Holt took a deep breath, but decided not to speak. It was one of the few times in his life when he truly had no idea what to say.
“Who did you think this mysterious helper was?” Anne said, sounding mildly amused.
“I don’t know. That’s why I made sure everyone knew I was being beaten. I thought maybe it was you, Coach. Or maybe Mr. Mathis. Some man bigger and meaner than my dad.”
Holt glanced over at Anne, who was wearing a small smile.
“When you’re at Davidson, I hope you remember to speak well of Travis High,” Anne said, in a social voice.
Though Sarah looked disappointed – perhaps she thought she deserved more praise for figuring a way out of her dilemma—she said, “I will. I’ll tell everyone that at Travis, someone goes the extra mile for the students. I thought maybe it was Mr. Mathis, because he left the gym. But he really didn’t seem to understand what I was talking about, when I stopped in at his office today.”
Holt could see that Anne was not surprised to discover that Sarah had been watching that night at the gym. Sarah’d been waiting, hoping someone would pick up on the hints she had thrown out before the dance. Anne had shown a lot of foresight, getting Buddy out of sight.
“I like to think we do our best for our students here,” Anne said blandly. “I’m sorry about your father.”
“Someday I’ll figure it out.” Sarah had the cocky confidence of someone supremely sure of her own brain. “Who helped the other kids. Who helped me.”
It was time to squelch this bug. “You will, Sarah?” Holt said. He sounded mildly amused, as if Sarah was discussing a favorite fantasy. “And when you do?”
“Nothing,” Sarah said, surprised. “I keep my mouth shut.” For the first time, she looked a little uneasy.
“What if someone comes to you and says, ‘Oh, Sarah, my mom stole my boyfriend,’ or ‘My dad is selling drugs to my friends.’ Are you going to say, ‘Gosh, I might know someone who can handle that for you?’ Because they’ll be really disappointed.”
Sarah stood and shrugged into her backpack. “No sir. Because I’m not going to be here. I’ll be in college. At Davidson. And I’ll be away from this place forever.”
“You certainly have a lot of imagination,” Holt said. “And a lot of bravado. What if Mr. Mathis walked in now, and Principal DeWitt and I left? If I believed that someone might have thrown my father down some stairs, I wouldn’t risk being alone with such a dangerous person. I’d assume that person wouldn’t want to be suspected of murder. I’d know that person might silence me if they thought I’d talk.”
Sarah’s face drained of color.
Anne stood up too. “Study hard the rest of the year, and I’m sure Davidson will welcome you with open arms in the fall,” she said, in dismissal. “Thanks for coming in, Sarah.”
Now completely off balance, Sarah paused when her hand touched the doorknob. “By the way,” she said, and her voice had a distinct edge, “Darryn Seymour’s dad is screwing him.”
And then she was gone, closing the door behind her.
Anne and Holt exchanged glances, and Holt sighed. He hoped that wasn’t true. Darryn was not going to get any assistance from him or Anne. Darryn was not smart, or athletic, or outstanding in any way, so his attendance at Travis was not contributing anything to the glory of the school. Besides, all bad parents in Colleton County could not meet an untimely end. That would be conspicuous.
“Do you think we need to do something about her?” Holt asked Anne. “It would be a pity, after all the trouble we went to.”
Anne smiled, looking suddenly as happy as Sarah had looked. She said, “I’m going to plant a word in the ears of some friends I have left in the business. Let them keep an eye on Sarah. I think in a few years she’ll be a valuable asset.”
Holt said, “That’s the best solution of all.”
“If she talks in the interim,” said Anne, “we’ll be right on it.”
He smiled at her, and Anne smiled back: smiles honest and open, chilling and feral.
Just the way Sarah had smiled.
Small Chances
As I came to know Anne DeWitt better, I realized that what would most upset her would involve becoming the object of someone’s pity . . . or ridicule. Her job relies on people taking her seriously. When a smear campaign begins, onlookers are sorry for the targets of the attack. But when the campaign ramps up, that pity evolves and a consensus emerges: there’s no smoke without fire. The target must have done something shady to become a target in the first place.
Anne wouldn’t like being involved in that at all was what I figured. She’d do her best to get to the bottom of the situation . . . and then she’d do something about it.
Small Chances
The campaign against Anne DeWitt began on a spring morning. Anne was used to surprises of the unpleasant variety: she hadn’t been a high school principal forever. The people of Colleton County would have been aghast if they could have seen Anne in her previous incarnation.
But she looked eminently respectable that day, in some very expensive knit pants and a tank under a light sweater. Her fingernails were perfect ovals and her hair was well cut and colored. She was ready to smile at her secretary, who was usually in place by this time.
But Christy Strunk was not at her desk. She was somewhere in the school building; her coffee pot was perking, and the usual pile of messages was centered on Anne’s desk. Anne did not like chatty messages. When Christy had become Anne’s secretary following the death of the previous principal, she’d been prone to give some color commentary. Anne had quickly retrained her.
The top message in the little stack was dated late the previous day, just before Christy left the office. It read, “Your first husband called. Tom Wilson. He says he will come by tomorrow 10 a.m.”
