Shadowmaker

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  I worked the rest of the afternoon, interrupted by a few angry, anonymous telephone calls and people who just called and hung up. Word about the Hawkins brothers company was getting around town fast.

  Late that evening at dinner, Mom explained to me what a great day she’d had. “There exists a Resource Conservation and Recovery Act,” she said. “Violators must pay fines.” Then she went on about a superfund of federal money that could be used to clean up certain waste dump sites, with the companies responsible for the dumping having to pay back the money. When Bubba and Billy Joe Hawkins were faced with the inspectors, they’d named other violators, so a massive inspection and clean-up was going to take place in this part of Texas.

  “The Hawkinses won’t go out of business,” Mom said. “They’ll just have to change the way they do things.”

  “Some people called here. They didn’t give their names, but they were pretty steamed about what you were doing.”

  “They just don’t understand the dangers of toxic waste,” Mom said, looking kind of sad. “All some people think about is making money, no matter what, and they don’t want to face any problems that might threaten the loss of their jobs.”

  “What will happen to Anita Boggs and her little boy?”

  “She finally gave permission for soil testing, as did the other three homeowners on that block. The Hawkinses may relocate them to new homes, or there may be lawsuits that take care of the problem, but, believe me, it’s going to be taken care of, as it should be.”

  She put down her fork and smiled at me. “Enough about the Hawkins brothers. You are a great daughter. I hated to leave you alone, and I hope you don’t mind that I had the sheriff check on you. The fog was so bad.…”

  I didn’t have to answer. We got three angry phone calls in a row. Mom tried to explain, then gave up because the callers didn’t want explanations, and neither did the others who continued to call. Mom finally took the phone off the hook so we could go to bed.

  On Sunday, after church, Mom and I went to call on Mrs. Willis to offer our sympathy and support. I knew how it felt to lose someone you love. So did Mom. We had the loss of my father only six years ago. But next to that, facing Mrs. Willis was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The next morning, just before Mrs. Walgren called the class to order, I searched her prop closet. There was no sign of the four black hoods, so I told her I needed them for my interpretation and asked if someone had checked them out.

  She looked through a little spiral notebook and called, “B.J.—those black hoods you borrowed for your drama assignment … Is the assignment over? Can you bring the hoods back to class? Katie wants to use them for her interpretation.”

  He mumbled something, and I said, “I need them tomorrow.”

  “For practice?” Mrs. Walgren asked.

  I’d rehearsed what I was planning to say, and I let it all spill out. “I know you gave us two weeks to work on our interpretations, but mine is ready, and I hope you’ll let me put it on tomorrow.”

  Mrs. Walgren’s look of surprise quickly disappeared and she clasped her hands together. “I’m counting on you for a top-notch interpretation,” she said. “You know, it might be a fine idea for you to give yours first. It may inspire a few others in the class.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Suppose you choose the students who will help you enact your interpretation,” she said, and added a little dubiously, “I hope you’ll have enough time to rehearse.”

  I said the first thing that came into my head. “The success of my interpretation is based on spontaneity.”

  It must have sounded good, because she smiled and said, “My goodness! This will be something different. I can hardly wait to see it.”

  As I walked back to my seat, B.J. glared and stuck out a foot to trip me, but I’d been expecting something. I stepped over his foot and sat down.

  Wait until tomorrow, I thought as I stared at the back of B.J.’s head. Tomorrow, when you find out what I’m going to do to you, you’ll be in for a big surprise.

  Everyone at school was discussing Lana Jean’s murder. I knew there was no way in the world I’d be able to talk to Travis and disguise what I’d learned, so I went to the nurse’s office during lunch, told her I had an upset stomach—which I would have had if I’d met up with Travis—and spent the time lying on a cot. I recovered when the bells rang for my next class, and after school I went out a side door and cut behind the lineup of cars to get on the school bus in order to avoid him.

  On the ride home, Tammy asked me questions about Lana Jean’s murder, which I couldn’t handle and told her so.

