May I have your name, sir?
Nagel. John Nagel.
Or any other name. It didn’t make any difference. His real name had died with his old identity. It was all there in the two-column obituary in the Times. Everything in his past had died back in the foundry with the image he had planted in Mr. Lippitt’s mind. Eventually, he would need a new appearance, a new manner and personality. For now, John Nagel would have to get along with tinted contact lenses, false beard and an exaggerated limp.
He’d miss Pat; he’d ache for her. But his “death” had been her only guarantee of life.
I’m sorry, sir, but your name is not on the appointment list. Are you expected?
He would lean close, make contact with her mind. She must be convinced of his importance. The secretary would disappear for a few minutes, then reappear, smiling.
The Secretary General will see you now.
He was not sure what would happen next; he would have to wait until he could get close to Thaag and explore his mind. Even then, he was not sure what he would be looking for; perhaps, simply, a man he could trust.
Victor Rafferty went over his plan once more in his mind. Satisfied, he began walking slowly across the United Nations Plaza toward the massive glass and stone obelisk rising up from New York’s East River. He stopped and looked up into the bright, sun-splashed day; a breeze was blowing and the multitude of flags strained against their stanchions, painting a line across the sky.
BROKEN PATTERN
Emily finished grading the last of the homework papers, fastened them together with a large clip and placed them carefully in her briefcase. She closed the case, rose and walked to the window. She loved this room, with its view overlooking the school’s vast athletic field. Below her, to the right, was a small stand of blue spruce. At the far end of the field the ninth-grade football team was just finishing practice. Sometimes when she was very upset, when the old feelings caught her by surprise, she would stop whatever she was doing and come to stand by this window. Usually a moment was enough, and she could turn back to her class without a scream in her throat.
Already the first month had passed, and she was happy for the first time in more years than she could remember. This time everything was going to be all right; she just knew everything was going to be all right.
“Mrs. Terrault?”
Emily wheeled and choked off a cry when she saw the two students standing by her desk. Heath Eaton stood a few inches taller than Kathy, his twin. Both children had blond hair, fair skin, and bodies that had been flattered by the onset of puberty. Their physical appearance was marred only by blue eyes that seemed too bright and did not, in Emily’s opinion, blink often enough.
“You startled me,” Emily said in a voice that was not as steady as she would have liked. “I didn’t hear you come in.” She paused and smiled. The children stared at her impassively. “What are you doing in the school so late?”
“Kathy asked her counselor for permission to come and speak to you about her grades,” the boy said. “I got permission to come with her.” The boy’s tone was flat, a perfect cover for the strange hint of insolence that was forever peering around its edges. Emily had noticed this before, in class, but now it seemed especially pronounced. She turned her attention to the girl.
“So, speak.” She had meant the words to be light and cheerful; they came out heavy and tired.
“You failed me on this paper, Mrs. Terrault,” Kathy said, taking a neatly folded paper from her purse and handing it to Emily.
“Yes, Kathy, I know,” Emily said, keeping her hands at her sides. She found it somewhat unnerving that the small hand with the folded paper remained stretched out toward her. “But I didn’t ‘fail you,’ as you put it. You failed yourself. I gave you what you earned.”
“I’d like you to change it please, Mrs. Terrault.”
“Kathy, you know I can’t do that.”
“You mean you won’t.”
“Kathy!” Emily said, and glanced sideways at Heath. The boy was studying his hands, seemingly oblivious to the entire conversation. “I’ve never heard you talk like this before.”
“This is the third paper I’ve failed this term, Mrs. Terrault. Besides that, my work in class hasn’t been what it should. I know that. I’m going to fail if you don’t change my marks.”
Emily turned quickly to the window. Heath was already there, staring out, tapping his fingers on a desk. She turned back as the girl spoke again.
“I’m bright, Mrs. Terrault, very bright. You know that, if you’ve bothered to look at my record. I’ve been upset the past few weeks. You know very well I could get good grades if I tried, and I am going to try. It’s not as if you were giving me something.”
