It was a rare thing to see nowadays, and I admired the hell out of her for it.
We often talked after class, usually after the other students had gone, and she would tell me in that quiet, little excited voice of hers about a particular book she was reading or a short story or poem she was working on. Sometimes she would even let me read one.
That was another thing I liked about Amanda—she really trusted me. Besides her parents, I was the only one who knew about her “little secret” (as she often called it): More than anything else, Amanda Hathaway wanted to one day be a writer…
—
When I pulled into the high school parking lot, I discovered that I was still gripping a quarter in my sweat-slicked hand. I stared at it for a moment and tossed it back into the ashtray.
Before tonight I had never dialed 911, so I hadn’t known that it was a toll-free call. Of course, I should’ve guessed it—who had the time to make change during an emergency?—but I wasn’t thinking straight at the time.
Looking back, I guess I never was thinking straight. If I was, I never would have gone looking for the body in the first place. I never would have hung up the telephone as soon as the emergency operator answered. And I sure as hell never would’ve gotten back into my car and zigzagged my way across town to a high school Halloween dance.
No, I wasn’t thinking straight at all.
Six
I found the red Mustang in the side parking lot. I placed both my hands palm-down on the hood. Still warm. I cupped my hands together and took a quick look inside. Nothing much. A balled-up sweater or sweatshirt on the front seat. A Diet Coke can on the floor. Some CDs.
I walked around to the back of the car and studied the trunk. No blood. No ripped clothing. Nothing.
I took a deep breath. Let it out slowly. And headed for the school…
—
It had dawned on me just a split second before the 911 operator had answered—I had seen the car before. The red Mustang. I couldn’t remember where, I couldn’t remember when, but I had seen it. I was suddenly sure of it.
So I’d hung up the telephone and walked quickly across the Safeway parking lot and started driving. A few miles later I was pretty sure of one more thing: The Mustang belonged to a student. Present student or former student, I wasn’t sure. I’d tried to picture the Phantom in my mind—could he have been just a boy? Again, I couldn’t be sure.
Then I had remembered the Halloween dance—the costume dance—and I made my way toward the high school, not really expecting to find anything and not knowing what I’d do if I did find something.
And all the while this was happening, the sane half of my brain—the part that balanced checkbooks and went grocery shopping and taught English class and changed diapers—screamed out at me in a shrill, panic-stricken voice: What the hell are you doing? What are you thinking? Why haven’t you called the police?
But there had been no answers.
Only silence…
—
I checked my watch. It was almost eleven and the dance was in full swing.
The high school lobby and cafeteria (where the actual dancing was taking place) were decorated in traditional October fashion: Bright orange and black streamers draped the walls and ceilings. Dozens of cardboard Halloween displays—black cats and pumpkins, mostly—covered walls and glass windows and display cases. And, of course, several menacing-looking scarecrows had been placed at various spots throughout the rooms. It was all very innocent and fun.
As I walked in, I smiled and nodded at Mindy Gallagher, a science teacher (and our faculty gossip), who was selling tickets just inside the door. She smiled back—a sleepy little grin that told me she’d already had her usual couple sips back in the teacher’s lounge—and I was grateful that she didn’t stop me to chat.
But then, halfway across the lobby, Dan Sellard cut me off. He was a freshman-year English teacher and one of my Thursday-night poker buddies. I had no choice but to stop.
“Hey, thought you weren’t going to make it tonight?” he said.
I shrugged. “I, uh…was out for a bite and thought I’d drop in.”
He laughed and arched his eyebrows disapprovingly. “Let me guess—large cheesesteak and fries from Frank’s?”
“Right on both accounts,” I said, faking a smile. “Anything going on here?”
“Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “Same old thing. But hey, you hear about Thompkins leaving after this semester?”
Jeremy Thompkins was Sparta High’s vice-principal. Like myself, he’d lived in Sparta his entire life. “Leaving where?” I asked. At the moment, I didn’t really care what the answer was, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how to get out of the conversation.
And then, thankfully, I didn’t need to.
Before Dan could answer, a chorus of loud voices rang out behind us. A shoving match had erupted in front of the girls’ bathroom. A boy with a gorilla neck and a letterman’s jacket had a smaller kid by the shirt collar. And he was starting to twist.
Dan shook his head and turned away. Over his shoulder he said, “Talk to you later, McKay. Duty calls.”
And, just like that, I was free.
I walked into the cafeteria and stood off to the side. Waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. There were maybe twenty or thirty kids dancing in the shadows. Others standing around or sitting in groups of various sizes. A handful stood all alone, trying their hardest not to look miserable and embarrassed. One guy looked like he wanted to cry, and I wondered why the heck he’d come to the dance in the first place.
The DJ—a bald guy with the worst mustache I’d ever seen—was set up against the near wall. By sheer coincidence, he was also one of the skinniest men I’d ever seen, and every time he bobbed his head to the music, I feared for his life. His neck appeared no thicker than my forearm.
I caught myself staring at the guy in silent wonder and quickly looked away. And then I saw him.
The Phantom.
