A delicate rhythm of raindrops falling upon my car’s windshield soothed me into consciousness again. As had been forecasted all day, the sun flirted with unveiling its wisps of warmth, but storm clouds accumulated overhead as dense as an iron headdress. As a result, just teasing glimpses of spring’s return spliced through the pewter screen, hardly sufficient to thaw the chill encompassing me. Despite Dr. Pearson’s ambiguity in terms of how much longer I’d survive, I already convinced myself that I couldn’t succumb to death’s grip until all the calamities in my world were confronted.
Yet with the knowledge of an incurable ailment at least temporarily lodged in the back of my thoughts, I began to brood over the assignments still awaiting me. After the blurriness in my eyes cleared, I frantically scanned the contents of my vehicle. The object I searched for wasn’t my car’s key; its chain already dangled in the steering column’s ignition. Then I saw that my journal was situated in perfect view on the passenger’s seat beside me. Its blank pages beckoned me like a searchlight signaling to a wayward vessel. Soon, I thought, I’d unshackle myself from the dreadful ruminations that rendered this creative paralysis. Only then could I commit myself to the craft that once defined me.
Before I became too pacified by this notion, my attention shifted to the car’s glove compartment. For reasons I didn’t yet presume to comprehend, I believed the gun I stashed there earlier still served a purpose for me today. Was it for goodness or grim tidings? In truth, I couldn’t be certain. But an untapped energy coursed through my extremities, causing me to quiver at the prospect of either scenario. Because of the contentious matters brewing in my personal life, it seemed reflexive that I’d be eager to return to my wife and settle our dispute face-to-face. With her affair already confessed, I felt the upper hand now belonged to me. But before I tackled this issue at home, two other stops were necessary.
My first detour was a point of obligation toward Mitch Dalton. In light of my bleak prognosis, it would’ve been far too convenient of me to shun our scheduled meeting. I, however, recognized that Mitch depended on me. If he sought to change his life in a positive manner, then I at least owed it to him to lend my meager talents to the endeavor. Besides, how many more opportunities would I have to profoundly impact the course of another young man’s life?
The second intended pit stop was far less altruistic in nature. Leon Chase may have enjoyed quenching my wife’s parched palate for money with a satchel full of promissory notes, but I couldn’t permit him to conclude that I was oblivious to their indiscretions. While driving back toward Ravendale High School, my thoughts focused on Leon’s ploy for my wife’s affections. He knew her vulnerabilities just as well as I discouraged them. I wanted him to know that every clandestine kiss came with a price tag, be it in the monetary form or otherwise. I also wondered if my friend was truly prepared to abandon his wife and child for a married woman, who had no more regard for her vows than he did his own. Stranger events had torn couples asunder in the past, but I needed to hear the words slip from Leon’s perverted mouth prior to launching my retaliation. One point was irrefutable: Leon’s leverage over me had at last come to a close.
A dearth of traffic enabled me to drive back to the high school’s parking lot within ten minutes. I expected that most of the afternoon buses and cars had already departed the premises, but this was not the case today. Before I shut off my car’s engine, I noticed a tumult near the school’s front walkway. A throng of jittery students gathered in huddled masses across a grassy courtyard, and only a few seconds passed before a peal of sirens severed the comfort of routine. I recognized that such disharmony rarely signaled anything other than dire straits. In this instance, as I stepped closer toward the epicenter of pending chaos, I studied the students’ anxious and confused faces. Some of them trembled visibly in the drizzle of rain, while others stood numb with no detectable emotion.
Several faculty members and security officers weaved between the students, seemingly to push them farther away from whatever event spawned their curiosity. The majority of kids had cell phones pressed against their ears, chattering frantically to anyone who cared to dissect their prattle. I refrained from any speculation until observing the details firsthand. This, of course, was no simple task considering the amount of people blocking my path. The emergence of an ambulance and at least three police cruisers verified the mayhem at large. Despite my own trepidation, I became more aggressive as I angled through the crowd. Six or seven police officers had effectively thwarted our efforts to get nearer than fifty feet from an area strung with yellow crime scene tape.
