by Brad Munson
The Cafetorium at Dos Hermanos School truly did smell like ass. Also like overripe socks, adolescent sweat, and small but plentiful accidents by second graders packed way too close together. It was a big, stupid room: the over-polished basketball court floor, the roll-out dais at one end for assemblies, ranks of bleachers against the long walls that had been pushed flat for this particular event, hooin the young and fit. It was a lousy gym, a worse sports venue, a wholly unappetizing cafeteria and an absolutely terrible performance space. And it was all they had.
James Barrymore hated it, and he wasn't alone. Teachers and students alike hated it, and yet … here they were.
He hated these endless all-grade assemblies almost as much as the Cafetorium itself, and he knew all the rest of the teachers felt the same. They clustered together near the east entrance, longing to slip away even for a while, but every thirty seconds Douglas Pratt looked across the crowd and focused on them, took another count, then began another scouring scan of the assembled. Looking for troublemakers, he would say, including the student body and the faculty. Because students at Dos Hermanos’ only public school, 659 children from four to eighteen years of age, only came in two flavors for its principal: nameless, manageable non-entities and troublemakers.
Still, this lecture was better than most of the ones that the Official Tin Hitler of DHS had come up with. Turns out the grumpy scientist from the Agricultural Station was a pretty good talker, and when she actually poured some desert dirt onto the stage to prove a point, they could all see the buzz cut on the top of Pratt’s round little head actually start to steam. He so hated making a mess.
It was kind of perfect.
The scientist slapped her podium to emphasize some point. Barrymore saw that it made his fellow teacher Carole Ann Johnson, already a nervous nelly, jump in surprise, and that made him smile. Poor little thing, he thought. A moment later it was all over, and Pratt was hustling across the stage to take control. Again. As always. Because that was only and entirely what Douglas Pratt was about: control.
He stood just a little too close to the speaker from the Ag Station, and everyone could see the stout scientist sway back, trying to get even a little air between them. “Thank you, Dr. Ambruster,” Pratt said, and stroked his overly groomed mustache with one self-important finger. He was a short, narrow-shouldered, flat-headed fellow with a permanent smirk. “Children, let’s thank the doctor for taking the time to speak to us today …”
The scientist waved at them half-heartedly as they offered their lukewarm applause. Poor woman, Barrymore thought. Bet she misses her test tubes and beakers more than ever now.
“All right,” Mr. Pratt said. “It’s three-oh-five, and the buses and rides home have started to arrive. Remember to tell your parents again about tonight’s Security Meeting – 7:00 in the Martin Luther King Conference Center Main Ballroom. We may be seeing many of you back here this evening for child care.”
There was undisguised groaning from the back of the room, and Barrymore knew why: there was nothing high school kids liked less than being sentenced to child care, even if their classmates were disappearing at an alarming rate.
“Now,” Pratt said, leaning so close into the microphone his voice distorted, “when I say so, you children can go out the back doors –” There was a great clattering stir as the kids snagged backpacks and lunchboxes –
“WHEN I SAY SO!” he bellowed into the mike.
Everybody froze. The students stood suspended for a long, long moment, while Pratt glared down at them.
Finally, slowly, he said: “Class … dismissed,” and they all jumped back into action, surging for the doors as fast as they could move. Pratt smirked and turned away from them, his point proven.
Pratt continued to chat up the guest lecturer. Barrymore leaned into Carole Ann and said, “Let’s go rescue that poor woman,” as the students, all sizes and shapes, surged past them towards the double doors of the main exit. There were random shouts of surprise and a lot of delighted giggling going on in that direction – more than usual – but it was nothing the monitors assigned to the parking lot couldn’t handle. Barrymore was sure of that; at least he was sure enough of it to ignore it for a while.
He really needed a break from the little bastards, as much as he loved each and every one of them.
He stuck out his ham-sized hand and seized the scientist’s fingers in what had to be the most awkward shake ever. Anything to break the spell, he thought. “That was great!” he said with real enthusiasm. He glanced down at the dirt on the stage and remember Pratt’s look of impotent rage. It made him grin all over again. “Brings a whole new meaning to the word ‘mud-slinging’ … though I admit your delivery was dry.”
