Child's Play

by Jones, Merry;

  I turned, studying one face after another, reeling. Trying to understand what I was hearing. Maggie had assaulted Becky? I couldn’t believe it. No. It didn’t make sense. And she did it because Becky would have seen Katie with her little brother? What?

  “… that other time.” Trish was still talking. “You didn’t think. You took off and rammed her.”

  What?

  “Pow. Zoom.” Maggie laughed, mimicking a rocket launch. “That girl flew.”

  Right next to me, Patsy Olsen took off from the curb, landed with her customary thunk. My stomach lurched, and I saw her crushed body. No, they couldn’t be talking about Patsy Olsen—their conversation just reminded me of her. Besides, witnesses said she’d been shoved by a guy with long hair.

  My eyes settled on Katie. She had long hair. And an athletic build. A small bust. Had she been mistaken for a guy?

  Damn. I couldn’t believe it. These girls—was it possible that they’d attacked Becky for some minor nonsensical reason? Accidentally killed Patsy Olsen in a misguided impulsive prank? Susan had talked about the adolescent brain, how it wasn’t fully developed, couldn’t foresee consequences, couldn’t control its urges. Oh my God. These girls had gone haywire. And now they were trying to involve me in their mischief. My fists clenched. They needed to stop.

  “… not my fault she looked just like Mrs. H. But fine. My bad. My mistake. But this guy—we were making things up as we went. We had no plan at all. He was a deviation.”

  “A what?”

  “You didn’t even know him, Katie. You shouldn’t call him names.”

  “Very funny. From now on, let’s just stick to the list, okay?”

  The list?

  Wait. As in the serial killer’s list?

  No, what was I thinking? These girls were in bad trouble, but they weren’t involved with the serial killer. They were just unruly misguided teenagers.

  Except that these unruly misguided teenagers had forced their way into my home with weapons. They’d surrounded and menaced me. Katie stepped forward, put her hands on my shoulders, and pushed. I resisted.

  “Katie. Stop. Think about what you’re doing.”

  Katie smiled. “This is going to be great.”

  The others took hold of my arms and walked me backwards down the hall to Charlie’s study. My throat tightened so I almost couldn’t breathe. I was still dizzy and stumbled. Trish and Maggie caught me and dragged me until I regained my footing.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I used my schoolteacher tone, but my voice was weak. “Girls. Stop.” I took a breath, forced myself to speak louder. “This behavior is unacceptable.”

  “Tsk-tsk.” Katie grinned. “Did you hear that, Maggie? Our behavior is unacceptable.”

  They chuckled, mimicked me. Kept grinning at each other and, as we entered the study, began humming. Maggie and her bat were to my left. Trish and my carving knife to my right. Katie, facing me, reached into her pocket and took out a knife of her own, serrated and stubby. All three began moving around me in a kind of dance.

  “You didn’t really care about that guy, did you, Mrs. H?” Trish asked.

  What guy? I tried to look at her, turned my head too fast. Mistake. The room whirled and pain erupted in the side of my face. They circled me, talking.

  “We didn’t plan on him, see,” Trish said. “He wasn’t on the list.”

  The list again.

  “But there he was.”

  They couldn’t mean the killer’s list. Must have some list of their own.

  “And plus we wondered if it would be different with a guy.”

  Oh God. An image flashed. Jerry’s mouth opening, eyebrows rising—and a burst of white light. Had Jerry hit me? Or had he seen a girl sneak up behind me, about to swing a bat?

  The girls orbited me, slowly, as if playing ring-around-the-rosy. Their arms were bare, and I noticed identical patterns of thin red scabs and scars. They were all cutters. Did they cut themselves together? How else could their wounds match? I tried to remember what I’d read about cutting, about why people did it, but I couldn’t think while they circled me. I stood in disbelief, watching them. Maggie held a baseball bat, and the others each held knives.

  The weapons were raised, ready to strike.

  “Spin and spin, go round and round,” they sang to the tune of “Ring Around the Rosy.”

  “What are you doing?” I rotated, watching them, saw Charlie reclining in his easy chair. Not now, I told myself. This is not the time to pull an Elle and imagine Charlie.

  “Round and round. Whirl and dance.”