Anne found this curious, since she had never been married.
Anne was not prone to panic. She took a deep breath and considered various scenarios. While she thought, Anne spun in her chair to look the framed pictures on the credenza behind her. The central photograph showed a younger Anne (with a different hair style and wearing blue jeans) and a pleasant-looking man with thick dark hair. Anne and “Brad” were standing in the woods. He was holding the leash of a golden retriever. The young couple were holding hands and beaming at the camera. Even Waffle, the dog, looked happy.
Tragically, Anne’s husband Brad had been killed in a skiing accident before Anne had come to take the job of assistant principal at Travis High. After two years of learning the business, she’d been promoted to principal following the (also tragic) suicide of Delia Snyder.
Along with the “happy family” picture, there were three others: one of Anne’s younger sister Teresa, who lived in San Diego, and two photographs of their (now deceased) parents: one a studio picture in their Sunday clothes, and another taken at Anne’s mother’s birthday party, with many candles on the cake.
Anne had never met any of the people in the photos—or, in fact, her actual biological parents. For all Anne knew, they might be the handsome couple in the picture. Though she seriously doubted it.
Anne had invented her husband Brad. Now, her created background had acquired a new layer.
Anne felt the muscles in her face tighten as she glanced down at the message once more. This was a threat. She had to ascertain its source.
But at the moment, Anne had to put this mysterious problem aside and take care of her ordinary business. That was what a blameless person would do, Anne imagined.
The other messages were more mundane. One was from the parents of a student who might not qualify to graduate in May. Another was from the school nurse, who needed to talk to Anne about the extensive time she was spending with one student. Anne had also received an invitation to speak at the Newcomers Club, and a request to use the school auditorium for a fundraiser. Anne had to talk to the parents and the nurse, and she noted that. She decided to accept the speaking invitation. She’d approach the school board ab
out the use of the auditorium.
After disposing of those matters, Anne gave herself permission to look again at the message from her “first husband.” She found she was quite angry. She turned again to look at “Brad.” Over the years, she’d worked out what he’d been like. It had been fun.
“Good morning,” said Christy from the doorway.
Of course, Christy had noticed that Anne had been looking at the picture of her deceased husband. “I’m sorry about the phone call,” Christy said somberly. She clearly mistook Anne’s barely-controlled rage for deep grief. “I didn’t know you’d been married more than once?”
Anne considered, briefly and rapidly. She could make up a backstory for this first husband—really young, didn’t know what I was doing, never think about it now—and Christy would believe her.
Or she could stick to the legend and hope for the best.
Anne made a quick decision. When in doubt, stick to the legend.
“Brad was my first and only husband, Christy,” Anne said. “I have no idea who Tom Wilson is or why he wants to see me. Or why he’s claiming we were married. But I guess I have to lay eyes on him to find out who he is and what he wants.”
Christy gasped dramatically. “Shouldn’t you call the police?” Carried away by the exciting situation, Christy offered advice to her boss.
Yes, if I was a real person with no secrets, Anne thought. “I hate to draw that much attention to it,” she said, sounding anxious. Anne was sure Christy would enjoy seeing her boss show vulnerability. (Anne was right. Christy was clearly eating this up.)
“Maybe this is someone who’s made an honest mistake,” Anne continued earnestly. “That’s hard to figure out, but I guess it’s possible. After he sees me, he’ll realize he’s got the wrong woman and exit with an apology. Quiet end of a minor problem.”
Very tentatively, Christy said, “You don’t think . . . maybe we should have the security guard around?”
Delicately put. “I think that’s a great idea,” Anne said. “Paul is on today. He should be outside in the hall.” It would be a cold day in hell before Anne relied on Paul, retired patrolman, to defend her.
“I’ll talk to Paul now. I won’t leave the office until this Wilson guy is out of the building,” Christy said stoutly.
“Thanks, Christy. I guess I’d better get some work done before he gets here.” She nodded at Christy in dismissal.
Christy closed the door behind her. Anne heard the distinctive groan of Christy’s office chair as the secretary settled into it.
Anne speed-dialed a number on her cell phone. “Hey,” said Coach Holt Halsey. “Anne.”
From the outer office, with the door shut, Christy could hear well enough to know Anne was talking, but she couldn’t pick out specific words. Anne knew this from experimentation. Nonetheless, she was careful.
“Coach Halsey,” she said, “you’ll call me a silly bird. But a man who says he was my first husband is going to drop into the school at ten. He left a message with Christy yesterday.”
“That’s very interesting,” Holt said, after a moment’s silence.
“Um-hum.”
“He tell Christy his name?”
“Apparently, I was married to a Tom Wilson.”
“I don’t have a class then. I’ll be waiting.”
“Good.” Anne returned to her work, no longer anxious. Holt would see if he recognized the stranger. Anne knew Holt wouldn't worry about her wellbeing. Holt knew her past.
Anne DeWitt (originally Twyla Burnside) had been forced into retirement because of a fatal incident at the training course she’d run, which taught intensive survival training for the best and brightest . . . which could translate as “toughest and most lethal.” She’d been given a new name, a new past, and a job at Travis High School because there were strings her agency could pull in Colleton County. Plus, the probability was low that anyone would recognize Anne in North Carolina. She had a new nose, a new set of diplomas, a new haircut and hair color, a family, and a very different wardrobe.
