“Oh, dear! You said this to Dr. Emery?”
“I'm sorry if I embarrassed you, Mom, but it was something I had to do. They can't keep talking about how Barry killed himself, when he didn't! I know he didn't!”
Her mother's cheeks seemed to sag and she looked more tired than she sometimes did on a day when she'd had an especially heavy work load at the office. “Then I don't understand why Mr. Grant called you,” she murmured.
“Because I'm supposed to be an example too. I'm the example of the tragic aftermath—the emotionally and mentally disturbed wreck—that someone committing suicide doesn't think about.”
“Oh, Marti!”
Marti tossed her apple core into the sink and turned on the garbage disposer. “He's just trying to use me, Mom. I don't want to talk to Mr. Grant.”
“Of course you don't!” her mother said. Color was returning to her cheeks, and her eyes snapped with anger. “I'm sorry, Marti. I didn't understand what he wanted. I'll tell him in no uncertain terms to leave you alone!” She stomped from the room, and Marti could hear her on the telephone in the den. She couldn't make out the words, but the tone of voice was unmistakable.
Parker Grant telephoned again an hour later, but Marti's father firmly asked him not to call the house anymore, and Grant grudgingly acceded.
Marti put him out of her mind and the next day tried to make it through classes, eager for school to be over, eager to talk to Karen again. But at noon an electric charge of excitement crackled through the high school as word got around that a film crew was oncampus. Marti went into the girls’ room and stayed there, ignoring the curious glances some of the girls were giving her, until the bell rang for the next period.
She walked out into the hallway and straight into a barrage of lights and cameras.
“I told you. There she is!” a girl called out, and Parker Grant stepped forward with a microphone.
“Marti Lewis,” he said, “you were close to Barry Logan. Girlfriend? In love with him? We're told that the pain you're left with is so strong that you can't come to terms with the reality of Barry's suicide. Could you tell us how you feel about—”
With all her strength, Marti swung her shoulder bag into the microphone, knocking it to the ground. She shoved Mr. Grant as he bent to retrieve it, elbowed and pushed through the crowd that had gathered, and ran down the hall and into Mn Thompson's empty classroom; She dropped into the nearest chair, shaking with anger, too hurt to cry.
The door opened, and Emmet came in.She was surprised when he sat next to her. “Why didn't you tell him off?” he asked.
Marti took a long, shuddering breath. “It wouldn't do any good. He wouldn't care what I said. None of them do.”
“That's because nobody believes you.”
Hie door opened and Mr. Thompson walked to his desk. He studied Marti. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
The door opened again, and she heard the same voice. “She's in here,” it said.
“Oh, please!” Marti begged, and put her hands over her face.
Mr. Thompson strode to the door, barring it with his arm. “Nobody gets in here but my students,” he said.
“We have permission from your superintendent to film on campus,” Marti heard Parker Grant saying.
“Not in my classroom,” Mr. Thompson said. “Now, move, please, so my students can get past you. The second bell is going to ring ina few minutes.” He went out into the hallway, shutting the door firmly. Marti could hear voices rising in anger, then subsiding.
A few of the other kids straggled into the room, and Marti began to relax.
“Do me a favor,” Emmet said. He held out his lit text to show her. “This page of my book got torn. The top two lines of one of the poems |s gone.”
Marti glanced at it. “We haven't even gotten to that section yet.”
“I don't care. I need it.” He shoved a piece of notepa-per and a pen onto the arm desk of her chair. “You've got time now. Just write it down for me. Okay? It's no big deal, is it?”
Marti sighed. She might as well. Class wasn't going to begin for a few minutes because half the kids were still out in the hall with the television crew. She opened her book to the page Emmet indicated.
“Right there,” he said and pointed. “Just the first two lines.”
Carefully, Marti wrote:
I warmed both hands before the fire of life,
It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
As she got to the last word, Emmet snatched at the paper, and the pen scratched a ragged blue line across the page. Marti looked up at him, surprised.
“It doesn't have to be neat. Besides, Mr. Thompson's ready to start class.” Emmet shoved the paper into his notebook.
“How many of you read the weekend's assignment?” Mr. Thompson began, and Mart! held up her hand, trying to keep her mind on what he was saying.
He didn't call on Marti. When the last bell rang he raised his voice. “Charlie, Tony, J.B., Pete-some of the rest of you—let's give Marti a little cover. Okay?” He turned to Marti. “I don't know if the reporters and cameramen are out there or not,” he said. “Just to play it safe, we'll walk you to my car and I'll give you a ride home.”
