“I’m sorry, Officer,” Thomas mumbled. “I wasn’t talking to you. I was just . . . um . . . Anyway, yeah, I’m fine. Just going to class now.”
He started to open the door again, but in a flash the officer’s hand was back on his shoulder, gripping hard. He pulled Thomas toward him as if he wanted to smell his breath. “Have you been drinking?”
“No!” said Thomas, a little too eagerly.
“Then what were you doing back there? Fumbling around and talking to yourself like a loon? You better explain fast, son.”
Thomas was about to dig around for an answer when he remembered something. Who the hell was this guy to tell him what to do? Wasn’t he the one who wanted to be an ace lawyer someday? Nowhere in the many law books he had read in the past two years did it say that America was now a police state. Screw Jenko and the commissioner and their witch hunt.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said in his most confident cross-examination tone, “but I’ll thank you to remove your hand from my body.”
The officer smiled, then chuckled and pulled his hand off Thomas’s shoulder. “Are you stoned?” he asked.
“Am I under arrest?” said Thomas.
“You will be if I suspect you’re high,” he said.
Thomas ran his hand through his hair and mustered up all his courage. The guy couldn’t touch him. This was a private school, and he had nothing to say to this loser. He looked the officer straight in the eyes. “Well, am I stoned or high? Which is it? Because they’re not the same thing, Officer.” He smiled big.
The officer narrowed his eyes. “Don’t play cute with me, kid. I’ve been watching you. If you don’t shape up and answer some questions, you’re gonna be in a whole mess of trouble.”
OK, maybe that was too much. Thomas wasn’t even sure that last comment was his own. Sure, he was thinking it, but he didn’t want to say it. The officer was reaching for his handcuffs now. Oh, crap.
Before the cop could touch him again, Thomas clutched his backpack and took off in a run down the hallway.
“Hey, stop right there!” the officer shouted behind him. But soon Thomas had turned three or four corners and disappeared toward the administrative offices. Maybe the principal would help. How could the police just swarm Marlowe like this, search lockers, interview students without their parents, and dig around for clues without permission from the kids or any real evidence of wrongdoing? The PTA must have been scared into agreeing to this. After all, both the Marla and the Roger incidents had happened outside of school. They had no reason to believe they could find evidence here. This was completely illegal, not to mention an insane abuse of authority. Yes, he would go to the principal and say just that, like a real lawyer. This is an insane abuse of authority.
In front of the office, he heard the officer’s voice rushing in his direction. As his hand glanced over the door handle of the administrative office, Thomas began to lose confidence. Maybe this was the wrong move. What would happen to Thomas if the officer and Principal Stevenson trapped him in a room? They wouldn’t just let him go. Would they let him call his dad? What if Edward chose that moment to come out?
Just as he was about to take off toward the courtyard, another option began to take shape. Dr. Alma. She had been so eager to help him, and even though he found her annoying and pushy, she was probably the only person who cared enough to check up on him each and every week. She was also legally obligated to keep her mouth shut, which was a major bonus at this point.
Outside Dr. Alma’s office, a thought occurred to him: the worst thing that could happen wasn’t jail. It was being unveiled as the other half of Edward, something freakish and supernatural. What would happen then? He thought of the Faust family, who had been driven away, and Valentin and Victoria, imprisoned in the penthouse from hell.
What other crimes has Edward committed?
Dr. Alma opened the door to her office with a nervous smile.
“Hello, Thomas,” she said, pushing a pin back into her hair with both hands. She looked red in the face and her voice was hoarse, as if she had been in a screaming match. Thomas rushed inside and shut the door behind him.
“Dr. Alma, I need to —”
He stopped. In the far end of the office, behind Dr. Alma’s desk, in a corner almost hidden by a long curtain, stood his stepmother, Nicola.
“What are you doing here?” Thomas spat. His heart began to pound faster and faster, and then, in a different voice, he heard himself say, “Hello, Mother.”
