Elijah Springfield, no longer posing as a dope-peddling misfit from Montague, Oregon, had found acceptance among the math and science bunch. He was a handsome, sandy-haired young man of average height and wiry build, his soft hazel eyes framed behind wire-rimmed glasses. He was not especially outgoing, but his smile was warm and welcoming, and he’d managed to find something in common with two megabrains from calculus class, skinny Carl and pimply-faced Trevor. Right now, Trevor was trying to show Elijah the ropes in calculus.
“Okay,” said Trevor, scribbling on a piece of paper as he spoke, “to differentiate this function, just use the Quotient Rule. In this case we would have x plus 1 times the derivative of x times x plus 3 . . .”
“Which is the derivative of x squared plus 3x, which is 2x plus 3,” said Carl.
“Brilliant, as always,” Trevor quipped.
“Thank you.”
Elijah listened intently, watching Carl and Trevor make their point.
“Subtract the numerator times the derivative of the denominator. . . .” Trevor continued, still scribbling, “x squared plus 3x times the derivative of x plus 1, and then divide the whole . . .”
Trevor stopped. He looked a little blank.
“Didn’t work,” said Carl.
Elijah scanned Trevor’s calculations. “Umm . . . don’t you have to square the denominator?”
Trevor scowled. “Where do you get that?”
“Well,” said Elijah, taking his own pencil and scribbling on the same piece of paper, “it’s the way the original integration formula works out: In the denominator you get the limit of v of x as h approaches zero, times the limit of v of x plus h as h approaches zero, and bingo, it’s the same as v of x squared. Am I right?”
Trevor looked it over and broke into a grin. “Brilliant!”
“Above adequate!” said Carl.
“Thank you,” said Elijah.
Elisha Springfield was fitting in very nicely. She was naturally outgoing, had a gift for being comfortable around new people, and her attractiveness—there was no need to disguise it—had already turned some heads in the halls. By lunchtime, she’d made several new friends, both male and female—all had learned to pronounce her name E-lee-sha and not E-lie-sha—and right now she was sitting with two girls she’d met in drama class, chatty Karine and philosopher Sondra.
“I think Tituba’s the heroine of the play,” Karine was saying. “I mean, Arthur Miller was trying to point out the evils of religion and, I mean, isn’t there a Tituba in all of us? We all want to be free to believe whatever we want without being judged for it.”
“Well, of course. The Crucible is a cry for tolerance,” Sondra agreed. “It’s wrong for anyone to impose their morals on others. Very simple.” Then she noticed Elisha smiling as if something was funny. “What?”
“You just said that something is wrong,” Elisha replied, still smiling.
Sondra didn’t get it. “So?”
Elisha explained, “You can’t say it’s wrong to impose your morals on others because, when you tell us something is wrong, you’re imposing your morals on us, and you can’t do that because you just said it’s wrong to do that.”
“Whooaa!” said Karine.
“Well, you know what I meant!” Sondra countered.
“Sure, but you see the problem? If the message of The Crucible is that everybody can believe whatever they want, and nobody’s right and nobody’s wrong, then why does the play disturb us? Where’d we ever get the idea that Tituba and John Proctor are the good guys and the Puritans are the bad guys? What makes us think that an injustice has been done or that there’s anything right or wrong about anything in the play if there’s no right or wrong?”
Sondra stopped to ponder that.
“That boy’s looking at you!” Karine tittered. Elisha and Sondra started to look. “Don’t look!” They didn’t look.
“You mean Ian Snyder?” Sondra whispered.
Karine made a disgusted face. “Eeugh, don’t make me sick!” She tried to point. “It’s that other guy, that stud with the red hair . . .”
“Who’s Ian Snyder?” Elisha asked.
“You don’t want to meet him,” said Karine. “He’s really out there somewhere. I think he’s a witch!”
“Just like the Tituba in all of us,” Sondra observed.
“Huh?”
“Oh, nothing.” For Elisha’s benefit, she deftly pointed him out with her eyes and a barely discernible point of her finger. “Over there, by himself.”