“Thanks!” Marti said. The tight fist that was squeezing her stomaqh began to unclench.
None of the network people were in sight when Mr. Thompson opened the door. Her bodyguards took her to the faculty parking lot just the same and, after she gave him directions, Mr. Thompson drove her home.
He glanced into the rearview mirror and said, “I think we've got a cop escort. Maybe I should stick around and find out why.”
Marti twisted to look at the car behind them. “It's okay” she said. “It's Karen Prescott. She's a friend of mine.”
Mr. Thompson stopped his car in front of Marti's house. “Take care,” he said. He had asked no questions, given no advice, and Marti was grateful.
As Mr. Thompson drove off, the marked police car pulled against the curb and Karen got out. In spite of the heat her uniform was uncreased, but she looked tired. For a moment she leaned against the car, one wrist resting on the large holster at her hip. “I saw you leave the school,” she said. “I heard what happened to you during your lunch hour, so I thought I'd show up about the time class let out and stand by.” She walked to the house with Marti but hesitated, remaining outside as Marti opened the front door.
“Can't you come in?” Marti asked.
“I can't. I'm on duty,” Karen told her, but she made no move to leave.
“Is something wrong? What's the matter?” Marti asked.
“My boss, Sergeant Bill Nieman, gave me the word in no imcertain terms,” Karen said. Her voice was soft with apology. “I'm terribly sorry, Marti. As far as the brass is concerned, there is no case to investigate. I'm supposed to back off. I was told to drop my investigation.”
CHAPTER • 14
Marti clung to the door for support. “I was so sure you'd help me,” she whispered.
Karen took a step forward and put a gentle hand on Marti's shoulder. She looked almost as disappointed as Mayti felt. “So far we've come up with nothing concrete.” she said.
“We can keep tryuig,”
“Even if this were a legitimate departmental case of suspected murder,” Karen said, “only so much time would be spent on it. When leads dry up, after two or three weeks the case isfiled. It's officially open, but no one works on it Officers are assigned to other cases.”
Marti rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes and stared at Karen. “I thought the police kept working untfi they solved every murder case.”
“Only on TV, I'm afraid.”
“So sometimes murders aren't solved?”
“It's not the way we want it, but that's the way it is.”
Marti rested her head against the door. “I thought I could count on you.”
“Oh, Marti, you can,” Karen said. “Official or not, if you find out anything that m
ight help, give me a call. I'll listen. As long as I'm with the department, I'll help where and when I can.”
Marti gasped. “Do you mean they might fire you?”
“No. Not that,” Karen answered. One corner of her mouth twisted up in a wry smile. “I'm getting some pressure from another source. From Greg. He wants me back in Houston and, to be honest with you, I'm considering it.”
Marti studied Karen's face. “You love him very much, don't you?”
“That's been the problem all along.”
“In a way, I wish you didn't love him—if he's going to make you leave Farrington Park,” Marti said.
“Some of it's your fault,” Karen told her.
“Mine?”
“Yes. Remember what you said about trust? I've been giving that a lot of thought. Maybe I've been too pessimistic. Maybe I've just been trying to avoid being hurt. Whatever the reason, I haven't allowed myself to trust either Greg or myself. It's kind of funny.”
“Funny?”
“Yes. That I'd get a lecture on love from a girl who could be my younger sister. In some ways I think you might be older than I am.”
Marti tried to smile. “I told you when I met you that I thought you were too young.” She took a step forward, suddenly fearful. “Oh, Karen, don't go yet. What about Tony and Charlie? What if something terrible happens to them?”
“We're working only with suppositions” Karen said. “We have nothing to go on, no more leads to follow.” Marti groaned and hugged her arms close to her body. “Isn't there something we can do?”
Karen thought a minute, then said, “Go over and over every single detail, Marti Maybe there's something you haven't thought of yet, something you've seen or heard that might give us a direction to investigate. Think hard.” “If I do come up with something, will you be here?” Karen smiled, “I'll be around for a while.” Marti watched as Karen ran down the walk, climbed into the police ear. and drove away. “I won't give up,” Marti said aloud, but she had never felt so terribly alone.
When she arrived at school the next morning. Marti was met by Parker Grant and his television crew. Anguished, she stared straight ahead, ignoring his questions and biting her tongue to keep from shouting what she thought of him, as she hurried up the steps and through the main doors of the school To her surprise, she wasn't followed inside the building.
0ne of the school clerks, who had been watching out of the windows that flanked the doors, gave her a friendly smile. “Thank Mr. Thompson for that,” she said. “He raised so much hell about the crew disrupting classes that Mr. BiHingsly told them they'd have to stay out of the building.”