  “I understand. You were her only real friend,” Tammy said, and she changed the subject to how much fun she’d had visiting her aunt.

  A real friend? When I’d been only too eager to drop Lana Jean and spend my time with Tammy and Julie and anyone else who showed even a scrap of friendliness. When I kissed Travis, who’d—

  “Did you just groan?” Tammy asked. “Is something the matter?”

  “I’m okay,” I said, but I wasn’t.

  I didn’t sleep much Monday night. I tried hard not to think about Lana Jean, and went over and over in my mind what I was going to say and do the next morning in English lit. It was either the worst idea I’d ever had or the best, and I wouldn’t know until I tried it out.

  What if B.J. wouldn’t cooperate? What if he didn’t bring the black hoods? What if he brought three of them, but not the one that was torn? What if I had guessed wrong, and the hoods hadn’t been worn by the members of Blitz? My bedclothes were tangled when I woke up in the morning, and I couldn’t eat a bite of breakfast.

  “You’re coming down with something,” Mom said. “Are you running a fever?”

  I shook my head. “It’s the interpretation for English lit. I’ve never done one before, and it counts a lot toward our final grade.”

  I could shoot my grade down too, I realized, but at the moment that was the least of my worries.

  As I entered Mrs. Walgren’s classroom that morning, I spotted the hoods wadded on the edge of her desk. With trembling fingers I picked them up, carried them to her props closet, and examined them. All four hoods were there, and one of them—at the back—was missing the piece I’d found in the woods and had stuffed into my pocket before leaving home that morning. I shoved the other three into the closet, folded the torn hood so the hole didn’t show, and got into my seat. My legs were so shaky they could hardly hold me up, and no matter how hard I tried to breathe normally, my breath kept coming in thin little gasps.

  The minute the announcements were over and the intercom had squawked to a logical end, Mrs. Walgren took roll call, brought the class to order, and, with a wiggle, settled into her chair. She informed the class that I would be the first to present my literary interpretation. She called me to come up to the front of the room.

  I picked up the black hood and slowly walked to the front. “I need B.J. to help me out,” I told Mrs. Walgren.

  “B.J., did you hear that?” Mrs. Walgren asked.

  “I’ll help you.” Billy Don eagerly waved his hand.

  “Thanks,” I said, and gave Billy Don a smile. “But it’s a special kind of part. It has to be B.J.”

  “No way,” B.J. muttered, and slid farther down in his seat.

  “I expect complete cooperation,” Mrs. Walgren stated in a no-nonsense tone. When he didn’t budge, she said, “Are you interested in repeating this class next semester?”

  Grumbling under his breath, B.J. reluctantly shuffled up the aisle.

  I slid a straight-backed visitor’s chair from its usual place in the corner, and asked, “Will you sit here, please?”

  As B.J. did, I stepped behind him, raised my voice, and said, “We are hereby gathered to bring charges against His Majesty’s unworthy subject, d’Artagnan, who will henceforth be hooded.” I slapped the hood over B.J.’s head before he knew what had happened
to him.

  “Hey! What’s …?” He reached up to pull off the hood.

  But the sharpness in Mrs. Walgren’s voice brought him to a halt. “Keep your hands in your lap, B.J.! This is an intriguing beginning, and you are not to spoil it. Do you understand?”

  B.J. muttered something under his breath and slumped in his chair. His eyes glittered through the peepholes in the hood, glaring at me with anger.

  “Thank you, your Honor,” I said to Mrs. Walgren, and stepped around to the side of the chair.

  “D’Artagnan,” I began. “In association with your seniors, known as Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, you have formed an illegal association, dedicated to crime. Is that not correct?”

  “No,” B.J. muttered.

  Somebody whispered loudly enough for me to hear, “I saw the movie. The Three Musketeers weren’t criminals.”

  Ignoring her, I continued, “The four of you have long been criminals, and the derring-do is all for show. Whether you’re known as swordsmen, adventurers, or Blitz, behind your fine words are the blackest of hearts.”

  B.J. started at the word Blitz, and sat upright.

