by R. L. Stine
At home that evening she kept seeing Mitch, kept apologizing to him in her mind.
That night she forced him away, forced herself to fall into a deep sleep. A sleep of troubling dreams, complicated and violent.
Just before two in the morning Reva sat straight up, wide awake. “I know who killed Mitch,” she said aloud.
Chapter 25
HE’S JUST A WORM
“Clay—did you kill Mitch?”
Sprawled on Mickey’s couch, Clay looked up at Pam, the smile fading from his face.
“Did you?” Pam demanded, standing over him, her hands on her hips. “Did you kill him?”
The wind rattled the loose pane in the living-room window. Mickey stepped out of the shadows of the darkened kitchen and turned on the floor lamp next to the couch. His face was drawn, Pam saw, his eyes tense, wary. He held a half-eaten Three Musketeers in his left hand, but wasn’t chewing on it.
Clay still didn’t reply. “Give me a break, Pam,” he muttered, rolling his eyes.
“I’m not going to let you off the hook,” Pam said. “I want to know, Clay. I have to know. After I told you that Mitch was the one who was blackmailing us, that Mitch was the one who grabbed me and threatened me—did you go to the store and kill him?”
“Of course he didn’t,” Mickey interrupted, speaking with unusual fervor. But he sounded more hopeful than convinced. “Tell her, Clay,” he urged. “Stop being so stubborn.”
Clay snickered. “She’s accusing me of murder, and you accuse me of being stubborn,” he said wryly. “I really don’t believe this.”
“Well, Mitch is dead,” Pam said heatedly, crossing her arms over her chest, refusing to retreat from her position, glaring down at Clay. “And he was murdered.”
“So?” Clay asked, his gray eyes flashing angrily. “You think I did it?”
“Yeah,” Mickey agreed. “What makes you think it was Clay who did it?”
“Because he said he’d do it,” she told Mickey impatiently. “Clay said when he found out who was threatening us, he’d kill him.” She turned back to Clay, who now had a smile on his face.
“What if I did kill him?” he asked.
“Did you?” Pam insisted.
He shrugged, his smile insolent, defiant.
Pam glanced over at Mickey, who was still standing at the lamp. In the yellow light he looked frightened. “Clay—?” He let the candy bar drop from his hand. It landed noiselessly on the worn carpet. Staring hard at Clay, he didn’t bother to pick it up.
Clay ignored him, continuing to smirk at Pam.
“You didn’t kill him—did you?” Mickey asked, his voice frightened and small. “Come on, man. Just say you didn’t, okay?”
“Okay. I didn’t,” Clay said, still smirking.
“I don’t believe you,” Pam said. She glanced over at Mickey. It was obvious that Mickey had changed his mind about Clay. He didn’t believe Clay, either.
“Hey, come on, guys,” Clay said, pushing himself up on his feet from the low couch. He took a step forward, rolling down the sleeve of his black Motley Crue T-shirt, forcing Pam to back away. “Get out of my face, okay? I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t croak Mitch—all right?”
He walked to the window and stared out into the tiny front yard. “I wanted to,” he said, his back to them. “When I found out he was in the store that night watching us the whole time, I wanted to kill him. But then I thought about it, you know. And I decided he wasn’t worth it. He was just a worm. Why should I mess up my life on account of a worm?”
Mickey picked up his candy bar and tossed it onto the low table by the wall. He and Pam exchanged glances. They were each trying to decide whether to believe Clay or not.
“I hope you’re telling the truth, man,” Mickey said, walking up close to Clay. “Because if you’re lying, we—”
Without warning, Clay spun around and grabbed the front of Mickey’s gray sweatshirt. He jerked it violently, nearly pulling Mickey off his feet. “I’m not a liar!” he screamed, his features hard and menacing.
At that moment Mr. Wakely stepped into the room from the dark kitchen. “Hey—” He seemed surprised by the violent confrontation across the room.
Clay immediately let go of Mickey’s sweatshirt, and Mickey stumbled backward quickly regaining his balance.