“I don’t know about your other courses, Kathy, but in this subject you will get exactly what you earn. No more, and no less.” Emily’s tone had been very soft, masking the tension under it. Kathy’s matched it.
“Both Heath and I plan on getting into good colleges,” the girl said evenly. “Since we’re both in a home, an institution, that means we’ll have to depend on scholarships—good scholarships. And that means we’re going to have to be at the top of our class. Either Heath or I—we haven’t decided which one as yet—is going to be valedictorian. The other is going to be salutatorian. But we have to start now, in the ninth grade. You know that too. I can’t afford to fail even a single subject, especially Social Studies.”
“Kathy … Kathy, I don’t know what to say to you. I do think, though, that there’s someone else you should speak to. I’m going to make an appoint—”
“Hey, Kathy,” Heath said loudly from his place near the window, “I’ve got things to do.” Emily did not turn. She heard the boy’s footsteps coming across the room, around the desks, and then he was standing in front of her. “Change the mark, Mrs. Terrault,” the boy said. “If you don’t, we’ll kill you.”
The room was suddenly silent, the stillness grazed only by the sound of Emily’s heavy breathing. She wanted desperately to look out the window, but she was afraid to move.
“You’re very impatient,” Kathy said to her brother.
“I told you I’ve got things to do. Sister Joseph gave us permission to watch the Knicks on TV, but we have to start study period an hour earlier.”
“My brother’s telling the truth, Mrs. Terrault,” Kathy said to Emily. “If you don’t change the mark, we will kill you. We’ve killed people before. Just last month we killed Margie Whitehead, and—”
“Shut up, Kathy,” the boy said.
“But she should know that we’re not fooling, Heath.”
“I think she knows, don’t you, Mrs. Terrault?” The boy’s eyes were steady on her. “There isn’t going to be any problem. Mrs. Terrault is going to take care of you this term, and then you’re going to promise to do the work you’re capable of. Right, Kathy?”
“Right. Take the paper, Mrs. Terrault Change it in the grade book too.”
Emily started to run toward the open door, stumbled and fell to the floor. The two children remained where they were. She slowly pulled herself to her feet and turned to face the children. Now she was grateful she had tripped; she had almost allowed two desperately sick children to stampede her. But she couldn’t panic, couldn’t run, not again. Not ever again.
The problem remained as to what to do if the children actually attacked her. There was a letter opener in the desk, but that was too far away. No, she would have to rely on her authority; she was the teacher, they were the students. She took a very deep breath.
“Come with me, Heath and Kathy,” Emily said, grateful that her voice did not quaver. “Did you hear me? I want you to come with me.”
The children exchanged glances. “Where do you want us to go, Mrs. Terrault?” Kathy said.
“You know very well. We’re all going down to see Mr. Atkins.”
“You’re going to do that old office number?” The boy laughed, quickly and without humor.
For one long, terrible moment Emily did not think they would obey her. Then the boy shrugged and started across the room. Kathy followed.
The custodians had already shut off the lights in the corridor and dusk seeped through the skylights, painting the lockers, the walls and the air a murky gray. Emily walked at a steady pace, shoulders back and head high. The children’s footsteps echoed on the floor behind her. She would not run, and she dared not turn. She knew she must not, for a moment, show fear.
Somehow she made it down the stairway to the ground floor. Behind her, the children marched in step. She rounded the last corner, stopped and burst into tears. The office area was dark and deserted.
Kathy stepped around in front of her. Heath remained behind, very close. Emily was afraid—very afraid. She closed her eyes and put her hands to her face.
“Well, it’s just as well nobody’s here, Mrs. Terrault,” Kathy said easily. “Believe me, it wouldn’t have gone well for you.”
Emily slowly took her hands away from her face. The girl was smiling up at her, supremely confident. In that moment their roles had been reversed; Emily was the child, the child was the teacher.