  “Girls, stop!” I tried to sound authoritative. I turned, saw Charlie again. Blinked.

  He wasn’t my imagination.

  And he wasn’t Charlie.

  “Spin and spin, go round and round. Time to have a chance.”

  Maggie stood in front of me and swung the bat, aiming at my head. I ducked just in time, felt it sweep my hair. The others laughed. Started the song again, circling me. Chanting like small children.

  “Girls, my God! What have you done?” I shouted. “Is he dead?”

  The answer was obvious. Jerry’s blood had drenched his shirt and pooled onto my hardwood floor. “You killed him? For God’s sake, what the hell are you doing?”

  “… to have a chance.”

  Trish faced me this time. Her eyes gleamed as she raised her arm. Her knife swooped, and I dodged, jumping back and away, but not far enough, not fast enough. Her blade sliced my sleeve, grazing my arm above my elbow. I looked down, saw a tear in my t-shirt, felt a scrape on my skin.

  The girls were screaming and hooting.

  “First blood goes to Trish! It’s Maggie zero, Trish one.”

  “You’re zero, too, Katie,” Maggie reminded her. “At least I took a shot.”

  They began circling me again, singing, while across the room, Jerry sat in Charlie’s easy chair, watching with dead eyes.

  I don’t know how long the craziness continued. I got better at dodging, but the game went on. After that first scratch on my arm, I got another on my calf. A couple more on my arm. Only one was deep, a gash on my thigh that spilled blood down my left leg. Even with that, I faced them as they lunged or swung at me as if they were piercing a bull in the ring. I tried to stop them. I scolded them, told them that they were better than this crazy violence, that, if they’d stop, I’d personally see that they got help. That, if they’d stop, I’d make sure their consequences were minor. I promised all kinds of things—various and substantial amounts of money, even my car. Nothing I said brought a response, so I stopped talking to them, concentrated solely on evading their strikes.

  How long would it take them to kill me? Who would render the final blow? The pain in my arms and legs so far was sharp and thin, like a hundred piercing needles, but it wasn’t overpowering. Most of the time, my body moved as if it sensed where the blows would fall or the blades fly just in time to dart away. Or almost away. But even as I darted and dodged, I disconnected from the moment. The scene didn’t feel real, couldn’t be happening. Or at least, it had to be happening somewhere else, to someone else. I’d jump away, watching a woman surrounded by a frenzied ring of girls jump away or crouch or bend or twist or arch to avoid a swinging bat and swiping blades. I saw her get bashed and sliced, but her wounds didn’t affect me. They were merely information that clicked cleanly, unemotionally through my mind. For example, I observed that the woman’s blood was trickling not gushing, which meant that, so far, except for her thigh, her cuts were superficial. Nothing deep. Then again, the girls were just warming up, playing cat and mouse. Taking their time. Preparing for the kill. They skipped around her, mocking her for her slow reflexes, clumsy movements. Pathetic tears.

  My tears? Was I crying?

  How come I didn’t even know whether I was crying? Pay attention, I scolded myself. You’re crying, yes. And more importantly, you’re bleeding. Stop drifting and think, damn it. Figure out how you’re going to get away.
<
br />   Right.

  I smeared a bloodied hand across my eyes, wiping tears, noticing that the tempo of the singsong had picked up. The circle was spinning faster, faster, almost at a run. In a few seconds, at the end of the verse, they would screech to a stop to let whoever faced me take another swing. And sooner or later, that swing would kill me. How was I supposed to get away? I was trapped. If I tried to break through the circle, all three would pounce, stabbing and pounding me.

  Maybe I should run anyway. Maybe a fierce fatal attack would be preferable to this sick game. At least death would come faster. I considered it. Pictured the girls’ hands dripping blood, their knives penetrating my chest again and again. Would they carve a smile like Mrs. Marshall’s on my dead face? A frown like Joyce’s?

  The bat slammed the back of my wounded thigh, and I went down to cheers and applause. I’d drifted, lost track of the attacks. I wished I could drift away again. Mentally just leave. Pull one last colossal Elle. I thought of Becky, Jen, and Susan. Of my twenty-three sweet students. I’d never see any of them again. And Charlie. Would he be waiting for me on the other side? Was there another side? I hoped so. I thought of Charlie, only of Charlie, and the chance to start over with him.