His mouth tasted funny: dry and sour, as if he had drunk too much bad wine over many long, thirsty hours. Then, a second later, his mouth didn’t taste like anything at all.
“Dr. Alma . . . I . . . don’t want her here.” He managed to toss the words out one by one, each with great effort, as if Edward were trying to stop him.
I want her here. She can help me kill you.
“It’s only a parent-teacher conference,” said Nicola innocently. “And I’m so glad you’re here now, dear. Let’s talk about your progress.”
“No!” Thomas was struggling, clutching his head, fighting with Edward for control of his own body. He could feel the beads of sweat dropping from his hair, his thoughts changing, the scents around him becoming just a little sharper, as if smelled through a different nose. How long had it been since he took W? How long would he have to put up with this?
“She’s . . . she’s the one . . .” he sputtered, spit flying from his mouth as he tried to force his tongue to make the syllables he, not Edward, wanted. “She made . . . W.”
“Ah, yes,” said Dr. Alma, her voice still a little nervous. She gave a small, inappropriate giggle and then stopped herself by clearing her throat. “The W . . . Have you followed my . . . um . . . advice? Did you take some more, or did you make the mistake of going cold turkey?”
Dr. Alma stood there, feet together, batting her eyelashes, sweating under Madame Vileroy’s hard gaze, like the lowest thug in the presence of the godfather. He stared at her. She looked so much like Thomas’s mother; he had always thought so. Maybe that was what made him talk during their sessions. He glanced down at her hand, nervously tapping her thigh, and noticed the ruby bracelet, just like the one his mother wore. Suddenly Thomas knew. All the details came together. Look at her, standing there, with her sandy hair and high cheekbones, trying to look like a mother, trying to look like his mother. Vying for his trust as only an untrustworthy person does. No, Dr. Alma wasn’t on his side at all.
All those journal entries he’d written, all the personal information he had handed to her, and here she was, practically feeding him the W. How could he have missed it?
He wanted to bolt, but something kept him pinned to his spot. It felt very much like that night at her apartment, a connection that frightened him more than Edward’s unending struggle to break out.
“My dad will find out,” he whispered, hoping Vileroy could hear.
“Well,” Vileroy said, waving away his comment as if it caused her no trouble at all, “I don’t know what you’re implying, dear. But having talked to your doctor, I can see well enough that whatever this drug is, it has had a permanent effect on you. I doubt very much that you can escape it, dear. Look at you. You’re practically foaming at the mouth. Your face is white. Your hands are shaking. What a mess you are! And how sad to think that you did this to yourself.”
She shook her head knowingly. The smug look on her face, and the way she made Dr. Alma cower, made Thomas want to reach out and strangle her. He took a step forward and then stopped himself.
Instead, he said, “I met someone you know.”
Nicola’s eyes narrowed. Thomas could see that she was curious as she tilted her head and tried to look nonchalant. But he knew that inside she was like a dog salivating for a slice of meat. She waited with total control.
“You can’t make me take any more W,” he said. “And you can’t make me stop. You can’t do anything, because I have the rest of it.”
“Oh, darling,” she said sweetly. “
I don’t care about what you do with those things. Your father and I only want you to get better.” She shifted from her corner, inching closer to Dr. Alma’s desk. The way she moved — so stealthily and noiselessly that the curtain didn’t even ruffle — made Thomas want to step away.
“You think I’m stupid enough to toss it?” he said, summoning all courage. “So you can find it again?”
Madame Vileroy shrugged. Only her shoulders moved, nothing else — not eyes or lips or head or a single strand of hair. Something in her left eye flashed — that creepy broken cross — and a moth fluttered around her hair.
Thomas finally wrestled back control over his feet. He grabbed the door and slammed it open, a little too hard. Then, just as he was about to run outside, he looked his stepmother in the eyes and said, “I’m going to kill Edward.”
Nicola closed the door of the girls’ bathroom. Thomas’s words rang in her ears.
I’m going to kill Edward. I’m going to kill Edward.
Something must be done.