“What did you say?”
“Mr. Atkins would never believe you. Nobody would believe you. Heath and I came all the way back to school for extra help. You started to talk and act funny. It wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Emily said in a strangled voice.
“Yes you do, Mrs. Terrault,” Heath said, stepping forward to stand next to his sister. “You know how teachers sometimes talk to each other in the halls and classrooms without bothering to see who else might be listening. We know all about you. We know you used to teach in the high school and then you had some kind of breakdown. You spent the last two years in a mental institution. When you got out you asked if you could come back and teach at a junior high level. The school board hired you, but you’re still on probation. I’m betting they keep a pretty close eye on you. If you start telling crazy stories, they’ll get rid of you.”
Emily turned to the wall, pressing her hands and her cheek against a cold metal locker. She swallowed hard, and discovered there was no moisture left in her mouth. “Get out,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “Get away from me.” When she opened her eyes they were gone.
The psychologist was young, Emily thought, not yet thirty, about her own age. She had fine features that were complemented by just the right touch of expensive cosmetics and good fashion sense. Emily knew some men might find the other woman attractive despite the thin, compressed line of her mouth and the infuriating air of superiority she carried with her like the cloying aura of cheap perfume.
The seconds dragged on. The initial rush of relief Emily had experienced when she had finished her story had been short-lived, smothered by the woman’s seeming indifference. The psychologist continued to avoid Emily’s eyes as she drew concentric circles on a scratchpad placed on the table between them.
“Well, why don’t you say something?”
“Quite frankly, Mrs. Terrault, I don’t know what to say,” the woman said. There was an edge to her voice. She dropped the pencil and looked up. “I just don’t know what to make of your story.”
“You think I’m lying?”
“Now, I don’t say that you don’t believe—”
“I believe, poppycock!” Emily said, half rising from her chair. “I know what you’re trying to say!”
“It’s not going to serve any purpose for you to get excited, Mrs. Terrault.”
Frightened by the strength of her own emotions, Emily sat down again, clasping her hands tightly together. “Do you know what it cost me to come to you?” Emily’s voice trembled. She could feel herself walking a high wire of words over an abyss of hysteria. She stumbled on. “Don’t you suppose I knew the risk I was taking in telling someone that two fifteen-year-old children had threatened to kill me? But it’s true. It’s true”
“They’re much more than just ordinary children, Mrs. Terrault, as I’m sure you’re aware, from having them in your class. They both have I.Q.’s in the genius range, and they have already experienced severe trauma in their lives. Their father was hacked to death with an ax, and the killer was never found. The mother then proceeded to withdraw into herself to the point where she could no longer care for the children. Heath and Kathy were placed in a home for children upstate near their own home. Last year they were transferred down here to St. Catherine’s. All in all, I’d say they have made a remarkable adjustment to circumstances that would crush lesser children … and some adults.”
Emily winced under the lash of the last words. “They’re monsters,” she said very softly. “Monsters. They told me they killed Margie Whitehead.”
“Really, Mrs. Terrault. At least twenty other children saw Margie fall under the wheels of that bus, not to mention the two adult bus monitors.”
“I know, but even to say such a thing a child would have to be terribly, terribly sick. That’s why I came to you, that’s why I’m telling you all this. I feel they should be helped.”
The psychologist sighed. “I must be frank with you, Mrs. Terrault. Heath and Kathy Eaton came in to see me last week.”
Emily unconsciously put her hand over her mouth. Suddenly it was hard to breathe.
“They were very upset,” the woman continued, “which is quite unusual for them. They said that for some reason they didn’t understand, you didn’t seem to like them. Kathy said you frightened her, and both children claimed that you picked on them. They asked me if I could help them change so that they could please you, Mrs. Terrault. In light of that conversation, I’m sure you can see the difficulty of my position.”
“When did they come to see you?” Emily’s voice sounded apart from herself, an alien echo inside her head.