Elisha looked just long enough to see a thin, bizarre-looking kid sitting alone at the end of a row of tables. He seemed obsessed with the color black. He was dressed in black, had black hair—almost too black, as if he’d dyed it that way—and . . . had he even used something to blacken his lips and eyebrows? “He’s a witch?”
Karine and Sondra made quick, downward motions with their hands. “Shhh.”
“Time to tell her,” Sondra said to Karine, and Karine nodded.
Elisha waited.
“You should know, there are weird things happening around here,” Karine began.
“Ready to hear about our ghost?” Sondra asked, and she was serious.
“Oh, it’s not news to me,” said petite, gray-haired Mrs. Aimsley, bringing another stack of high school annuals to the table and setting them down with a thud. “We’ve had a ghost in this high school for as long as I can remember.”
Sarah had set up her own little research center in a corner of the school library, one study table now burdened under stacks of yearbooks and enrollment records. Mrs. Aimsley turned out to be a very good source of information on the school and its traditions. She’d been the Baker High School librarian for the past forty years and had seen and heard just about everything. “So how did the legend start? Is there a true story behind it all?”
“True story?” Mrs. Aimsley had to laugh. “Well, which true story would you like to hear? There have been several.”
“The one about Abel Frye,” Sarah said.
“He went to this school back in the 1930s,” Karine explained, intrigued by her own tale. “And one night he hanged himself in the old school building.”
Sondra added, “He lost his true love and decided to end it all.”
“Abel Frye. That name is new this year,” said Mrs. Aimsley. She pulled one high school yearbook from the bottom of a stack and began to page through it. “There was a young man who hanged himself in the old school building, but his name wasn’t Abel Frye.” She kept flipping pages as she tried to remember. “Lawrence . . . Macon? Masters? Matthews? I think it was the Class of 1933.”
Sondra had a photocopy of the Crystal Sparks painting in her notebook. She brought it out and showed Elisha. “Wholesome-looking character, isn’t he?”
“So, was he a real person or is he just made up?”
“He was real, but the whole story’s been covered up,” Karine said in a hushed voice.
“It was such a terrible public relations nightmare that the school board destroyed all the records,” Sondra explained. “They reprinted the high school yearbook and took Abel Frye’s name out of it.”
“And then there was a fire,” Karine added with a spooky tone. “All the yearbooks with Abel Frye in them just happened to be burned in that fire.”
Sondra was startled to hear that. “Since when?”
“You haven’t heard about that?”
Mrs. Aimsley found what she was looking for. “All right, here he is. Lawrence Matthews.” She handed the yearbook to Sarah and pointed out the picture of a gaunt, homely kid with squinty eyes and oversized ears. “He was a farmer’s son, I understand, and the Great Depression had left his family nearly destitute.”
“He was rich,” said Sondra. “His family owned half the town back then.”
“And he had a pet hawk that would sit on his shoulder,” said Karine, “and he could sic it on other kids who tried to pick on him.”
“They say he still has that hawk on hi
s shoulder—well, the ghost does.”
“Lawrence never had a pet hawk that I know of, but he did raise chickens,” said Mrs. Aimsley.
Karine was talking faster and faster, the more excited she got. “He had a crush on a girl, but she fell for Abel’s worst enemy, a jock, you know, the captain of the football team. Abel Frye was an underclassman, a little shrimpy guy, and all the jocks and upperclassmen picked on him—you know how it is. Anyway, all that and then losing the girl finally drove him over the edge. He lured the girl into the back stairway and stabbed her to death, and then he hanged himself from the old stairway railing.”