“Stay back!” one frazzled officer bellowed through a megaphone. “You need to give us more room.” Those who managed to maintain an aura of sensibility complied with the officer’s instructions, but fear was often a natural inhibitor of common sense. The squad cars’ emergency flashers subconsciously lured forth many in the crowd, almost like frightened deer mesmerized by a strobe of light. After I was certain that I wouldn’t be able to sneak my way beyond the police barricade, I shifted toward a grouping of science and history teachers who looked as discombobulated as the students. They surveyed the scene with a shiftless paranoia. Miss Dixon was among them, weeping inconsolably at the unfolding peril. This gregarious woman’s personality was no longer apparent. She had transformed into a trembling ghost, unable to contain her grief.
Only the worst circumstances caused such emotions to flourish from those accustomed to demonstrating leadership. Yet it was grossly evident that those normally in charge in preserving the students’ false sense of security were equally unprepared for what occurred on this campus. A fissure in the crowd permitted me to steal a glimpse of the grim business at hand. I observed several medics kneeling in front of what appeared to be a motionless body. Panic overwhelmed their forlorn faces. They stared at one another with the futile strains of failure consuming their expressions. A puddle of claret liquid mixed disagreeably with the rainwater on a concrete surface. I watched this patch of blood fan out in offshoots over the sidewalk like the tentacles of a dying octopus.
My heartbeat quickened as I stumbled deeper into the horde of onlookers. Something unthinkable had happened in my absence. Without lending further thought to the matter, I grabbed the sleeve of the nearest person. A freckle-faced boy swung nervously toward me. His eyes were as wide and wild as whirlpools as he stared at me.
“What’s going on?” I asked him.
The boy stammered at first, but managed to tell me. “S…someone got stabbed.”
“Stabbed?” I repeated while craning my neck to inspect any additional details. My voice then became more insistent. “Who? Who got stabbed?”
The kid shrugged his shoulders, and glanced to where all eyes now focused. “I don’t know,” he remarked. “It’s some kid who goes to this school though.” Without thanking the boy, I released his shirt and pivoted my gaze to another portion in the crowd. I then noticed Principal Lemus hunched despondently against the rear end of a police car. Two plain-clothed detectives stood on either side of him, jotting notes into pads of paper as he spoke. For the first time since knowing this acerbic S.O.B., I almost felt genuine pity for him.
Whether it was proper of me to do so or not, I forced myself between the shoulders and backsides of those impeding my progress. Perhaps I rightly offended or annoyed these people with my abruptness, but I didn’t stop long enough to apologize. Ultimately, I elbowed my way as close to the police tape as the guarding officers permitted. This vantage point provided me a partial view of the paramedics performing CPR on the lifeless student. I didn’t yet know the victim’s identity. To the left of this carnage, by another patrol car parked half way up the curbside, I witnessed two other students being ushered away by several policemen.
My mouth must’ve dropped open as I set my eyes upon one of the culprits of this appalling deed. Aaron Mann stood beside the officers in handcuffs. A dark stain soaked the front of his shirt, desecrating the emblem of the U.S. Marines. His visage was shockingly blan
k, but almost dignified at the same time. Nothing in the form of perplexity or anger disrupted his remorseless expression. And next to Aaron, already restrained and seated inside the back of the police car, I saw the equally stoic face of Harold Wagner.
The situation suddenly became sickeningly clear to me. I then witnessed a detective displaying a plastic bag to another investigator. The apparent weapon of malice was contained within it. It appeared to be an eight-inch KA-BAR utility knife, standard USMC issue. It was less than deductive on my part to presume that the blood-spattered blade belonged to Aaron Mann. Based on the evidence set before my eyes, it seemed more than likely that he also wielded it for its designed function.
After I shifted my gaze back to the student lying prone on the walkway, the medics had already pulled a white sheet over the mortally wounded student’s body. They no longer shuffled among themselves with any measure of urgency; the boy on the ground was obviously dead. Within a few minutes, they secured the body on a stretcher and wheeled it toward an awaiting ambulance. Even though I already determined that the student’s injury was lethal, I kept studying the sheet covering him, hoping that it would’ve fluttered with a delayed sign of life. But the material remained as still as the waters of Lake Endelman on a windless night. Judging by the amount of blood pooled on the ground, I conceded that nothing born to breathe could’ve survived such a savage assault.