“Last Tuesday.”
“That was the day after I handed back the papers.”
Their eyes met and held.
“Mrs. Terrault,” the psychologist said, her smile too sweet, too bright, “may I ask you the name of your doctor?”
“Go to hell,” Emily said softly, “You go straight to hell.”
“Do I have to tell you about it, Mrs. Terrault?”
“No, Mary Ann, you don’t. But I would like you to.”
“My mother said I shouldn’t talk about it. I still get nightmares sometimes.”
Emily felt tears spring to her eyes. She understood nightmares, the cold sweat of the mind. She reached out and stroked the girl’s thin shoulders. “Mary Ann, I know how it must hurt you to talk about it. Believe me, I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t very important to me.”
“Well, we were all standing in our place outside B wing waiting for our bus. Margie was standing right next to the curb. Bus Eleven had picked up some students and was going around the driveway. Margie fell in front of it just as it was passing us. Her … her body made a real funny sound when the wheels went … when the wheels—”
“You don’t have to tell me that part,” Emily said quickly. “Were there many students there when it happened?”
“Billy Johnson was absent that day.”
“Yes, but how many other students were waiting for the bus?”
“I don’t know exactly, Mrs. Terrault. Fifteen, I guess. Maybe more.”
“And Mr. Johnson and Mrs. Biggs were there?”
“They were farther down the sidewalk talking to each other like they always do. Frank Mason said he saw them kissing one time.”
“Mary Ann, can you remember who was standing closest to Margie?”
“It’s awfully hard, Mrs. Terrault.”
“I know, Mary Ann. Please try.”
“Well, I was on one side of her. There was Frank Mason, Steve, Kathy and Zeke. I think Sammy was close to her too.”
“Kathy Eaton?”
“Yes. Mrs. Terrault, your finger is bleeding.”
Emily quickly took her hand from her mouth and wrapped the raw knuckle in the fo
lds of her skirt. “Did … Margie have any trouble with anyone? You know what I mean. Did she ever fight with anybody?”
“Do I have to tell the truth, Mrs. Terrault?”
“Please, Mary Ann.”
“Nobody liked Margie. She was always making fun of people, and she thought she was better than everybody else just because she was good in Gym.” The girl paused. “I’m sorry to say those things about Margie, but you asked me to tell the truth.”
“I know, I know, Mary Ann.” Emily took the girl in her arms, as much to hide her own tears as to comfort the child. “Was there one particular person she picked on more than anybody else?”
“Margie picked on everybody.”
“Did she pick on… Kathy Eaton?”
“Margie was always trying to pick a fight with Kathy, always bumping into her in Gym and calling her names. But Kathy never fought back. She’d just walk away. Kathy acts real grown-up. I like her a real lot.”
Emily gently pushed the girl away. Mary Ann’s head was bowed, her eyes cast down. Emily put her fingers under the girl’s chin and pressed very softly until the girl’s eyes met her own. “I just want to ask you one more thing, Mary Ann. Please try to think very hard before you answer. Did anything … unusual happen that day? I mean, do you remember anything strange that might have happened just before … the accident?”
The girl stared thoughtfully at Emily for a few moments, and then smiled, as at a happy memory. “Heath was being funny.”
“How was Heath being funny, Mary Ann?”
“He came running out of the school door—”
“Was this just before Bus Eleven started up?”
“I guess so. Anyway, Heath came running out of the school, and he was pretending he was an opera star, you know, singing funny and clowning around. Heath didn’t usually do things like that, so everybody was staring at him. Everybody was laughing at him except Mr. Johnson and Mrs. Biggs. I think they were mad. Then everybody stopped laughing when the bus ran over Margie.”
The dismissal bell rang. Emily made a pretense of searching for a paper, opened her desk drawer and turned on the tape recorder. She left the drawer partially open, then glanced up at the two children who had remained behind.
Strange Prey Page 6