“The popular belief is that Lawrence’s girlfriend was Mabel Johnson.” Mrs. Aimsley pointed her out in the yearbook. “But she wasn’t murdered; she died of influenza. Lawrence may have done away with himself out of grief, but . . .” She reflected a moment. “I think he had other problems in his life. He was homely, gaunt, from a very poor family. I can just imagine what kind of treatment he got from the other kids who had better clothes, shoes to wear, better abilities.” She sighed and placed her hand mournfully on the page with Lawrence Matthews’ picture. “I’ve seen many Lawrences come through this school, Mrs. Springfield, and sometimes I’ve wondered how they ever survived when all the other kids worked so hard to convince them they couldn’t—or even shouldn’t.”
“He lured the girl into the back stairway and stabbed her to death, and then he hanged himself from the old stairway railing.”
In Officer Carrillo’s office, Mr. Maxwell wasn’t “alerting” as if finding any drugs, but he was certainly interested in something as he sniffed and sniffed at the contents of Doug Anderson’s locker, now spread out on the floor. Nate and Carrillo were sitting at two sides of Carrillo’s desk, watching and curious.
“What is it, Max?” Nate asked, knowing he wouldn’t get a spoken answer.
Carrillo cracked, “Anderson’s dirty socks, I’ll bet. I think that’s all you’re going to find, the same kind of stuff we took from Tod Kramer’s locker: textbooks, dirty socks, gym shoes, athletic gear, a few pin-up posters.”
Nate wasn’t so sure. “Well, if I know Max, I’d say he’s on to something.”
“But if it isn’t drugs, what is it?”
“Beats me. Okay, Max, that’ll do for now. Go lie down.”
Max obeyed, flopping down in a corner of the room.
Wearing surgical gloves to prevent contamination of evidence, Nate reached down and pulled a muddy jersey from Doug Anderson’s duffel bag. He examined it front and back. He set it aside. Then he pulled out Anderson’s football shoes, looked inside them with a small penlight, examined the outside of each shoe, and put them aside. He checked the pants, the socks, a sweatshirt, and a tee shirt. Under all the clothing he found a tattered binder containing diagrams of football plays, some phone numbers of friends male and female, and some notes from a history class.
“I’ve got a question,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“Did every member of the team have a duffel bag like this?”
“Sure. Standard issue.”
Nate furrowed his brow. “We found Tod Kramer’s and Doug Anderson’s. Where’s Jim Boltz’s?”
Carrillo shrugged. “Hasn’t turned up. We checked his home and his car, but zip. All he had in his locker were those textbooks over there and a windbreaker.”
Nate shone his penlight into the duffel bag. It was empty— except for . . . “Hmm. Now what have we here?”
“Where’s Jamie?” Sondra asked, looking around. “She heard the ghost talking. I’m serious! ”
Karine spotted her—“Jamie!”—and told Elisha, “Wait’ll you hear what happened to her and Cindy Jenkins and Andy Bolland!”
Jamie was a tall girl, plainly dressed, who wore no makeup. Elisha had already seen her perform in drama class—she was good. She hurried over and took a chair next to Elisha.
“You met Elisha?” Sondra asked.
They introduced themselves.
“Tell her about that night in the Forbidden Hallway,” said Karine, actually giddy about it.
Jamie gave Karine a kind but correcting look and then turned to Elisha. “You know which hall we’re talking about?”
Elisha had heard a fresh report from Sondra and Karine—and had already learned of it at a family briefing the night before. “That rear hallway next to the gym.”
“Some friends and I heard something in that hall. We were here one night for a rehearsal—”
SLAM! Every head in the lunchroom turned. Some big guy had just knocked Ian Snyder’s books off the table, and now he was standing there smirking about it.
“Ohhh,” said Karine, “don’t pick on him. Anybody but him! ”
“What have you got?” Carrillo asked, stepping closer.
Nate prepared a plastic bag to receive the evidence, then pulled the duffel bag wide open and reached in with a pair of tweezers. “A soda straw.”
Carrillo made a face. “A what?”
Elijah saw the big guy slap Ian Snyder across the head, then do it again. He knew right away what was happening. “Who is that guy?”
“Leonard Baynes,” said Trevor, hardly looking up. “He’s always giving Snyder a hard time.”
Elijah rose from his chair.
Carl grabbed his arm. “Hey, what are you doing?”