Mr. Wakely stood blinking in the light. Pam could see that his eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot. He was stooped and unsteady on his legs. It was obvious he’d been drinking.
He’s aged ten years in just the past week, Pam thought.
“Get out of here if you’re going to fight!” he screamed, shaking his fist at Mickey. “Get out! Get out!”
He lunged toward Mickey and nearly fell over his own feet.
He’s totally out of control, Pam thought. There’s no reason for him to be so angry at Mickey.
“We were just going out, Dad,” Mickey said, backing off. “Come on, guys.”
They grabbed their coats and a few seconds later were standing out front, shivering in the swirling winter wind.
“Sorry about Dad,” Mickey apologized, obviously embarrassed. “I don’t know what his problem is.” He kicked at a rock at the curb, shooting it across the street.
“I’m outta here,” Clay said glumly. “Unless you want to call the cops on me and turn me in for killing Mitch.” He glared at Pam and Mickey, challenging them.
“You didn’t do it,” Mickey said softly. “I know you didn’t do it, man.”
That odd smile returned to Clay’s face, the smile Pam couldn’t interpret, the one that sent a cold chill down her spine.
Chapter 26
A CONFESSION
Saturday morning Reva woke up early and quickly slipped into a pair of gray wool slacks and a cream-colored cashmere pullover. She hurried downstairs, brushing her hair as she walked, eager that her father didn’t leave without her.
In the breakfast room her dad raised his eyes from his cup of coffee, surprised. “You’re up early for a Saturday,” he said, studying her. “If you’re not careful, you’ll get to work on time this morning.”
Reva didn’t smile at his little joke. “I didn’t want to miss you,” she said seriously. “I have an idea—about the murder.”
The smile quickly faded from his face. He put down his coffee mug. “What’s your idea?”
“I’ll have to show you. When we get to the store,” Reva said. “I’m not sure, but I may have a clue. It came to me in the middle of the night.”
Reva had done a lot of thinking during the night, about the robbery, about Mitch, about Hank—and about herself. She wasn’t happy about herself, she realized, about how hard, how cold she had become. But Mitch’s murder and the feelings it had stirred in her had hinted that it wasn’t too late—there was still some of the old Reva, hiding behind the hard shell she had built around herself.
She spooned down a bowl of cornflakes, grabbed her coat, and hurried out to the garage, where her father was already warming up the car. A red morning sun was climbing the sky. The air was still and cold. The lawn sparkled under a layer of frozen dew.
They drove to work in silence, listening to the all-news station on the radio. “What’s your theory?” Mr. Dalby asked after he had parked the car in his reserved space and they were walking across the lot to the back entrance of the store.
“I have to show you,” Reva said. “I don’t mean to be mysterious, Daddy. I just have to make sure myself first.”
They went up to the sixth floor and put their coats in his office closet. Then Reva led him out to the bank of security monitors across from the office.
Hank had just arrived, his eyes only half open, his blue store uniform crisp and unwrinkled. He was starting up the system, checking the monitors and VCRs, and seemed surprised to see Reva and her father come into his area.
“Morning,” he said, staring at her questioningly.
“Hank, do you have the security tapes from yesterday?” Reva asked.
&nbs
p; “Yeah. Sure,” he said. “I was just rewinding them all. The police looked at them, but they don’t show anything.”
“Reva—what’s this all about?” Mr. Dalby asked impatiently, straightening his striped tie.
“Hank, do you have a camera on the Santa Land area? Do you have a tape of that area from yesterday afternoon?” Reva asked, squeezing her father’s hand as a signal for him to be patient.
“Yeah. Sure,” Hank replied, mystified. “You want to see it?”
Reva nodded seriously, turning her eyes to the monitors.
“Reva—why do we have to look at Santa Claus?” Mr. Dalby demanded.
“I’m not sure,” Reva said, her eyes on the screens. “I just have this idea. . . .”
A few seconds later one of the monitors began showing the Santa Land area. Reva moved closer to study the screen.