The scientist forced out a weary smile. “It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it.”
Barrymore’s colleague, a sandy-haired man with a pear-shaped body and a plaid sport coat, pretended to wince. “Oy,” he said as he offered his hand. “I’m David Drucker, English teacher. I confess I know nothing about, ummm … xenobotany?”
“Close,” the scientist said. “Xerophytic adaptation.”
“Right on the tip of my tongue,” he said, laughing.
The pretty young teacher next to Drucker sighed and elbowed her colleague in the ribs. She was a youngish woman, no more than five-foot-two with huge, dark eyes and long, kinky black hair pulled back in a loose pony tail. “Hi,” she said as they shook hands, “I’m Elli Monaghan. Math.”
A light-skinned black woman with a round face, very short hair, and startling blue eyes was standing next to Elli. “Carole Ann Johnson,” she said. “Social Studies.”
Now the guest turned back to Barrymore and raised an eyebrow, like he owed her something. Oh, he thought. Yeah. Who’s the Frankenstein? “
He knew what he looked like. He couldn’t help it. He’d been a huge and awkward amalgam of broad shoulders and hammy thighs since the age of sixteen, and the gray sweats he wore as a uniform every day only made it worse. So he blared out a big, wide smile and said, “James Barrymore,” his voice deep but surprisingly gentle. “Science and Physical Education.”
She nodded to all of them as Pratt took a small walkie-talkie from his belt and whispered into it. The scientist glared at him. “Well,” she said, looking more awkward than ever, “I’m glad I could help out, given the, um, circumstances.”
“So say we all,” David Drucker agreed solemnly.
God, Barrymore thought, wincing silently. Does he HAVE to talk like that?
The teachers looked at each other uncomfortably and gazed blindly around the huge half-gym/half auditorium. The last of the students were streaming out the double doors at the far end of the room.
And all of this, Barrymore thought, about two missing girls. Two girls most of these people wouldn't recognize on a bet.
When Little Jennifer Toombs had disappeared two weeks ago, no one had been all that surprised. Many of them had actually been a little relieved. She was a slovenly, fat, aggressively stupid little girl – a miniature duplicate of her equally nightmarish mother. Half the staff thought that Big Jennifer had probably locked her in the basement – again – and forgotten about her until it was too late. The rest hoped she’d finally wised up and run away, if only for her own good.
It really wasn’t until Megan Katz had gone missing that anyone had noticed. She was an almost pathologically shy little girl. She’d never look you in the eye. Barrymore himself had excused her from more PE classes than he could count out of sheer pity. She was the last kid in the world to run away; the last one to go on some ill-fated adventure or get talked into something by friends. Megan Katz didn’t have any friends. And now she was gone, too.
Then, Terri Mullican dropped out of sight on the way home from school, taking a common route everyone took, all the time, every day. And all three disappearances in less than two weeks.
Suddenly, the local cops were everywhere – talking to the teachers, interrogating students, making a
huge deal about the investigation and finding absolutely nothing. Maybe it was all a big show to avoid bringing in the FBI or the state cops – somebody who actually knew what they were doing. But in the meantime, Little Jennifer, Megan, and Terri were gone, and everybody was scared to death.
“We’ve canceled regular classes,” Pratt told the scientist, as if it had been his idea all along, “but we do need to do something while the, um, interviews are taking place.” Yeah, Barrymore added silently, and tell her the part about how you whined like a baby when the cops said they wanted to stay all day. God forbid it would mess up your Average Daily Attendance charts and hurt your funding. You little –
“Awww, look at that,” said a mournful, accented voice.
Barrymore grinned even wider as a rail-thin Hispanic man in slightly holed jeans appeared out of the wings, looking at the dirt-pile on the stage as if he’d just found a dead puppy.
“Somebody have an accident on the stage there?”