  Until the singing stopped again. I was still on the floor, writhing and clutching my thigh. Katie faced me with her knife raised. Her eyes blazed, skin glowed, and she smiled. I knew, looking at her, that I was about to die. Katie was going to plunge her blade into my chest or neck. She was hesitating, anticipating the kill, salivating, panting.

  I lay back, waiting. And when she knelt, holding the knife over my throat, I reached up and with all my might, sucker smacked her arm.

  She hadn’t expected it. She lost her balance, teetered. She didn’t lose hold of the knife, but while she was recovering, I managed to sit up and grab the wrist of her knife-bearing arm with both of my bloody hands, and, while she punched me with her free hand, I thrust all my weight at her, pushing her, twisting her arm, pushing it back.

  “Help me, you idiots,” she yelled. “Don’t just stand there!”

  Katie started to stand up but slipped on my blood and toppled onto her side. I still had her wrist when Maggie raised the bat over my head. I rolled fast, right on top of Katie, who was kicking and swinging at me. The bat came down, but not onto me.

  Katie screamed. “Owww! Damn it, Maggie, oh God, you fucking broke my hand.” Her body coiled around her smashed fingers. Cursing and moaning, she withdrew her hand from the knife. Preparing my wounded body to run, I reached for it.

  “Don’t even try.” Trish’s blade was an inch from my eyeball. She told me not to move, said that, if I did, she’d plunge the thing through my eye all the way into my brain.

  I opted not to move. I held still, barely breathing while Katie moaned and Maggie apologized to her. The room blurred and spun. Dimly, I heard footsteps in the hallway.

  No. I was imagining them, inventing them. Drifting again, wishing for a rescue.

  Rescue? Fat chance. Jerry sat in the easy chair, mocking me. Nobody’s rescuing you and it’s your own fault. If you hadn’t rejected me, we’d have been together and we’d have fought them off. But no. Because of you, we’re both dead.

  I blinked at him. What an asshole.

  Trish nudged me. “Get up,” she said.

  “Wait—shh!” Katie held up her uninjured hand. “Listen.”

  They were soft and slow, but, definitely, there were footsteps in the hallway. We froze, silent. All eyes on the door. Waiting. I prayed for Detective Stiles. Or any cop, really. Any kind of good guy with a gun.

  The footsteps stopped outside the door. Which swung open.

  And Ty walked in.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  He stopped a few feet in, looking around.

  “Ty.” Katie bit her lip, forced a smile. “Hey.”

  Trish and Maggie exchanged mini-glances.

  “Hi.”

  Hi? He stood there, mouth open, doing nothing. Wasn’t he going to help me? My heart did a somersault.

  “So what are you freaks doing?” Ty’s voice was flat, not the least bit appalled.

  Of course it wasn’t. Violence was nothing to Ty.

  “Nothing,” Katie said. She cradled her injured hand. “Just hanging out.”

  Ty didn’t say anything. He strolled across the room, eyeing Jerry. Maggie and Trish watched Katie. Her brother, her call.

  “He tried to molest Maggie,” Katie said. “Him and Mrs. H. The two of them lured us here so they could take advantage of us.”

  Ty stood in front of the body. Put his hands in his pockets. Rocked back and forth.

  “Ty? Say something.”

  He didn’t.

  “What are you even doing here, busting in like this?” Katie scowled at him.

  “Didn’t bust in. Front door was open again. And, Mrs. H, for your information, I know I closed it when I left. You really shouldn’t leave it open—it’s dangerous. Unless, did you guys open it?” Ty directed the question to Katie and her friends but still faced Jerry, didn’t turn around. “You know? I’ve seen this guy before. He was stalking you, wasn’t he, Mrs. H? I’ve seen him hanging around.”

  He didn’t seem surprised or upset that Jerry’s throat had been slashed. Or that blood was everywhere. On Jerry. On me. On the rug and the hardwood floor.

  “So I guess he won’t be bothering you anymore.”

  “Ty,” Katie persisted. “How come you’re here?”