After a month in her new job, Anne had loved the challenge, to her surprise. She began laying out her personal program to make Travis High School shine. Her high school was going to be the best public high school in the whole damn state.
There was one obstacle: Principal Delia Snyder. Snyder had not shared Anne’s vision. Furthermore, Snyder was involved with a married teacher, and that was bad for Travis High. So Delia Snyder had a carefully engineered tragic suicide.
Anne had many skills.
With her customary discipline, Anne kept her mind occupied until ten minutes before ten. Then she opened the locked drawer in her credenza, removed her purse, took out a Glock and put it in her top right drawer, and returned the purse to its accustomed place.
At 9:55 a.m., Anne switched on a recorder in a drawer in her desk, leaving the drawer partially open.
Promptly at ten, Christy appeared in the doorway. “Tom Wilson to see you,” she said, doing a creditable job of sounding calm. She stood aside to let Anne’s alleged ex-husband enter.
Anne had been curious to see what her first husband looked like. She found herself disappointed. Wilson was about Anne’s height (five foot eight), with sandy hair, black-rimmed glasses, and a slight build. Anne had never seen this man before. Not in this life, or in her previous one.
If Tom Wilson had proved to be a graduate of her training school, she would have had to kill him as soon as possible.
Now she had options.
Christy pulled Anne’s office door almost shut behind her with a last, lingering, look and a vehement nod, meant to reassure Anne that the security guard was on hand. The man calling himself Tom Wilson sat in one of the chairs in front of her desk. “No kiss for your husband?” he said. “Anne, you haven’t changed at all.”
Anne said, “I was only married once, and you’re not him.”
“You’re going for total denial,” he said. “Too bad.”
“Why claim to have been married to me?”
“That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it? Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d aged.” The smile faded from his face. “You have. I was lying when I said you hadn’t changed.”
Anne shook her head, thinking about how to handle this.
“You’re thinking, How ungallant he is!” Tom Wilson said. “And you’re right, Anne.”
Anne had been wondering if she could break his neck and cram his body in her personal bathroom. With some regret, Anne discarded this idea. “Tom Wilson” needed to leave here in plain sight, visibly intact and healthy. The security cameras had recorded his entrance.
She said, “Who told you to come here?”
“You’ll find out,” Wilson said. “I’ve made friends, see? They know who you are.”
This was his real face: this small man with his bad James Cagney imitation was mentally disturbed.
While she debated her next course of action, Wilson got up and left without another word.
“I got some clear pictures,” Holt said as they walked around the track together. At least once a week, weather permitting, the baseball coach and the principal walked together around the school track at lunchtime.
“Did you recognize him?” she asked, without much hope.
Holt shook his head. “Sorry. But his car was a rental car. He’s not a local.”
Anne assumed that this whole incident had something to do with her former life. She’d had trouble before with a relative of one of her former students. He’d surprised Anne as she was getting ready for work one day.
No one had ever happened across the body.
But that incident had confirmed what she already knew: it was possible to uncover her new identity if you were very determined and had connections within their community.
“You still in touch with David Angola?” she asked Holt. Angola, who’d come through the ranks with Anne, had been Holt’s instructor in the west coast version of Anne’s Michigan training school. He’d
sent Holt to keep an eye on Anne after Holt had gotten drummed out of his service for his own mistakes.
Holt nodded. “I’ll ask him if he knows the guy.”
Anne looked up at Holt, a boulder of a man, her hands in her sweater pockets to make her stance look calm. The spring buds had popped up on just about everything. A cool breeze blew her hair around her face. She propped her arms on top of the perimeter fence, and Holt stood beside her, as relaxed as she was. They scanned their kingdom together.
The cheerleaders, now between seasons, were running conditioning drills by the practice field bleachers. Their sponsor watched them like a hawk. Anne spotted a familiar red head. “Madison Bead,” Anne said. “Her grade point average is 89. She could bring it up.”
“She’s not ambitious,” Holt said, dismissing Madison and her grades. “Listen, do you want me to take care of this Wilson guy?”
“So much,” she said, with an intensity that almost surprised her. “I just can’t figure out his goal. He didn’t ask me for anything—sex, money, a confession. He’s clearly unbalanced. And he only called me Anne. Who could have sent him?”
They resumed their walk in silence.
“He seems to have only wanted to shake me up,” Anne said.
“He’s done a better job than I would have believed,” Holt said. “You’ve got to stand up to him better than this.”
Anne might have enjoyed being angry at Holt, but she understood the sense of what he was saying.
“You’re right,” Anne said. She noticed Holt’s shoulders relax. “I wonder if he’s actually staying in town?”
“I’ll ask a private eye I know from Raleigh to check all the motels. I’d do it myself, but until we know more about this asshole, I don’t want to be on his radar.” If they’d been alone, Anne would have kissed him, but the two were absolutely discreet in public. Anne had never thought of Holt as her lover. They had sex and they had a common goal.
Small Kingdoms and Other Stories Page 6