The medics had done an adequate job keeping the victim’s identity concealed from watchful spectators and inquisitive reporters. As I turned to search for this answer, I experienced an eerie inclination. I knew who was murdered. It could’ve only been one possible person. If I had any doubts to the contrary, Miss Dixon had managed to shove her way through the crowd to get next to me. Her voice quavered as she relayed what she knew of this horror.
“It’s Drew Mincer,” she sobbed. “They stabbed him in the chest.”
“They?”
Miss Dixon projected a teary-eyed stare toward the police car holding Aaron and Harold. “They did it,” she cried, while motioning at them with her extended finger. “They must’ve planned the whole thing.”
Upon hearing this, I swerved my head around to inspect the faces of those who assembled in the midst of this bloodshed. A few of the students wept, but these tears struck me as obligatory rather than authentic. Most of those on hand, however, weren’t crying like Miss Dixon. Perhaps Drew’s classmates felt a certain degree of justification in such a slaughter. I expected to observe a good portion of them feigning some level of bereavement, but their somberness had not yet altered into hysteria. One student in particular seemed remarkably poised. Regan Cordell’s eyeliner hadn’t even smudged. The girl watched the scene unfurl with less emotion than she might’ve extended to a theatrical performance. I wondered how many others among us felt no commitment to mourn a dead boy who was reviled by almost everyone who knew him.
My thoughts reverted to Aaron Mann. I never pictured him being a likely assailant. Yet I couldn’t see anyone standing around the area spewing disapproval at his methods. If anything, I suspected that the majority of these kids wanted to cheer Aaron for his brazen bid for justice. Admittedly, I had my own muddled emotions on the turn of events. I also deemed Aaron as a likeable—if slightly edgy—young man. I couldn’t extend the same praise or compassion toward Drew Mincer.
Miss Dixon’s soft utterance brought my attention back to her. “We could’ve stopped this,” she sobbed in my ear. “Harold and Stanley must’ve wanted that boy dead.” I glanced back toward the police cruiser again; I still only noticed Aaron and Harold in police custody.
“Where’s Stanley now, Hannah? Was he arrested too?”
“He’s not here,” Miss Dixon answered. “I’m not sure where he is. But we saw Harold’s cell phone. I know he’s also involved.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t condemn the boy without knowing all the facts,” I suggested. “I’m sure the police will sort things out.”
“I feel so guilty, Corbin. I could’ve prevented this from happening.”
“Stop blaming yourself,” I demanded. “We can’t monitor all the actions of these kids any better than their parents. It’s beyond our control.”
Miss Dixon hadn’t yet reached the jaded portion of her career; she still believed that if a man donned a red cape and tights, he’d be able to suspend himself in flight, too. But as life often reminded us, superheroes rarely emerged outside the ink and pulp fiction of comic books.
“I…I don’t know if I can do this job effectively any longer,” Miss Dixon wept. “Teaching just isn’t what I thought it would be.”
“Nothing ever is,” I muttered solemnly. Miss Dixon leaned slightly toward my shoulder, perhaps subconsciously maneuvering for a hug. She might’ve required the embrace of an authoritative man to make her feel safe again. But I was not such a man for this task. I had next to nothing hopeful to convey. Rather than permit my negativity to upset her further, I darted away from the callow-hearted woman in search of a more cynical voice.
I managed to reclaim a position at the back of the crowd, intentionally detaching myself from the nightmarish scene for at least a few minutes. While I leaned resignedly against a white birch tree, one familiar informant weaved between the people to locate me. The custodian’s face looked as if it was powdered with crushed limestone, and a lifelessness dangled in his pupils like two black seeds. Had I not known any differently, I would’ve surmised that a steel blade plunged into his thorax as well. He carried neither a bucket nor broom with him on this outing, giving the impression that his duties did not include sopping up the spillage of a fresh murder.