Standing across the room, on the other side of the dance floor, talking to three other boys. None of the others were dressed in costumes. I didn’t know their names, but I recognized them as younger students.
I stood and watched them for a long moment…
Then I started across the dance floor.
What in the hell are you doing? the voice screamed.
There was no response.
Twenty feet away.
Louder this time: Have you lost your mind?
Ten feet now.
You could get in big trouble for—
All four boys looked up at me. Stopped talking.
And the Phantom took off his mask.
“Hey, Mr. McKay. Cool dance, huh?”
My heart stopped.
The Phantom was Teddy Bogan. The Teddy Bogan. One of the most recognizable kids in school. Teddy, Sparta’s best known special education student…who could barely catch a ball thrown to him from ten feet away, much less operate a car. Teddy, whose left hand was shriveled beyond repair, the result of a childhood accident. Teddy, who struggled mightily to keep up with even the special ed. curriculum.
“You okay, Mr. McKay?” It was one of the other boys talking now. They all looked up at me with uneasy smiles.
I nodded. “Yes, I’m fine. Just checking to see…if you’re enjoying yourselves.”
I didn’t wait for their response. Instead, I turned around a little too quickly, feeling the embarrassed heat rushing into my face.
“Okay,” I whispered to myself, taking a calming breath. And then inside my head: Enough is enough. Who did you think you were, anyway? Sherlock Holmes? Barney Fife’s more like it. It’s time to call the police and tell them everything. Tell them you were scared and panicked. Tell them—
I blinked my eyes.
Swallowed.
Blinked some more.
The Phantom was right in front of me.
Slow-dancing with Kerri Johnson, gliding past me now. If my arms had been w
orking, I could’ve reached right out and touched his flowing cape. Grabbed him.
Kerri, dressed as a dark and exotic gypsy, giggled and tossed her long black hair. It was a move that had doubtlessly given dozens of Sparta’s young men endless nights of wet dreams. She laid her head back on the Phantom’s shoulder and they held each other close, spinning ever so slowly. They melted into the center of the crowd.
I couldn’t believe my eyes.
The Phantom was here…
In my school…
Dancing with Kerri Johnson…
But…
Only one person ever danced with Kerri Johnson…
And it couldn’t be…
A month-old memory slammed me in the face—hard and swift and crystal clear.
Last week of September. An hour or so after the final bell. I’d turned the corner and stumbled upon a red-faced and flustered Amanda Hathaway standing outside the assembly hall. The boy standing next to her, as polite and cool as ever. I’d said a quick hello and left them alone, sensing that I had interrupted something intense and private, but at the same time, thinking that it made no sense. Just my imagination was all. Hell, even all the teachers knew that he was going out with Kerri Johnson. Everyone knew that.
I stood in the shadows and watched them dance, forgetting all about that afternoon back in September. Even in a dark and crowded room, they stood out. They really did. If circumstances had been different, it would’ve made for a pretty picture indeed: two beautiful young people with the world at their fingertips; the Phantom dashing and mysterious in his mask and cape; the gypsy girl innocent yet alluring in her silk and beads. I watched them dance until the song ended and prayed that I was wrong.
Seven
A long and winding hallway connects the back corner of the cafeteria with the Sparta High gymnasium. (When the new school year began, the administration asked us teachers to start referring to this area as the Physical Education Department, but it’s really just a drafty old gym, two ancient locker rooms, and a couple glassed-in offices, so despite the request, most everyone still calls it by its most practical name: the gym.)
During the day, this hallway is one of the busiest places in the school—there’s an almost round-the-clock flow of students rushing in to dress before gym class or hurrying out to shower after gym class.
Or just hanging around.
You see, this hallway is also one of the few “cool” places in the school—along with the courtyard out back and the front lobby—so there’s usually a pack of students clustered around each corner and outside each doorway. Standing, talking, waiting to be seen.
But that’s during the school day.
After classes—day or night, it doesn’t matter—this hallway is dark and quiet and deserted. It’s a pretty scary place to be.
Unless you want to be alone, that is…
—
After the slow song ended, I watched Kerri Johnson walk right past me out into the lobby, probably on her way to the bathroom or the snack bar.
And then I watched as the Phantom slipped from the back corner of the cafeteria and into the dark hallway.
I followed him.
Quietly.
Carefully.
After what felt like a very long time, I rounded the last corner and found him bent over, drinking from one of the two water fountains outside the boys’ locker room. He must’ve heard my footsteps because when I was still a fair distance away, he looked up.
“Oh, hey, Mr. McKay. How’s it going?”
He straightened up and wiped a dribble of water from his chin. His voice echoed in the empty hallway, and the familiar sound of it brought about an immediate transformation. Despite the mask and cape, he was no longer the Phantom. Now he was just plain old Bobby Wilcox. Eighteen-year-old Bobby Wilcox. Hometown boy with the dashing good looks of a movie star. The scholarship offers—in two different sports, mind you—all lined up and waiting.
Bobby Wilcox—smart, popular, handsome…a killer?
Maybe you’re wrong about this? the voice inside my head whispered. You can’t be sure—
When I reached his side, I got right to it. “I think we need to talk, Bobby…I think maybe you’re in some trouble.”