  “D’Artagnan, you’re the one who was a tagalong, who fought so hard to get into the group. They didn’t want you, did they, until you insisted you could be part of their misadventures?”

  “Why’d you say Blitz? What are you talking about?” B.J. demanded.

  “I’m talking about theft, to begin with,” I answered. “Shall we go over the list? First, small things taken from stores, then larger items; next, burglaries of homes. One, two, three, four, five … getting harder all the time, and if you don’t participate, you’re out!”

  “Where’d you hear that? This is supposed to be about the Three Musketeers, isn’t it?”

  “One is for shoplifting; two, petty theft; three, household burglary; four, armed robbery—”

  “Cut it out!”

  “But it went wrong. Who pulled the trigger, d’Artagnan? You know, and you can tell us. Why be loyal to them? They wouldn’t be loyal to you. They didn’t want you in their club in the first place.”

  “That’s not true! It was my …”

  He broke off, and I pounced. “D’Artagnan, the tagalong. Save yourself. Tell the truth.”

  B.J. squirmed in his chair. I could see that he was furious, and I hoped he was scared, too—scared enough to snitch. “Tell us, was it Athos who shot the worker? Porthos? Aramis? Or was it you? Someone’s going to tell! Someone’s going to pay for the crime of murder!”

  B.J. jerked off the hood and jumped to his feet. His face was pale, and a muscle twitched near his mouth. “You’re crazy!” he shouted.

  I snatched the hood from his hand and held up the piece that had been torn away by the thorn bush. “Am I?” I asked. “Which one of you was wearing this hood and backed into a thorn bush? Was it when the worker refused to give you his money? Did he put up a fight? It was murder, d’Artagnan! And you know what happens to murderers!”

  With a yell of rage, B.J. shoved over the chair and ran out of the room.

  I picked up the chair, not sure exactly what to do. I remembered that all performers take bows, so I bowed formally to Mrs. Walgren and to the class and said, “Those who may think of themselves as heroes, able to commit any crime without hesitation because of their standing at court, might be nothing more than criminals to the community at large. I rest my case.”

  Mrs. Walgren’s expression was a combination of bewilderment and pleasure. “Your presentation had some puzzling aspects, Katie, but it was very interesting. Quite an unusual viewpoint to think about. Tell B.J. to return, and we’ll begin our discussion.”

  I opened the door and looked out, but the hall was empty. “He may not come back,” I said. “He got kind of emotional.”

  “I didn’t know he was such a good actor,” Mrs. Walgren said.

  “I didn’t either.” I folded the torn hood with its missing piece and pocketed it. “There were a couple of things I hoped he’d say—I mean, a couple of lines he left out that would have given some answers.”

  “Perhaps the class can come up with the answers,” Mrs. Walgren said.

  Julie raised her hand. “I don’t think there are any answers. There are two sides to almost everything. Even in war, both sides think they’re right and the other one is wrong.”

  “A good observation,” Mrs. Walgren said. “But these men, as the prosecutor pointed out, are guilty of theft and even murder. Could those crimes ever be considered right?”

  “They were in the movie,” someone said. “My father has the video of the real ancient Three Musketeers with Gene Kelly in it.”

  “Forget the movie,” Mrs. Walgren said. “We’re using the novel as a base for our thinking. Are the actions taken by the Three Musketeers and d’Artagnan considered crimes, punishable by law, as our prosecutor would have us believe?”

  A boy near the window waved his hand, and Mrs. Walgren said, “Yes, Arthur?”

  “Could I sharpen my pencil?” he asked.

  Fortunately, Julie spoke up. “If you put those four characters into today’s world, they would be arrested and convicted. Even though they were protecting the queen, their country wasn’t officially at war, so whatever their reason for murder, it’s still murder.”

  The discussion went on, and I only half listened. I had learned one thing from B.J.’s fury and fear. I’d been right.

  But B.J. had run off, and I had no idea where he’d gone. Was it to warn Travis and the others?