“Flaco,” Mr. Pratt said, sounding slightly exasperated, “is your walkie-talkie on?”
Flaco studied him for a moment. “What?”
The principal sighed. “Never mind.” He gestured distastefully at the dirt on the floor. “Just … take care of that.”
Flaco looked back at the small pile of rocks and soil as if he genuinely felt sorry for the stage.
The scientist looked pained and a little guilty. “That’s my fault,” she said gruffly. “I’ll clean it up.”
“No no no, I take care of it,” he said. He turned the mournful look into a smile and ambled toward the backstage area. “There’s a broom right over here; don’t even have to go get the cart or …” He stopped and turned back with a mildly puzzled look and scanned the stage.
Oh, Jesus, Barrymore thought. Just how high is Flaco today?
A broad-shouldered, wide-hipped Chicana with golden, glowing skin and a wide smile came bustling up to the group. “Hey, guys,” she said, betraying a slight accent. “Do I look all interrogated and everything?”
David Drucker grinned. “Trini Garcia … Doctor Lucy Ambruster. Lucy, Trini teaches K through Three; she was enjoying a thorough questioning by Mr. Law Enforcement of 2003 while you were talking.”
As Trini pumped Lucy’s hand, her beautiful black hair, thick and heavy, bounced with enthusiasm. It was pulled back in a smooth pony-tail that fell almost to her waist.
“So,” Elli Monaghan said brightly, “did you help them crack the case?”
“Oh, God, no,” Trini said. “I couldn’t help at all. I couldn't even recognize poor little Megan; she was never in my class. But Sheriff Peck said it’s never as easy as that.”
“Never is,” said a new voice – and they all looked up as Sheriff Donald Peck sidled onto the stage.
Peck really did look like a TV-movie version of a smart cop: broad-shouldered, strong-jawed, steely-eyed. His hair was buzzed down to a severe crewcut that let his scalp shine through in a strangely dangerous way. “Not that I would mind cracking the case,” he said. “I always wanted to solve one like that Columbo guy.”
They all chuckled politely – and nervously – as the cell phone clipped to the sheriff’s belt suddenly warbled. He held up an apologetic finger and turned away from the group, looking for a little privacy as he said, “Peck.” A moment later: “When? Where are they taking them? Okay, I’ll meet them at the Clinic, and – no, don’t let her talk to anyone. No, God–”
He looked up and suddenly stopped himself. Then he muttered a few more words and put the phone away. “Sorry,” he said to them all. “When it rains, it pours. I’m afraid I’ll have to excuse myself. There’s been a fairly serious car accident up –”
“Oh, my God,” Carole Ann said under her breath. “Look at Mrs. Greenaway.”
James Barrymore had met Sharon Greenaway more than two years earlier, when she and her husband Jeff had opened their organic food store on the East Side. Sweet people, fresh from Fresno, with a little girl who kept to herself but had a smart, watchful eye and a sly sense of humor. Sharon looked like the opposite of the stereotypical health-food type. She was wide open and even a little loud, pleasantly plump and generous to a fault, as her soft-spoken husband was ready to remind her at every opportunity.
But the pale, swaying woman standing in the middle of the Cafetorium didn’t look anything like Sharon Greenaway. She was three sizes smaller; the perpetual smile was gone. Her eyes were as big and blank as poker chips.
“She didn’t come out,” Sharon said, her voice unsteady. “I’ve been waiting.”
“Oh, my God,” David Drucker said.
“All of her friends came out fifteen minutes ago. But …”
Sheriff Peck took charge in an instant. He snapped a few words into his phone and then spun around and pointed to Drucker and Elli Monaghan. “You two,” he said. “Check the classrooms, closets and store rooms. If you find her, you tell me – personally – the second you locate her.”
They nodded silently and moved away at a half-run. Barrymore heard Elli say, “You take the upstairs; I’ll go down.” A moment later they were gone.
Peck pointed at Trini Garcia. “You. Main office and teacher’s lounge. Even, especially, the places she’s not supposed to be.”