Even before he spoke, I sensed that this man had acquired information that would’ve shamed the most scrupulous detectives on hand. Oddly, the custodian’s first words to me had only a secondary connection to the incident that everyone else buzzed about like bees in a rattled hive.
“Your student, Mitch Dalton, wanted me to tell you that due to the inconvenient turn of events, he’s willing to postpone the extra help you promised him until tomorrow.” I realized that the custodian flipped no phrase without a precise selection in words. But I found his assortment in this instance rather insensitive.
“Inconvenient? I repeated the word that most troubled me. “Is that how you describe a student’s murder on school property?”
The custodian shambled closer to me, disregarding his own voice’s sonorous pitch as he addressed my concern. “Do you have a different perspective?”
“Well, I don’t view anyone’s untimely death as a nuisance.”
“Really? Say, for example, that you were driving on a highway during rush hour and someone crashed his car and died on the road. Such an accident might stall traffic for hours on end. Would it be a stretch to suggest that you’d be annoyed if you got stuck in this backup for four or five hours? Or would your prayers and tolerance be granted to the unfortunate victim?”
“Look, a young man is dead,” I reminded the suddenly callous man. “Whether I liked him or not doesn’t matter anymore. Every person’s death should be respected.”
“Ah, yes,” the custodian chimed. “John Donne certainly knew how every man’s death caused the diminishment of another, am I right?”
“What do you want from me now?” I asked plainly.
“When the bell stops tolling in your mind, Cobbs, take a gander at the people in this crowd today. Study them closely. There are enough crocodile tears falling here to flood a swampland. But I have an eerie inkling that their hankies won’t be moist long after the sirens fade to silence. Never send to know for whom the deceivers grieve for; they grieve for thee. Isn’t that the way it really works?”
As much as I wanted to discourage the custodian’s pessimism, I couldn’t sincerely censure him on restructuring Donne’s poem. Perhaps I debated the matter to simply pacify my own guilt. Either way, the custodian didn’t search me out among the others to serve up any mirth on a spotless platter. If anything, he dished out chunks of cold reality f
or anyone willing to ingest it.
The custodian then cast what might’ve been deemed as a sorrowful stare toward the police car, where Aaron Mann awaited his fate. “I suppose everyone gets a shot at being a hero at least once in a lifetime,” he said with an unwavering resolution.
“I don’t think any heroics were involved,” I countered.
“Well, don’t tell that to Aaron. You’d extinguish his shining moment in the sun. The Marine Corps might’ve filed that boy’s dream in the dumpster by denying him entry, but that setback didn’t change his heart. One way or another, that kid was gonna puff out his chest and make it presentable for a medal. In retrospect, I don’t think anyone will deny what he accomplished here this afternoon.”
“You really think Aaron will gain popularity because he killed another boy?”
“Oh, stop being so righteous, will you? We both know that Drew Mincer wasn’t just an ordinary kid going about his day before he ended up on the business end of a KA-BAR. You can play the role of a humanitarian if it makes you feel better, Cobbs, but once you put two feet back on the ground, unlike most of the phonies floating around this place, you’ll see justice as it really is. If we’re speaking in honest terms, I think most of these kids will skip the midnight vigil. They’ll soon recognize Drew’s death as more of a blessing than a curse. He was an abusive villain, and it was only a matter of time and opportunity that he got his comeuppance.”
“I think you’re forgetting something very important,” I pointed out. “As far we know, Drew never murdered anyone.”
The custodian frowned at my observation before saying, “There’s plenty of ways to kill a person without stopping his heart. You ought to know that much by now.”
“I still don’t think anyone’s death is a cause for celebration.”
“Not a flagrant one, anyway. Society would never stand for that sort of bravado. After all, it’s our unwritten duty to conjure up pleasantries when speaking of the dead. I’m just trying to figure out who’s gonna give the eulogy at Drew’s funeral. Care to volunteer?”