She took two deep breaths, then lifted her broken eye to the mirror outside the stalls. Her face looked tired, like so many of the weary mothers who think they are hiding the years beneath layers of makeup and chemical treatments. She had visited Dr. Alma because Thomas’s progress was far too slow. Thomas had to be forced to take the W, all of it, very soon. If he didn’t, Edward might die. But then Thomas had walked in and Dr. Alma had been exposed.
He must take those pills. But who would convince him? Not Dr. Alma. Not Nikki.
She glanced at her face again. She could still see a little of Nikki in certain lights.
She would have to put Thomas in a desperate position. A life-or-death moment. She moved slowly to the door, passing her fingers over the mirror. A moth followed a safe distance behind as she glided into the hallways of the Marlowe School.
Journal entry #37
This journal is starting to feel like a legal brief or a statement of confession — I’m not sure which. I think I should keep recording the stuff I find, though, in case Edward wins. Maybe someone will find it and realize what happened.
The other day, I saw some files on Dr. Alma’s desk with my name all over them. When she turned her back, I pulled on the corner of a piece of paper that looked like a newspaper clipping. I stuffed it in my pocket and read it in the bathroom. It was an article about a woman in Florida who left her kids in the parking lot of an airport. No one knows where she went. A baggage guy said he saw her with a blond lady. The last line of the article said she left a husband, the two kids, and a thriving psychology practice. The picture was of Dr. Alma.
After I win, I’m gonna burn this journal.
Freaking hell-spawn demon witch-queen evil monster!
Thomas turned to run out of the office, screaming expletives in his mind — unsure whether the words were his or Edward’s. And in those few seconds, he didn’t care. He swung open the door and dashed past the secretary’s desk into the waiting area. He remembered coming to this office last year — back when everything was simpler and he didn’t come to have his head shrunk. He had sat in a chair reading college catalogs until the principal came out and handed him some award he couldn’t even remember anymore. Now Thomas scrambled past the little glass table covered in catalogs, about to be framed for crimes he only sort of committed, or live forever imprisoned in his own mind, or maybe go brain-dead as soon as Edward took over completely.
Thomas cursed again as he slammed his knee into the corner of a chair. He ran out of the administrative office and into the hall.
Where am I going? I can’t go anywhere.
His thoughts were cramming in so fast they were incomprehensible. Somewhere within them, he heard Edward.
You’re done, Tommy. Don’t make this ugly. You’re done.
Thomas sprinted down the hall. He took a corner at full speed. Three cops, including Detective Mancuso and the guy with the mustache, were walking right toward him but hadn’t seen him yet. They were looking into the atrium. Thomas skidded to a stop. His sneakers squealed as he wheeled around and turned back around the corner. He was sure the cops had caught a glimpse of him. Thomas ran back into the admin office. Behind the secretary’s desk were three doors — the principal’s office, the VP’s, and Dr. Alma’s. To his left, a short hall led to the temporary nurse’s office — the real infirmary, which used to be up in the attic, was now under repair because of some giant infestation earlier this year. After speaking with Bicé and John Darling, Thomas had some idea what the infestation had been — a room full of dead moths.
Thomas shuddered, thinking about Nicola posing as the plain-faced school nurse, pretending to take care of the students while trying to get close to his father. Thomas didn’t have time to check any of the doors to see if Vileroy was still there. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the cops through the window. They rounded the corner and walked toward the admin office. Thomas ducked and ran toward the darkened nurse’s office. Once inside, he scooted around the examination table, into a medicine closet. If he tucked his knees into his chest, he could just fit on the bottom shelf. He kept the door slightly ajar so he could get some air and so he could hear.
He was hyperventilating. Maybe that was it. He needed to control the intake. Thomas held his breath, then exhaled and made even more noise catching his breath again. Calm down. Just calm down. Count to three. One. Two. Three.
The door all the way out in the administrative office opened and a cop’s voice drifted toward him: “I don’t know. Wasn’t like he sat for a portrait. All I saw was brown hair.”
