Before I could tell her that I was already on my way there, I heard the click. I stepped a little harder on the gas as a deep-seated feeling of dread mounted within me. I'd barely escaped the parking lot last night. They must have found someone still lying there. My whole body shivered at the thought of what I was about to see.
As I approached the parking lot, I braced myself for the unavoidable mayhem crowding the school campus. A moment later, my phone rang again. I grabbed it, sure that it was Kate calling back to tell me where I could find her, and maybe tell me more about what was going on. I hoped so anyway. I needed to mentally prepare. But it wasn't Kate. It was Mr. Baker.
"Mr. Baker? What is going on over there?"
"Jay," he said in a solemn voice, "Mr. Whitmore is dead."
XXVIII
I pulled into the first spot I could find. I grabbed my things and made my way to the front entrance, where two police cars were parked. I pushed my way past the growing crowd and squeezed into the elevator. The doors opened to the third-floor hallway, which was filled with faculty members and officials. Some were crying while others spoke to police. My heart sank deeper and my stomach tangled in knots.
I sent Rena a quick text with a 911 and a desperate plea for her to cover my shift at The Waterside. A second later, a text from Kate popped up on my phone.
Jay, turn around and go home. Don't want you on this one.
Kate, like everybody else in town, knew what I'd been through with Gram's death. The last thing she wanted to do was drag me to a murder scene. And Mr. Dugan would have been furious if he found out she had. As soon as she realized what was going on, she panicked. But there was no avoiding it. I was already on my way to the school, even without her call.
My phone buzzed with Rena's reply.
No problem. Called Ricky to let him know. U ok?
I quickly typed a thanks tell u later reply before I weaved my way through the crowd to the history department. The administrator was on the phone, and I overheard enough of her conversation to know that she was telling someone the horrible news.
I knocked on Mr. Baker's office door but there was no response.
"It's Jay," I finally whispered. I knew he was in there, probably trying to escape the chaos I'd just waded through. After a few seconds, I heard his faint voice.
"Come in."
He was sitting at his desk with his chin on his fists. His eyes were red and swollen. I didn't know what to say so I didn't say anything at all. I just sat down in the chair across from his desk.
"I just can't believe it," he said, staring past me at the wall. He was ghostly pale, drained of all color. I was desperate to know what happened, but I couldn't find the right way to ask him for details. He didn't look like he could handle talking about it anymore after dealing with the police all morning. He didn't look at me. He didn't blink. He just continued to stare. Then finally, he started talking.
"He stopped downtown at the Cask for a drink on his way home last night." He paused for a weak breath before his monotone voice continued. "They found him near his car. He was parked a little ways up the street. They found him on the sidewalk, right in front of someone's house."
"I was with him last night," I said softly, my voice sinking to match his somber tone. "I didn't leave here until around seven. What time did it happen?"
"I'm not sure," he said. "I think they said it happened around ten. An officer came in to talk to us earlier. They're all over at the Cask."
Mr. Whitmore warned me that I was in danger, but he was in just as much danger, and now he was dead. I tried to tell him. I should've tried harder. If I hadn't involved him, he would still be alive. I had to get rid of that damn athame before it put anyone else in danger. I wanted to throw it into the ocean and let it sink to the bottom where nobody would ever find it.
"Would you mind if I took a quick look around his office?" I asked, trying to think of a good excuse for why I needed to get in there. He hesitated for a moment, looking at me with concern.
"You really shouldn't," he said. "David's office is officially part of the crime scene. The police have already blocked it off for the detective. He's coming here as soon as he's done at the Cask."
There was only one detective in town, and I'd gotten to know him well that summer. After Gram's murder, Detective Laine and I saw each other every week. He was as hard as a rock. No frills. Austere about his responsibilities. He made me feel like if anyone could solve her murder, he could. But despite his hard exterior, he was also perceptive, allowed space for my feelings, and even offered compassion and hope when I needed it most.
"I don't know what they'll find in there," Mr. Baker continued. "They were asking me this morning if I knew of any debts he may have had. If he was a gambler. He wasn't. Not that I know of anyway. I guess they are just looking for a motive, but it sounds like it was pretty random to me. David didn't have any enemies. Like your grandmother."
He finally acknowledged it, and tears swelled up in his eyes for me. My stomach sank.
"Well, that is why I want to look. I was here with him last night. I really just want to see if I notice anything unusual."
Reluctantly, Mr. Baker opened his top drawer and took out the small key to Mr. Whitmore's office.
"Enter at your own risk," he said.
"Don't worry, I'll be really careful," I said, quickly making my way to the door before he could stop me.
***
The administrator was still on the phone and didn't notice me sneak over to Mr. Whitmore's door. I turned the key and carefully climbed over the yellow caution tape across the threshold. Mr. Baker said the police put the tape up but hadn't actually gone inside yet.
At first glance, everything seemed the same as when I left the night before. I anxiously approached his desk, wondering how I was going to get into his safe. Maybe I'd find a meaningful date on his calendar, a phone number in his top drawer. It was a long shot, but I had to figure out the combination. The police would surely break it open. I had to get my hands on the athame before they did. They were no match for what was after it.