Elijah thought that was a silly question. “Somebody’s getting hurt over there.”
He walked down the row toward the trouble, and yes, there were plenty of eyes watching.
“Hey,” said Sondra, “isn’t that your brother?”
Elisha saw Elijah’s gait and the look in his eye. “Ohhh, that’s him, all right.” She knew what was coming and could only hope it wouldn’t mess everything up.
“This could get ugly,” said Karine.
4
lies and terror
Leonard Baynes was taunting Snyder, cursing him, .slapping him. “Where’s my ten dollars, freak? C’mon! Where’s my ten dollars?”
Snyder said nothing and sat there taking it, angry but apparently helpless.
“Nice earring,” said Baynes, reaching for it.
Elijah got right in the way. “Hi!” He stuck out his hand. “Elijah Springfield. This is my first day.”
Baynes was twice as big as Elijah and he wasn’t at all pleased with Elijah’s timing. “Butt out.”
Baynes grabbed Elijah by the shoulder—“I said, butt out!”—and flung him into a row of students at the next table, spilling their food and knocking two of them over.
Elijah extended his hand toward Ian Snyder. “Elijah Springfield. And you are . . . ?”
Snyder was too startled to answer, much less shake hands.
Baynes grabbed Elijah by the shoulder— “I said, butt out!”— and flung him into a row of students at the next table, spilling their food and knocking two of them over.
Some cheers went up from the crowd. Some in the crowd whispered, looking scared. No one got up.
“Oh, brother,” said Carrillo. “Sounds like trouble in the lunchroom.”
Nate only said, “Mmm” and continued examining the soda straw under a strong desk lamp. He held a magnifying glass in front of his eye and slowly moved along the length of the straw. He looked down one end and then down the other.
“What have you got?” Carrillo asked again.
The soda straw was common, typical, the same kind of straw one would find in any fast-food restaurant, in any grocery store.
And yet Nate was fascinated.
“Oh, maybe something,” he said.
“Where’s a teacher?” Elisha cried, looking all around. “Where’s Officer Carrillo?”
“You mean Barney Fife?” Karine giggled.
Elisha moaned, shook her head, and rose to her feet.
“What are you doing?” Karine squealed.
“I’m doing something about it,” she answered, and started down the row. This is not a convenient time to be wearing a skirt! she thought.
>
Well, Elijah thought as he picked himself up, at least he isn’t picking on Snyder. “Hey, come on now, I just want to be friends—”
Baynes tried to plant his big hand in Elijah’s chest to shove him again—and immediately found himself slammed facedown on the table—right in front of Ian Snyder—his arm twisted in a hold that threatened to snap his elbow backward. It hurt.
“Please don’t move,” Elijah spoke into his ear. “If you move, your arm will break.”
Baynes didn’t move.
Now there were loud cheers and hoots from the crowd, enough to bring in a whole army of teachers, maybe even the vice principal.
Carrillo heard the commotion and had to tear himself away. “Gotta check this out.”
“Mmm,” said Nate.
Carrillo bolted from the room.
Nate shone a light up one end of the straw and looked down the other. What was this inside the straw? It looked like sugar crystals. It couldn’t be cocaine or methamphetamine, or Max would have smelled it. The straw did have a strange, musty smell. Sarah would have to see this.
Elisha got there in time to hear Elijah’s final words to Baynes: “We could start being friends right now or we can both get suspended. What’ll it be?”
“Friends!” Elisha urged in a whisper, her body poised for the worst. “Just say it.”
Baynes thought for only a moment. “Friends.”
Elijah let him go, and he bolted from the scene red-faced and humiliated, brushing by Elisha and escaping through an outside exit door.
Elisha’s whole body relaxed as a sigh of relief escaped her lungs.
Officer Carrillo burst into the room looking for the trouble, whatever it was. All he saw were the two Springfield kids kneeling and bending, picking some scattered books and papers up off the floor, handing them to Ian Snyder.
Hangman's Curse Page 5