I now looked at the custodian in a way I never had done before. Until this moment I perceived him as merely a meddlesome spirit, albeit with an intellect uncommon to his trade. But now I espied something else in his conduct, something that overshadowed his eavesdropping tendencies. I likened this trait to a sort of veiled malevolence. Even his green eyes seemed to darken like wet algae. He showed a fallibility in his capacity to forgive, and this perturbed me. And yet I still couldn’t simply ignore his observations. In fact, his level of nefariousness suddenly intrigued me like no other facet of his personality. I permitted myself to absorb his forthcoming words if only for the purpose to investigate the thoughts that few others would’ve willingly stated aloud.
“I suppose a small plaque with your name on it should be posted on a wall somewhere in the corner of this high school,” he resumed casually. I was somewhat puzzled by the custodian’s seemingly random thought, but I should’ve realized that he didn’t speak without import.
“I don’t know what your point is,” I returned, “and I don’t really want to find out.”
“Well, surely you can’t disqualify yourself from at least receiving some of the credit for this whole ordeal.”
“Credit?” I gasped. “Are you completely insane? I had nothing to do with what happened here.”
The custodian grinned mockingly at me and said, “Oh, come on. There you are being modest again. Don’t worry, Cobbs, you needn’t play that self-effacing game with me. You’ve had yourself quite a miserable day on all sides of things. Who could say otherwise? No one is gonna fault you for taking a smidgeon of gratitude for this achievement.”
As I stood upright from the tree, my expression must’ve contorted with rage at the deliverance of such an accusation. “Listen,” I said obdurately. “You’re not understanding me. I would’ve never wished for something like this to happen to any student—ever.”
“Let me put this into perspective for you,” the custodian persisted. “Without your assistance—whether intentional or otherwise—Aaron Mann might’ve never gotten a chance to carve out a known cancer from the innards of this school.”
“You’re still not hearing me. Look, Drew might’ve made a lot of enemies around this campus, and he certainly didn’t have my sympathy during his reign. But I still did everything within my legal power to prevent a tragedy like the one we’re faced with now. Maybe Drew just needed to grow up before he realized the damage he’s done to other people. I can’t say for sure, but we’ll never really know now.”
The custodian grinned at my idealistic viewpoint. The darkness didn’t fade from his eyes as he proceeded with his own theory on my intentions. “Take a few minutes to retrace your footsteps,” he advised me. “Once you do that, maybe you’ll see the truth staring you in the face.”
“Why do you think I’m responsible for Drew’s death?”
“Keep searching. Or are you hoping for the easy path out?”
“I’m just trying to figure out how warped your mind really is.”
“Well, you’re not going to make any headway by reassigning blame. But I will tell you that there’s still plenty of work yet to be done. You may not know it now, Cobbs, but the vital choices of this day still await you.”
Even while standing in the midst of a swarm of spectators, I wanted to shriek in anger at his allegation. I couldn’t accept his presumptuous mannerisms any longer. “I can’t be a part of this anymore,” I insisted. “I don’t care what you think you know about me—you’re wrong. I’ve got to get out of here now….”
The custodian watched as I dashed away from the tree. My hasty motion caused others to notice me, but I ignored them all. When I looked back over my shoulder, the custodian still followed me, shifting effortlessly through the crowd as if we were attached by an umbilical cord. “Keep away,” I exclaimed without breaking stride. “Go and find someone else to bother. I don’t want you around me ever again.”
“We both know it’s far too late for that,” the custodian responded.
I had always been a passive man, rarely prone to acts of premeditated violence. But for reasons I couldn’t yet verbalize, an insatiable urge to pummel this custodian’s face almost overwhelmed me. Of course, I couldn’t permit his delusional antics to corrupt me. Without turning back to monitor his pursuit, I bolted farther ahead of him. A sudden surge in adrenaline caused my heartbeat to race faster than my footsteps. If I succumbed to another episode now, and all indicators suggested this inevitability, then I’d surely be exposed as a troubled man. I managed to reach the far end of the school’s front lawn before my vertigo deposited me headlong onto the wet grass.
There wasn’t any time for embarrassment on my part. The gray-plated sky had already darkened in my eyes. The next phase of my journey lunged upon me like a ravenous tiger onto prey.
Chapter 60
3:47 P.M.
The Classic Crusade of Corbin Cobbs Page 60