It felt so wrong being there. I would probably be arrested for tampering with a crime scene. But Mr. Whitmore was murdered because of the athame, I was sure, and I'd be doing everyone a favor by getting rid of it. It was my responsibility.
I rounded the corner of his desk and carefully pulled his chair away with the back of my hand, wanting to avoid incriminating myself with a trail of fingerprints. I stared at the safe for a second, unable to believe my eyes. It was wide open, and it was empty. I inspected the door, but it was not damaged. Whoever opened it didn't break in. I wondered if Mr. Whitmore ever put the athame in there.
I didn't know what to do. Mr. Whitmore was the only person I could talk to about the athame, the dreams, any of it, and he was gone. Killed by the same thing that almost killed me in the parking lot, I was sure. The only difference was that I got lucky. Somebody came along at the exact right moment and saved me from the same fate.
On his desk, beneath an open notebook full of scribbled notes, I saw the book with the triquetra on the cover. I grabbed both and shoved them in my bag. As I made my way to the door, something stopped me in my tracks. Something that was not there the night before. Something that would drag me into the police investigation for sure. The message light on his phone glowed red. It was my message. He never got it.
I panicked. Detective Laine would surely listen to the message. When he did, he would come to me for answers. Answers that I couldn't give him. In the message, I warned Mr. Whitmore that he was in danger. One by one, my words came back to haunt me.
Mr. Whitmore. It's Jay...I was just attacked. On campus. In the parking lot. You were right. Whatever is after me...he is not human. He wants the athame. If he knows you have it, he will come after you, too. Please just get away from it. Lock it up until we figure out what to do. And be careful tonight.
I had to erase that message. If I broke the phone or cut a wire, the police coul
d still access his messages through the system administrator. If I could figure out his password, I could delete the message. I needed a miracle.
His top drawer was full of junk. With a tissue, I searched through scraps of paper, small notebooks, anything that might have a series of numbers or letters resembling a password. On his desk, I searched through papers and books and finally found a small yellow note stuck to the side of his computer monitor. It had four digits written on it. I crossed my fingers, picked up the phone with the tissue, and with my knuckle I hit the voicemail button.
Please enter your password.
Holding my breath, I typed in the four digits and hit pound.
The password you entered is incorrect. Please try again.
I hung up the phone. One try failed. I didn't know how many chances I had before the system locked me out. I lifted up the phone base, hoping to see another sticky note under it, but there was nothing. I ran to the doorway and looked at the plaque above his door. 313A. I raced back to his desk and dialed in again. I typed in the numbers 3131. He wouldn't have used his office number as his password. Dumb. My heart pounded. Another try failed. I was out of ideas.
I imagined the police listening to my message. I desperately continued to push paperclips, erasers, pens, and paper out of my way with the tattered tissue. Then, I saw something that gave me hope. A small square of folded white paper. A lottery ticket. Sitting on the edge of Mr. Whitmore's chair, my palms glazed with sweat, I dialed in again and entered the numbers 4-7-9-1-3. I waited for the monotone voice to tell me I'd failed again, and that my chances had run out.
You have one new message.
I froze. I was in. The message began to play and I listened to my own panicked voice until I heard the magic words.
To delete this message, press four.
I placed my shaking knuckle on the number four and pressed down hard. Message deleted. The red light disappeared from the phone, and I breathed for the first time in five minutes. I got up and floated out the door, knowing I'd just pulled off a very amazing, very illegal miracle.
Before I left, I stopped by Mr. Baker's office to return his key and say goodbye. He was still slouched behind his desk.
"Please call me if you need anything," I said as I pulled the door closed behind me. Before it latched, I heard his faint voice call my name. I poked my head back in and found him looking at me curiously.
"Did you learn anything about that dagger yesterday?"
"No, unfortunately." My voice squeaked with as much conviction as I could muster. "Nothing significant anyway."
He shook his head in acceptance. There was no way I was going there with him.
XXIX
Police cars, yellow caution tape, and big orange cones blocked off the short, previously charming street from both ends. The busy Market Street end had the largest crowd and the most police presence. The quiet, residential end was only blocked by a single cruiser. The Cask was closed, along with every other business on the street. After finally finding a parking spot blocks away, I ran toward the crime scene. There, standing in front of the Cask, was Detective Laine.
I looked for Kate, sure that she'd bypassed the school and come straight here after talking to Sergeant Sullivan. It seemed as though the entire police department was on the scene. Several officers hovered along the barricades. A few guarded the perimeter around Detective Laine. Sergeant Sullivan was surrounded by reporters from state and local papers and TV stations. They scribbled in notebooks and held out their voice recorders while huge cameras hovered above. Some officers were deep in conversation with other officials. Crime scenes were rare in Newburyport until recently, so everyone had flocked there. And my stomach turned with déjà vu.
At the periphery of the chaos, an older man and his wife sat on a bench in front of their house, sipping coffee out of mismatched mugs and jabbering away with passersby. I made my way toward them and eavesdropped as they started from scratch for a sweaty, middle-aged man wrapping up his morning run.
"He was a teacher over at the high school. Killed here last night about ten o'clock," the older man said as his wife nodded in agreement. "But I'm not sure how much you really want to know."