The lady scientist cleared her throat. She looked entirely awkward. “I think I better get out of your way,” she said.
Peck nodded tightly. “Not a bad idea.” He spun to Carole Ann and spent two seconds trying to remember her name. Then he gave up. “You there,” he said. “Look in back seats and trunks, look under cars, look everywhere, and report back to me.”
Finally he look at the looming figure of James Barrymore. “You. Athletic field and gym. Showers. Any utility buildings on campus.”
“You got it,” Barrymore said, but he hesitated long enough to put a hand on Sharon Greenaway’s shoulder. She was staring wordlessly at the group as it disappeared.
Peck took control before anyone else could speak to her. “We’re going to find her, Mrs. Greenaway,” he said with a baseless certainty that Barrymore actually admired. “Just hang tight.” Then he turned away, head down, not waiting for a reaction or a reply, snapping orders into his cell phone and his shoulder-mounted police-band radio at the same time.
A phalanx of concerned parents closed around Sharon Greenaway, and Barrymore took advantage of the moment to fade away. The field, he thought. Katie had about as much interest in athletics as she did in being an astronaut, but what the hell, they had to check everywhere.
He avoided the main exits, still clogged with students and staff. He took the fire door, the one with the DO NOT USE AS EXIT sign that hadn’t been wired to an alarm in more than three years, when Flaco had broken in ‘by accident’ to make his comings and goings less noticeable. It opened easily, and Barrymore only had to duck a little to get his huge flat head through the frame without braining himself on the –
Rain hit him full in the face. A bucketful of clear, blood-warm, tasteless water, so thick and fast that for one blinding instant he actually thought it was a prank; that the kids had rigged something over the door to hit the first hapless teacher who came out.
But no. No. It was actually pouring rain out of a churning sky the color of lead.
What the hell? he asked himself and squinted into the wind. What the fucking hell? He put a hand up in front of his eyes and gaped like an idiot, trying to sort it all out.
He was at the far end of the parking lot, away from most of the action. As the downpour soaked through his shirt, he caught a glimpse of the scientist sprinting to her car in the Visitors section of the parking lot. He could see the younger students hustling onto the West Ridge school bus, shrieking and giggling at the storm.
It never rains here, he told himself. It NEVER rains here. And why it should bother him so much now, he couldn’t quite say.
He took a step forward and felt something crunch under his already water-logged shoes. It could have been a drowning lizard or a stick that
had washed up against the building, but he didn’t think so. There were many times later he wondered what it was; whether it was the first of the monsters or the last scrap of normal life washing away.
At that moment, it didn’t matter. Finding Katie Greenaway mattered, and he was going to help that happen.
Somehow, he told himself, he was going to help that happen.
Four
Katie Greenaway’s captor was having fun, joining in with the others, looking ‘desperately’ for the poor little girl who had disappeared in an instant.
That had been so easy. Anybody could do it if they really wanted.
Such concern in all those voices! So much worry for one lousy, lazy, stupid little girl.
“Katie? Katie! KAY-tie!” TEACHER called out with the rest of them, acting oh so concerned and oh so worried. It was funny at first, all those urgent voices and tragic looks. But when no one else could hear, TEACHER got a little playful, and sang a little song:
“K’k’k’katie,” it went. “Beautiful Katie. You’re the only g’g’g’girl that I adooooohr …”
Scarcely half an hour passed before the sheriff’s marching morons arrived. Then everyone lost track of everyone else. It made a perfect time for a visit to the classroom – just to see how K’K’K’Katie was settling in.
* * *
TEACHER had worked very hard on building the students a proper little classroom, and was rather proud of the final effect. A dozen chairs – the old-fashioned ones, with the desk and the seat welded together – were set out in three exceedingly straight rows of four each. A desk for the instructor squatted at the head of the class, and clean, blue-white light flowed from a hanging fluorescent fixture high above their heads. Far too high for them to reach, of course, even if they had been able to stand up straight.
It was perfect for the Little Girls – far more than they could expect, given their behavior. Far more than they deserved.