  He spun around. “Me? You know perfectly well why, Katie. You know that Mrs. H and I have a long-standing close relationship. I already told you that she’s the only one who was glad to see me when I got out. Mrs. H and I are tight. But we had a little disagreement before, and I felt bad about it. So I came back to talk things out. That’s what I’m doing here, okay?”

  He took a few steps toward her. Maggie gripped the bat. Trish held her knife to my face. I looked for Katie’s knife, saw it still unclaimed on the floor. I leaned ever so slightly closer to it. Trish grabbed my shoulder and squeezed.

  “Don’t even try,” she whispered.

  “Now it’s your turn.” Ty scanned their faces, met their eyes one by one. “Tell me what’s happening here. The truth.”

  Katie shrugged. “Just a game.”

  “A game. With a dead guy and blood everywhere.” He moved closer. “What’s with your hand?”

  She tried to smile, winced. “Game’s kind of rough. Like fight club.”

  Ty nodded, as if it was cool. As if he got it. Probably he’d played bloody games all the time in juvey. Sometimes even games where kids got killed.

  Ty went to Katie, bent over, and reached for her hand. “Let me see.”

  She extended it cautiously. “Careful. I think I broke—”

  Her mouth opened to release a silent howl as Ty grabbed her hand, squeezed and twisted it.

  “Ty!” she moaned.

  Maggie held the bat up, ready to swing, and Trish jabbed the knife up to my face.

  “Ty, let go,” she said. “Or I’ll cut her nose off.”

  Something warm and wet trickled down my cheek.

  “Fuck you, Trish.” Ty spoke over Katie’s wails. “You three suck, you know that? You think I can’t figure out what’s going down here? You lie to my face? Everybody thinks that Katie, she’s so sweet. How did a perfect girl like Katie come out of that fucked-up family?” He gave her hand a final squeeze and, as she yowled, let it go.

  Katie moaned and lay back, hugging her hand, tears streaming.

  “Put your fucking toys away, you two.” Ty waved an arm, didn’t bother looking at Trish or Maggie. “Either one of you comes at me, I’ll frickin’ break your neck so fast you won’t know you’re dead for a full half minute.” He paused, turned to Trish. “I said: put it away!”

  Trish put the knife down. Maggie dropped the bat.

  I let out a breath.

  “You three think I’m stupid? I can’t figure out what you’re doing? Well, you’re the
ones who are stupid. Because it’s obvious. You killed that guy over there. You’d have killed Mrs. H if I hadn’t stopped by.”

  He paused, sat down beside me. “You all right, Mrs. H?” He looked me over, one leg, the other. Same with my arms.

  I looked with him. Saw my wounds, my severed clothing. My smeared and dripping blood. The gash on my left thigh. My arms and hands trickled blood from seven spots that I could see. No doubt there were a few more on my back.

  “You guys are upping your game.” Ty made Maggie fetch napkins from behind the bar, tape from Charlie’s desk. He talked while he bandaged the wound on my thigh.

  “Shut up, Ty,” Katie sneered.

  “I know what you’ve done,” he continued. “Just not why you’ve done it.”

  “You don’t know anything.”

  “I know that you killed the Marshall and Mrs. Huff.”

  Silence.

  “And Stephanie.”

  Air seemed to be sucked from the room. The three girls held their breath, Trish and Maggie watched Katie. Katie shook her head. Signaling them to be quiet?

  Ty tightened the tape around my thigh. Pain surged, the room spun, and my skull still throbbed, but I didn’t make even a whimper.

  “I get what you’ve done. The only thing I don’t understand”—Ty reached for Katie’s knife, picked at the tip—“is why.”

  Katie watched Ty play with the knife. Her face had contorted. Her lips stretched back in a grimace, her eyes glowered, beaming darkness. She didn’t look like herself anymore. Wasn’t even a little bit pretty. When had she changed? When had all of them changed? My thigh pulsed; the tape was too tight. When I moved, I bothered cuts on my legs or arms, so I didn’t move.

  The silence tightened and stretched, became taut. If nobody broke it, it would soon shatter on its own. Trish and Maggie were bug-eyed, staring at Katie, waiting for a signal or a command? Ty sat motionless watching the point of the knife.

  Silence. I watched blood leak through the pile of napkins pressed onto my thigh. Wondered vaguely if I would actually bleed to death before anyone spoke.