  I was beginning to get a little scared myself, not knowing what B.J. was going to do. Maybe I was trying to take the law into my own hands, and maybe that wasn’t such a good idea, after all.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I would have guessed that B.J. had warned the others in Blitz, but Duke and Delmar showed up for history as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and I gave a huge sigh of relief. Had I succeeded in making B.J. mad at them? And was he angry enough that he might decide to tell what he knew?

  I spent lunchtime in the school library, and again, after classes were over, ducked out the side door to avoid Travis.

  Now was the time to talk to Mom. I knew the sheriff wouldn’t listen to me, but he’d have to listen to Mom—and soon. I nearly panicked when I got home and found a note telling me she’d driven Anita Boggs and her little boy to the Houston medical center.

  “Don’t expect me for dinner, honey,” Mom had written. “But I should make it home no later than ten or eleven.”

  Not today, Mom, I silently begged. Today I need you to be here.

  The dogs’ barking alerted me to the car that had pulled up in front of our house. I made sure the door was securely locked before I looked out the window and saw the sheriff thudding his way up our walk.

  I fumbled with the locks, then threw open the door. “I was going to call you,” I told him.

  “We need to talk,” he said. “You, me, and your mama.”

  “Mom’s not here,” I explained as I followed him into the living room. “She went to Houston, but she’ll be back soon.”

  He sat down and motioned to me to take a seat. “Then I’ll keep this short. First place, you shoulda told me what you knew and how you found out about it, instead of pullin’ that silly dramatic scene in Mrs. Walgren’s class.”

  “How did you know about that?” I asked.

  “Mrs. Walgren’s sharp. She started thinkin’ about the things you told B.J. and right away remembered the carnival worker, so she called me. Where’d you get this information?”

  “From Lana Jean’s journal. She was crazy about Travis, so she wrote about nearly everything he did. She wrote about the four members of Blitz going into the woods after a pigeon. She took them literally. She didn’t understand what they were talking about.”

  I filled him in on the reason for Blitz and what Travis, B.J., Duke, and Delmar had been doing. I gave Sheriff Granger the hood and the torn piece that fit it. Then I pulled the chicken à la kin
g box out of the freezer and handed him the sheets torn out of Lana Jean’s journal. “Everything I told you is written on these pages,” I said.

  He slowly shook his head. “I’ve known these boys and their families for more years than I’d care to count.” He looked up at me. “Do you know which one of ’em killed the carnival worker?”

  “No,” I said, “but I think—”

  The phone rang, interrupting me, and Sheriff Granger answered it, as though it was his house, not ours. He lowered his voice as he talked to someone, so I guessed he’d been expecting the call, and when he hung up he frowned at me. “Maybe you can tell me this—where’d the boys go off to?”

  “They’re gone?”

  “They sure are. I sent a deputy to pick them up—just for questioning—but not one of ’em can be found.” He stomped to the door, adding as an afterthought, “If you come up with anything else, call the dispatcher. I’ve got a new man on, but he’ll get in touch with me, and I’ll be right out.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and made sure the door was securely locked as soon as the sheriff had left. Even though the long afternoon shadows hadn’t yet melted into a purple twilight, I went throughout the house, turning on every light, inside and out. The knowledge that no one knew where Travis, Duke, Delmar, and B.J. were made me very uncomfortable. No—a lot more than uncomfortable. I was scared right down to my toenails.

  There was no way I was going to stay here by myself. As I picked up the phone my fingers trembled so violently I nearly dropped the receiver. When Tammy answered, relief flooded through my body like warm tea and for a moment I had trouble talking.

  “Is that you, Katie?” Tammy asked. “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Could I come over to your house?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Come right now.”

  I suddenly remembered I didn’t have transportation, and there was no way I was going to walk the distance to Tammy’s house in the dark. I told her.

  “Darn,” she said. “Mom just drove to the grocery store, and Dad took the pickup into town to a board meeting of the Rotary Club. Is it okay if Mom or I come by for you after she gets home? It should be only around an hour.”