There was the store Santa with a little girl on his lap. He was ho-ho-hoing away. The girl was shy, reluctant to talk. After a while he lifted her off his lap and signaled to the elf to bring in the next child.
“Stop it right there,” Reva instructed Hank.
The picture froze.
Reva studied the Santa’s face.
“I’m right,” she told her father. “I knew it. I’m right.”
He waited for her to explain.
“It isn’t Robb,” she said. “It’s someone else.”
“Huh?” Hank exclaimed.
Mr. Dalby just stared at her, completely bewildered.
“That’s not my friend Robb—even though he was supposed to be there. It’s someone else. Someone Robb must have asked to cover for him.”
“I don’t understand,” her father said, nervously fiddling with his tie. “Why would your friend do that?”
“I don’t know,” Reva said. “Maybe so he’d be free to kill Mitch. I—I really don’t think Robb could do it. But it does seem a little suspicious, doesn’t it?”
Her father nodded. “I guess,” he said thoughtfully, staring at the frozen image on the screen.
“Michael actually gave me the idea,” she told him excitedly.
“Michael?”
“After Michael sat on Santa’s lap, he told me the Santa was a fake. He said Santa was wearing a pillow under his coat,” Reva told him. “Well, I didn’t think about it until the middle of the night. But then I remembered that Robb doesn’t wear a pillow. He’s a real chub. He doesn’t need a pillow. So I realized that the Santa Michael talked to must have been someone else.”
“But—that doesn’t prove that Robb is a killer,” Mr. Dalby said.
“Of course not,” Reva replied. “But there’s something else. Robb and Mitch had a serious fight that morning. A fistfight in the stockroom. I saw them. I tried to break it up. They were really going at it, trying to kill each other.”
“Robb and Mitch?” Hank asked, surprised. “What were they fighting about?”
“I don’t know,” Reva replied. “Afterward, Mitch wouldn’t tell me. But it was a really bad fight. Robb was really trying to take Mitch’s head off.”
“And then a few hours later Mitch was dead,” Mr. Dalby said, thinking out loud.
“It was so weird,” Reva said. “Robb is the quietest, most mild-mannered guy I know. He’s always so sweet. I couldn’t believe he was fighting like that. He was so angry at Mitch!”
“Angry enough to sneak off and kill him?” Hank asked.
Reva shrugged.
Her father stared hard at the picture on the monitor screen. “I’m calling the police,” he said.
♦ ♦ ♦
Since it was the last Saturday before Christmas, the store was jammed with shoppers from the time the doors opened. And even though it was early, there was already a line of twenty or thirty children, waiting impatiently for their big moment on Santa’s lap.
Reva stood off to one side, her emotions swirling as she watched Robb deal with the kids. Maybe I’m wrong, she thought. Robb always seemed like such a teddy bear, sort of sad sometimes, but always nice. Is it really possible that he’s a cold-blooded killer?
Maybe I’m wrong. It just doesn’t seem possible.
It doesn’t seem real. . . .
And it didn’t seem real to Reva a few minutes later when four police officers descended on Santa’s candy-striped throne. Robb had a little girl, dressed in bright orange sweatpants and matching sweatshirt, on his lap as the four grim-faced officers surrounded him. The little girl was angry. “It’s my turn!” she shouted.
One of the police officers gently lifted the protesting girl off Robb’s lap.
“What’s going on?” Robb asked, very worried.
“Santa’s being arrested!” an alarmed child called from the front of the line.
“Look—they’re arresting Santa Claus!”
“What did Santa do?”
“Oh, no! Oh, no!”
“Stop them!”
“They can’t arrest Santa Claus!”
The cries of astonished and alarmed children mixed with the hushed voices of their confused parents.
Two officers grabbed Robb by the arms and helped him up from the chair. One of them reached up and pulled off his beard.
Several children, still in line staring at the bizarre scene, gasped. A little boy burst into loud sobs.
“Are you Robb Spring?” one of the men demanded.
“Yes. But I didn’t do anything!” Reva heard Robb exclaim over the cries of the distressed children and their parents.
