. “Mr. Chamberlin’s a bitter, crazy old man. He was just ranting and making up weird stuff because he was upset about his cat. Please don’t pay any attention to what he said.”

  “Which one of us?” Scott asked.

  “Which one what?”

  “Which one did he say was evil?”

  “He didn’t,” I said. “Let’s not talk about it. Let’s not even think about it.”

  Mark ignored me and said to Scott, “Maybe we should ask him.”

  “Oh, don’t!” I pleaded. “I told you, he’s strange. He’ll just go off on a tirade again and won’t give you a sensible answer. Calling you evil certainly wasn’t sensible.”

  “But I’m interested,” Scott said. “He told you he could recognize the evil. Did he say how?”

  “He didn’t know what he was saying!” I leaned across the table, gripping the edge. “Please! Forget about it! I don’t want to talk about it, now or ever again!”

  When neither Scott nor Mark answered, I stood up and reached for my tray.

  Mark stood up, too, came around the table, and put an arm around my shoulders. Smiling, he said, “Don’t lose it, Jess. If you don’t want to talk about that nutty old man, then we won’t.”

  As I sat down on the bench again, Mark’s smile stretched into a broad grin. “You might say that Scott and I were just being curious. You’d be curious, too, if somebody said either you or Lori was evil but wouldn’t tell you which one. You do understand the word curious, don’t you?”

  I had to smile. “Don’t rub it in,” I said. “I understand.”

  Lori asked Mark how much work he had to make up in history and government. As he went into a long explanation, I ate what I could of my lunch. After the bell rang, I carried my tray over to the tray window connected to the kitchen. Scott suddenly appeared beside me.

  Leaning close, he spoke in a low voice. “Did you tell Lori everything you saw last night?”

  I jumped as if I’d been stuck with a fork, and stammered, “W-What do you mean?”

  “If the animal you saw had been Peaches, she must have run to someone.”

  “Sh-She smelled the tuna.”

  Scott shook his head. “You said the trash bag hadn’t been torn open.” His eyes searched mine. “Why are you nervous, Jess? What else did you see?”

  I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. Why would Scott be so sure I’d seen something else, unless he knew someone had been hiding behind the tree? And the only way he’d know would be if he had been there. “Nothing,” I answered, hoping my voice wasn’t quavering. “If I saw someone trying to snatch Peaches, don’t you think I’d yell or run outside and try to stop him?”

  He thought a moment, his eyes never leaving mine. “Yes,” he said. “I guess you would.”

  “What’s keeping you?” Lori said as she and Mark joined us. “You’re going to be late for class.”

  As I hurried toward my journalism class, Mark strode up beside me. “You could have told me about the cat and what Mr. Chamberlin said about us this morning, and you didn�
�t,” he complained, and the irritation in his voice was unmistakable. “Don’t you trust me, Jess?”

  “Trust has nothing to do with it,” I told him. “Why should I pass along stupid insults? Mr. Chamberlin was raving. He didn’t know what he was saying.”

  Mark didn’t answer. We had reached the door of my classroom, and I stopped to face him. His eyes were cold, blank mirrors that frightened me a little, but I was determined to end this problem, which wasn’t my fault. “Can’t you see?” I asked. “The way you’re behaving is exactly why I didn’t tell you what he said. Both you and Scott came unglued because Mr. Chamberlin called one of you evil. What does it matter to you what he thinks? I’ve told you he’s a sour old man who thinks the whole world is evil.”

  Mark took a deep breath. “Take it easy, Jess,” he said. “I just asked you a simple question. I don’t need a lecture.”

  “Okay. Maybe I overreacted,” I answered. “But first Scott bugged me, then you.”

  “What did Scott say?” Mark asked.

  The bell clanged noisily over our heads. I shouted, “I’m late for class!” and threw open the door. I was feeling a little angry, too. For the moment I’d had enough of Mark.

  I SLID INTO the nearest seat just as Mr. Clark finished taking the roll. Mr. Clark wasn’t the kind of teacher who gave demerits. He just threw me a scalding, disapproving stare that made me want to repent not only of being late but of every rule I’d ever broken during my entire life.

  “Before we get to work on our first issue of the paper, I’m going to take a couple of days discussing a topic of vital importance to a journalist,” Mr. Clark said. He sent one last zap my way before he turned to the board and printed in large letters: A GOOD REPORTER IS PRIMARILY AN INVESTIGATOR.

  “Now,” he asked, looking especially pleased with himself as he turned to us, “exactly what does that statement mean?”

  I was eager to get back into his good graces. My hand shot up. I repeated what he’d taught us the first week of the semester: “Don’t just take someone’s word for what happened. Check out primary sources. Check facts.”

  “Good answer, Jess,” he said. “Now then. What are primary sources?”

  He was still looking at me, so I tried to muddle through, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut in the first place. “Uh, the actual people involved in the story. I mean, like if it’s something like … um … the mayor of Oakberry said about … uh, well, maybe a contractor for street repair not being honest in billing the city, then … um … it’s important to get the story directly from the mayor, instead of from somebody else, like his secretary.”

  “What about the contractor?”

  “Who?”

  “The man accused of being dishonest. Don’t you need to question him as well?”

  “Oh, sure. Of course,” I said.

  “All right,” Mr. Clark said. “We have that established, so what other primary sources do you check out?”

  I thought a long moment. No one else raised a hand, so at least I wasn’t alone. Finally I admitted, “I don’t know.”

  “The various offices that contain public records.” Mr. Clark smirked as triumphantly as if he’d just won a tennis match.