"Oh no, that bad?" the runner asked.
"Well, it was pretty gruesome."
My legs began to tremble. I had to know.
"He was mauled to death. His neck was torn open. That's what killed him. He bled out. They still don't know who or what could've done it. The detective is still over there gathering evidence."
I was lost again, pulled back to the night I found Gram's lifeless body lying on the floor in the sunroom. Mauled, neck torn open, covered in blood. Her case was still unsolved.
"Miss, are you all right?" The runner slipped his arm around me and guided me to the bench before my face met the pavement. The older man's wife ran into the house and returned a minute later with a bottle of water. My whole body shuddered, and if not for their constant reminders, I would have forgotten to breathe.
The violent details were the same. But I knew what killed Mr. Whitmore and why, sort of. What could possibly connect his death to Gram's? As I sat there struggling to make sense of it, I finally accepted the fact that I was not going crazy. Something was seriously wrong. And whatever it was, people were dying because of it. I couldn't just run away, ignore it, or wish it away anymore. I had to get to the bottom of it.
"Do they have any leads?" I asked the older man.
"I don't think so. They've been talking to us residents in the area, and the bartender that worked last night," he said, nodding toward a young man with sandy brown hair, surrounded by reporters. "No one saw anything unusual."
I tried to pull myself together. I had to talk to that bartender.
"Thank you for the water," I said as I reached for his wife's arm. I said a quick goodbye, and before I turned away, they already had the ear of another passerby. I heard them begin the story again as I waded through the crowd.
By the time I got to the bartender, he was surrounded again. I stood close and waited, ready to pounce. Detective Laine moved methodically behind the yellow tape. When he looked in my direction, I gave him a conservative wave. He nodded in acknowledgment and pressed his thin lips together in a straight-line smile.
In his hand, he held a large, clear plastic bag with something in it. I strained to see what it was until finally the standard napkin border came into focus.
Detective Laine was close. Close enough that I could see writing on the napkin. But too far away for me to read it. I reached for my phone and adjusted the zoom on my camera, and discreetly aimed it at Detective Laine. Pretending to scroll through my phone, I waited for the moment the plastic bag was visible. I turned off the flash and snapped a bunch of photos.
With false obliviousness, I scanned the crowd to make sure nobody was watching me. I scrolled through the photos and determined which one was the most clear. I tried my best to ignore the bloodstains as I zoomed in and examined the writing. Right away, I recognized the three symbols scribbled on the napkin. Next to each one, Mr. Whitmore had written something. Beside the first symbol, the word uruz. The second symbol, algiz. And the third symbol, ansuz.
Though I didn't know their relevance, it was clear these words meant something to Mr. Whitmore. I wondered if he'd figured something out about the symbols before he died. I reached into my bag and scribbled the words uruz, algiz, and ansuz on the back cover of his notebook.
While I waited, I listened to the bartender answer a bunch of generic questions from reporters. Nothing he said was helpful, and I knew I was going to strike out, too. I had to think of another plan. When the crowd around him finally dissipated, I inserted myself and tapped him on the shoulder.
"Hi there. Is the bar open tonight?"
He turned to me with a strange look.
"Uh, yes," he said, scratching his head. "It should be. Things should wrap up by noon, they said."
"Are you working?"
"Uh, yeah. That's t
he plan."
"What time does your shift start?"
"Seven," he said, looking at me like I was certifiably insane. "Why?"
He was tapped out. Uninspired. I was not going to get any good answers. Kate once told me it's hard to see the shadows of night through the glare of day. If I wanted to get anything out of him, I would have to catch him in his element, behind the bar, where he would be able to see Mr. Whitmore again on the other side of that counter.
"I'll be back later. Just wanted to be sure you'd be here."
His head tilted to the side as he struggled to imagine what business a seventeen-year-old girl could possibly have with him.
XXX
Suddenly the chaos of the newsroom didn't seem so crazy compared to the rest of my life. I grabbed my assignment from the board and made my way to my computer. Kate was already at her desk typing her story.
"You didn't go, did you?" she asked with trepidation as soon as she saw me. Anyone could have seen the answer in my face. "Oh Jay..."
Before I could say anything, I spotted Matthew coming toward us. He was our office manager. Newly promoted. And the biggest jerk I'd ever met. Just the sight of him was annoying. I settled into my chair and dreaded whatever was about to transpire.
Matthew was a true micromanager, though he had no real authority over any of us. He just gave us our assignments, which were actually delegated by Mr. Dugan. But he inserted himself into everything we did. He came into my cubicle and sat himself on my desk after putting his questionable fingers around the rim of my coffee cup to move it out of his way. Note to self: scrub and boil before ever using again.
"Did you find anything out downtown?" he asked intrusively, adjusting his greasy hair with his scaly fingers. Nobody in the office told him anything voluntarily. Clearly he'd eavesdropped on my private exchange with Kate. I could see the joy in his eyes as he held this little nugget of information over my head. He knew that Kate and I would both be in trouble if Mr. Dugan found out I'd gone to a crime scene. I despised his arrogance.
Strega (Strega Series) Page 10