“We’d like you to come with us. To answer some questions.” The cop pulled Robb away from the garishly decorated throne. The other three stiffened, preparing themselves in case he resisted.
“But I didn’t do anything!” Robb repeated fearfully.
“Are you going to come quietly with us?” the officer asked in a low, determined voice.
This is so awful, Reva thought, glancing at her father, who was watching from the line of children. He just shook his head.
Just then Reva felt herself being shoved aside as someone struggled past her. Regaining her balance, Reva was astonished to see her cousin Pam frantically rushing up to Robb.
“Foxy!” Pam cried. “What’s happening? Why are they arresting you?”
Does Pam know Robb? Reva asked herself, surprised. Why is she calling him Foxy?
“Excuse us, miss.” One of the officers tried to move Pam out of the way.
“Foxy—what’s happening?” Pam demanded, dodging the policeman and grabbing the arm of Robb’s Santa costume.
Foxy? Reva thought. That must be Pam’s nickname for Robb.
“I only wanted to help you, Pam!” Robb cried emotionally.
“What?” Pam’s face paled. “What did you do, Foxy? What did you do?”
“I only wanted to help you. I only wanted to get even!” Robb yelled, glaring past Pam to Reva.
What’s he talking about? Reva wondered, suddenly chilled by Robb’s wild, angry stare. Is Robb confessing?
Is he confessing that he killed Mitch?
“I only did it for you!” Robb told Pam.
“Foxy, I—I don’t understand,” Pam said weakly and covered her face with her hands. Mr. Dalby stepped forward and put his arm protectively around his niece.
The four officers led Robb away. “I only wanted to show Reva!” he screamed, turning his head back toward Pam, his red Santa cap falling to the floor. Then he and his dark-uniformed escorts disappeared down the short flight of stairs.
Parents began pulling their troubled children away from Santa Land. The area resounded with children’s cries, angry adult voices, confused, nervous chatter.
Reva stood near the wall, oblivious of the noise and confusion, thinking hard, trying to figure out what Robb had meant.
He had screamed that he did what he did for Pam, that he only wanted to show Reva.
Show Reva what?
What could killing Mitch possibly show Reva?
Am I the cause of Mitch’s death? Reva wondered. How can that
be?
She looked across the now-empty aisle to where Pam was standing, staring at her, studying her.
Accusing her.
Chapter 27
THE DARK STORE, AGAIN
Reva surprised herself by going back to the makeup counter and staying the rest of the day. She involved herself in the customers, listening to their demands, working hard, forcing herself not to think about anything that had happened.
Whenever there was even a brief lull, the frightening pictures would flash back into her mind. Pim’s accusing stare. Robb’s wild, terrified shouts. Mitch folded and bloody in the carton.
At least the murderer has been caught, Reva thought, consoling herself.
At least Robb was found out before he could kill again.
The day went by surprisingly fast. The store closed at seven. Reva’s father had had to go to a meeting earlier in the afternoon, so she’d have to go home on the bus.
She stepped out through the employees’ entrance into a clear, cold night. A half-moon was high in a purple-black sky.
She had started around to the bus stop at the front of the building, her shoes thudding on the narrow walkway, when she saw a figure half-hidden in the shadows, leaning against the building.
Waiting.
Waiting for me? Reva wondered.
Sudden fear made her stop.
The figure stepped quickly away from the building and approached Reva.
Reva took a step back, then froze.
“Pam!”
Her cousin, wearing only a raincoat, her hands buried in the pockets, came hurrying up to her.
“Pam, why are you still here?” Reva asked, relieved.
“Happy holidays,” Pam said sadly. Her blond hair, normally tied back neatly, fell loosely about her shoulders. Her eyes, Reva saw, were bloodshot. It was obvious that she’d been crying. “I—I waited for you, Reva. I thought maybe you and I could talk.” She stared at Reva expectantly, all the coldness, all the accusation gone from her eyes.
“Sure,” Reva replied, studying Pam’s troubled face.
“It’s been so long since we really talked,” Pam said quietly. “I mean, talked honestly.”