Thomas breathed a sigh of relief. They hadn’t seen him. Not exactly. Detective Mancuso probably could have guessed, the way Thomas had been acting in front of him the last few days. Thomas stared at the door to the makeshift infirmary, waiting for a pair of shoes to block out the light coming from the hall. Nothing. He counted. One. Two. Three. Nothing.
You heard Mom. Game’s over. You lost, Thomas.
No, thought Thomas. You’re lying.
Thomas heard a grisly laugh. Why would I lie? I don’t just have you by the balls. I have you by the brain.
’Cause if it were really over, you wouldn’t care what I thought. You want me to give up.
The laughter stopped. Thomas braced himself, but Edward’s voice was surprisingly calm. Now, where was this clever Thomas when you were popping W and chasing club trash?
Down the hall, Thomas heard Madame Vileroy’s voice: “How can I help you, officers?” Her French lilt seemed doubly affected.
There’s something holding you back, or else you’d kill me without any stupid ceremony.
Inside his crowded mind, Thomas heard only a conspicuous silence. The cops murmured something Thomas couldn’t make out. His legs were starting to ache in the cramped space. It smelled like bandages and antiseptic. Vileroy’s response was just loud enough for Thomas to hear — probably by design. “I’m here speaking with Dr. Alma. Have you met Marlowe’s counselor? Yes. . . . Oh, no, not for any particular reason, no. I’m concerned for my stepson, Thomas Goodman-Brown, to be honest.”
The cops said something else. Their tone had become higher pitched.
“Yes, that’s him,” said Vileroy. She was so good at sounding normal. She must have spent centuries perfecting the lie that she was human. She had an elegance that made people nervous. And when they’re nervous, they don’t question anything. They just want to stop being nervous. That’s how the cops sounded, even though Thomas couldn’t make out their words. They were infatuated and intimidated at the same time.
“His whereabouts?” said Vileroy. “Oh, I wouldn’t know that. I was hoping that he would be here, seeing his counselor. I was hoping to consult the school nurse as well, but she has missed more than a few days of work. Our little Thomas might be in need of rehab.”
Thomas could barely make out Detective Mancuso’s words: “Check out the nurse’s office.”
A searing pain exploded behind Thomas’s eyes, as if he�
��d been kicked in the back of the head with a steel-toed boot. It was Edward, thrashing around inside him. Thomas felt his esophagus closing from the pressure of something clamping around it. Then he heard Edward. Let me explain something, little boy. I’m not your pet devil. I’m not your “mean side.” I’m here to eat you — then to use those soft little fingers of yours to strangle the life out of Marla.
With that, the grip on Thomas’s throat clenched further. Thomas gagged for more air. His legs twitched, then began to visibly spasm. The cops were walking toward the infirmary. They’d soon hear any noise he made. Thomas felt the muscles in his face tighten over his jaw. He was changing into Edward. The voice of Detective Mancuso was close enough this time for Thomas to hear it perfectly. “Check if the nurse’s got a calendar on her computer or an away message on her e-mails.”
Thomas’s entire body was vibrating with pain. His every instinct said to kick out of the medicine closet and give his body over to whatever Edward wanted. But somehow, the thought of giving up and dying in a closet after everything — after surviving his mom, falling for Belle only to watch Vileroy ruin her, and, now, seeing Vileroy set her sights on Thomas and his dad — after all that, it just seemed selfish. Thomas might be the only person to know Vileroy for what she was. If he didn’t stop her, or at least fight her off, then there would be a dozen or more girls like Belle. She would trick more men like his dad. She’d steal more people like Dr. Alma for her servants. She’d cheat people out of their lives and lie to them until they gave her what was most valuable. And finally, whenever it was time to set things right, she would hide in the shadows and let people like Thomas take the punishment for what she and her son had done.
Someone had to save Marla — and pay them back for Roger.
Thomas found new strength in the idea and focused on pushing Edward back.
One. Two. Three.
I’ll give you one thing, said Edward, his voice strained. You’re not the weakling Mother said you are.
Another Jekyll, Another Hyde Page 16