I spoke softly, for I didn’t want my words to carry, and for a long moment I was sure he hadn’t heard me. But then:
“I know, I know,” he said, looking at the floor. “You’d think I would’ve learned after last time. I just…I just…I guess I was just being stupid again.”
I paused for a moment, genuinely confused. “Exactly what does that mean?” I asked.
“You don’t remember? Sophomore year, I got caught drinking at the Christmas dance. Got suspended from the basketball team for five games. Got detention, embarrassed my folks…”
I smelled it then. On his breath. Hard liquor—whiskey, most likely.
I flashed back to him throwing up in the parking lot. Jesus, he thinks I’m nailing him for drinking.
My head started shaking back and forth. “No, no, no,” I said. “I don’t care about your drinking. That’s not it.”
The expression on his face told me that he didn’t understand.
I sucked in a long breath of air. Blew it out. Thought about it for a second, then said very carefully: “Tell me about Amanda.”
It was as if I’d pressed some invisible button: The color drained from his face. His entire body sagged. And he started shaking.
I placed a hand on his shoulder, finding it hard to believe that I was actually touching him. “Bobby, calm down. Take some slow and easy breaths and talk to me. Tell me—”
“You know about Amanda?” he said, shrugging off my hand. He looked like he wanted to run away.
I nodded.
“How?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“But how could you—”
“I told you it doesn’t matter. Now, Bobby, you need to tell me what happened and then we need to go to the office and call the police. Just you and me. No one else needs to know—”
“But everyone will know, won’t they? Everyone will know what I did.”
He started crying then. Not the sniffle type of crying and not the whimper type of crying. This was full-fledged, tears-streaming-down-the-cheeks, sobs-racking-the-body crying. It sounded very loud in the deserted hallway. I checked over my shoulder. The last thing I wanted right now was an audience.
“You wouldn’t understand,” Bobby cried. “I had to take her there. I had to do it. I had to…”
His voice dropped off.
His mouth opened wide and, for a moment, he looked like he’d just swallowed a large insect. Then he started making loud wheezing sounds and his eyes fluttered open and closed, open and closed.
I moved quickly. Took off his mask.
“Easy, now, Bobby,” I said. “Easy now. Just start breathing nice and slow.”
I reached over and grabbed him by the elbow. Guided him toward the wall. “You just need some air is all. Why don’t we sit down for a minute? Why don’t we just sit down and—”
But that’s as far as I got.
Because that’s when I felt something hard pressed into the center of my back and heard the voice say: “We’re gonna walk out the side door and we’re gonna do it quietly. Listen to me and no one will get hurt.”
I listened.
Eight
“Damn it, I wish you would stop all that blubbering! You’re nothing but a goddamn baby…”
“I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you. You always were such a wimp…”
It was like that all the way across the parking lot. White-hot anger, dripping with disgust.
And Bobby never said a word. Not one word…
—
We were sitting inside the red Mustang. The three of us.
Bobby in the backseat—curled up on his side, still crying, still lost in his own little world.
Me in the driver’s seat—looking straight ahead, hands on the steering wheel, knu
ckles squeezed bone-white, heart pounding so hard I was afraid it was going to stop altogether.
Kerri Johnson in the passenger seat—turned sideways with her back against the window, facing me, a shiny black pistol in her hand.
She was still wearing her costume, but she no longer looked exotic and alluring. Now she looked dangerous. She leaned over and inserted the key into the ignition and I smelled her perfume. It was sweet and airy and reminded me of summer afternoons and suntan lotion.
“Drive,” she said.
“Where?”
She nudged me in the ribs with the barrel of the gun. “Just drive. I’ll tell you where to go.”
I started the car, turned on the headlights, and eased onto Route 9. The high school disappeared behind us. Thick treeline crept up close on both sides of the road, blocking out the moon. It got very dark and—except for Bobby’s sobbing—it got very quiet. Moments later, as we neared the turnoff into town, she said, “Take a left here.”
I turned and kept my eyes on the road. I took this as a good sign—we were heading into town and not away from it. A million jumbled thoughts were ricocheting inside my head, but nothing was making any sense. More than ever, I just wanted to go home. Back to Janice and the kids. The baby would be waking up soon. She’d be hungry and cranky and—
“Too bad you had to get mixed up in all this, Mr. McKay,” she said.
I said nothing.
She looked over the headrest into the backseat and said, “Jesus, Bobby, can’t you shut the hell up? Enough is enough. This is all your damn fault, anyway. You and that goddamn Amanda—”
Bobby surprised her (and me) by responding quickly and loudly. I jumped in my seat. “You can just go to hell, Kerri Johnson! Straight to hell where you belong! Don’t you ever say—”
She hit him in the face. Hard. With the gun.
There was a wet smacking sound and Bobby stopped yelling.
I couldn’t stop myself from taking a quick peek at the rearview mirror. Bobby was sitting up, holding the side of his head, his face red and puffy and glistening with tears and saliva. His eyes were wide and panicked; they looked more scared than angry.
Kerri laughed, and it was a hideous sound.
Halloween Carnival, Volume 5 Page 2