  “Write down the following information,” he ordered. “Public libraries. Public libraries have excellent clip files on people, places, news, and social events. Many libraries also have available Criss-Cross City Directories, which give names, street addresses, phone numbers (many of the unlisted ones), spouses’ names, names of children, income brackets, whether the residences are houses or apartments, and names of neighbors.”

  Robin Botts, who likes to sit in the back row and who probably reads nothing more serious than the comics and fashion news, waved a hand and said, “I don’t get it. Why would a reporter need to talk to someone’s neighbors? All my neighbors could talk about is what’s on the soaps.”

  “Let’s use the hypothetical situation Jess gave us. You want to interview the contractor, but when you call his office, he won’t return your phone calls. He has an unlisted number, so he isn’t in the residence pages of your phone book. So you check him out in the Criss-Cross Directory for Galveston. He’s not listed there, so you try Houston’s directory, and bingo! You’ve found a street address for him and a telephone number. You call for an appointment, but you’re told he’s out of town, so you drive to his address.

  “His home is in the kind of neighborhood media people refer to as posh. There are no automobiles and no sign of inhabitants around the contractor’s house, but next door you see a woman on her knees, planting begonias. What’s your next move?”

  Robin giggled. “I hope you’re not going to tell us to help her plant begonias. Gardening is terrible on nail polish.”

  “You’re supposed to ask her questions, Robin,” Eric Dodson said.

  “Right!” Mr. Clark seemed relieved to be through with Robin. “What kinds of questions would you ask this woman, Eric?”

  Eric thought a moment. “This would be easy if she were on the Internet. When are you going to cover computer searches?”

  “Computers have their uses, but there are other well-proven, tried-and-true methods for extracting information,” Mr. Clark said. He scowled as though Eric had said something obscene.

  Eric didn’t look as if he’d been put down. He had the pleased, almost smug look of someone who knows more than the teacher. If it had to do with computers, I was pretty sure Eric would be right.

  I raised my hand again. “I’d ask the neighbor how well she knew the contractor and his family.”

  “Good,” Mr. Clark answered. “I’m assuming that first you introduced yourself and told her the name of the newspaper you were representing.”

  “Of course,” I said, and felt myself blushing, because I really hadn’t thought of that at all.

  “I’d compliment her on her garden,” Robin said, and giggled again. “My grandmother loves to garden, and she turns into a marshmallow when people compliment her plants.”

  “I think the point Robin is attempting to make is that common friendliness is a better approach than charging in officiously with a list of questions.”

  “Sure. That’s it,” Robin said.

  Mr. Clark lowered his eyebrows and glanced around the classroom. “I hope all of you are taking notes assiduously,” he said.

  No one asked him what assiduously meant. We just began writing like crazy.

  “A neighbor,” Mr. Clark said, “might tell you if the contractor’s family had financial problems. Maybe his wife is a compulsive shopper. Maybe the contractor and his wife take periodic trips to Las Vegas and gamble heavily. Maybe they’re having problems with aging parents who need nursing-home care or a son who’s been accepted at an expensive university and isn’t able to get scholarships or financial aid.”

  “You mean that talking to the neighbor is one way to find out if the contractor needs a lot of extra cash,” Bubba Jones said.

  Although Bubba wasn’t too swift about some things, I knew he’d understand any problem in which someone needed extra cash. Bubba borrowed money from anyone he could.

  “Correct. Let’s move on to the civil courts now,” Mr. Clark said. “You can find out if any lawsuits have ever been filed against the contractor. If any have been, then you can also discover if he’s connected to any other businesses or partnerships.

  “Through the criminal courts division you will find records similar to those in the civil court office and also pretrial release forms that everyone who goes through our jail system must fill in, including background, relatives, home addresses, and Social Security numbers.

  “And in the County Administration Building—

  “Wait!” Robin cried, and rubbed her hand. “You’re going too fast.”

  Mr. Clark paused for less than a minute before he went on. “You’ll find tax rolls and property records. In the same building you’ll find Uniform Commercial Code Records, which are filed by people to protect their debts. Their assets, su
ch as jewelry, real estate, and collateral on loans, are on record. Also records concerning marriage and divorce and probate. You can discover if the contractor has inherited through a relative’s will.

  “You can gain information through voter registration records, and …”

  Robin stopped, put down her ballpoint pen, and rubbed her hand again. “I don’t understand most of this stuff,” she said. “What has it got to do with putting out a school newspaper?”

  “Writing, editing, and publishing the newspaper are just part of your journalism course,” Mr. Clark told her. “By the time the semester is over, you’ll learn how to be journalists.”

  As I glanced over my notes, I felt uneasy. “Aren’t our private lives supposed to be secret?” I asked him.

  “Very few facts about our lives are secret,” Mr. Clark said.

  “What if I don’t want someone to know my Social Security number?”

  “You don’t have a choice. You have a job with Bingo’s Burgers, Jess. Your employer has your Social Security number in his records. A number of agencies have a record of your Social Security number. These numbers are often used in tracking people. Like someone who has moved to another state to avoid paying debts.”

  “Isn’t anything kept secret?”

  “Yes. On the basis of the Fourth Amendment of the Constitution and various legal precedents set down by court rulings, people have certain protections against invasion of privacy. For example, criminal records for juvenile offenders may not be publicized, unless—”

  “You can find out practically anything through computers and not take so long,” Eric interrupted. “You can access company records, school files—”

  “We’re talking legally, Eric. Legally,” Mr. Clark said. “The practice of journalism involves ethics, as well as legalities, and—”

  The bell rang, stopping Mr. Clark in mid-sentence. I quickly tucked away my notes, glad that this session was over. Like Robin, I didn’t want to know all these things, because I was sure I’d never use them. I just wanted to write stories for the school paper. I wondered where I’d gotten the idea that journalism class would be nothing but fun.