Marti, still unnerved, hurried to her locker, where she found Kim waiting for her.
Kim stepped forward, an artificially bright tooth- paste-ad smile on her face. “Why don't we do something after school? We could go to the mall.” Her voice was so filled with enthusiasm, Marti wanted to tell her that she didn't have to put on such an act “Or if you don't want to do that,” Kim went on, “we could—”
Marti interrupted. “Let's go to the mall. Have you got your car?”
Kim blinked a couple of times. “You want to?”
“Isn't that what you'd like to do?”
“You mean you'll go with me?”
“That's what I said.” Marti smiled. “You were trying too hard, you know. If you chewed up scenery like that in drama class, you'd get kicked out.”
Kim leaned back against the lockers and giggled. “I waskicked out. Remember when we were putting on The Women and I fell over the coffee table onstage and ruined Act Two and Mrs. Harper's teaset?”
“It would be hard to forget.”
Kim looked up at Marti and said, “I thought it might help if you could get your mind off everything that's been going on. You've been awfully uptight.”
“I guess I have,” Marti said.
“I mean, you and that police officer—”
“She's been ordered not to do any more investigating about what happened to Barry.”
Kim gave a loud sigh of relief. “I really think that's good, Marti. Sooner or later you're going to have to put all of this out of your mind.”
Not until I find the answers, Marti thought. If I have to work on my own, it's going to make it harder, but I won't give up.
During history, when they were given time for individual research on their midterm papers, Marti put the history project aside and wrote down everything she could remember that concerned Barry—all that had happened, eveiy detail, induding the crank telephone calls, Someone had taken the gun from Charlie's house. Someone had gone through the things in Barry's bedroom and taken the pictures of the Cuatros, Was it because of the photograph showing the gun? Who would the picture incriminate? Only the Guatros.
Marti realized she must have groaned, because Kim, who was seated in the row next to her, poked her with die eraser end of a pencil and made a face, shaking her head.
First of all, who would have known the hiding place of the gun? Only the Cuatros.
Unless one of them had told someone else!
The bell buzzed loudly, and Marti jumped. As everyone pushed to leave the room, Marti elbowed through the crowd until She reached Tony and grabbed his arm, jertog him to one side of the hallway.
“What's the matter with you?” Tony asked.
“Did you ever tell anyone-r-anyone at all—about the gun and where it was?”
Tony's eyes widened. “Keep it down. Of course I didn't. I never talked about it to anybody.”
“How about Charlie? Or would you know?”
“I know. He swore to me that no one but the Cuatros knew about it”
“Do you think that Barry told anyone?”
“Never. Barry didn't even want to think about the gun.” He paused “If he told anybody, it would have been you, wouldn't it?”
So that leaves Thad.
“Are you okay?” Tony asked. “You look kind of funny.”
“I'm all right,” Marti said, and without another word to Tony, hurried down the hall to the girls’ room. She leaned on the sink and stared at herself in the mirror, trying to think.
If Thad had talked, whom would he have talked to? The answer was obvious. To Emmet.
Barry knew Emmet. He would have let him into his house without question. Had Barry turned his back? Had Emmet struck, knocking Barry unconscious, then placed the gun in Barry's right hand and—
But how about the note? How did Emmet get Barry to write what everyone thought was a suicide note? There was no time to work that problem out now. She was going to be late for class.
By the time she arrived in Mr. Thompson's lit class, Marti's head ached. If Emmet had the answer, how was she going to discover it?
She paused in the open doorway. Most of the seats were filled. Charlie sat at the far end of the horseshoe of chairs. Tony sat in the middle of the loop next to Emmet As Marti watched, Emmet—his'back to her— pulled a piece of paper from his notebook and handed it to Tony.
What was that all about?
There was one way to find out. Debbie was sitting on Emmet's right, so Marti walked over to her, mumbled a few words of greeting, and turned quickly, bumping the arm of Emmet's chair. His notebook and textbooks went flying.
“Oh, I'm sorry!” Marti cried. She managed to elbow between Tony and Emmet, who had slid from his chair, scrabbling to pick up his books. She snatched the paper from Tony's hands. “What is this?” she asked.
“Some stuff Thomson gave before I eamgin” Tony said. “Emmet said I could copy his list”
Marty read:
I don't fear death any longer.
When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces.
There were two more quotations, but the first line was enough. She didn't have to read any further. “Don't copy this!” she whispered into Tony's ear. She shoved the paper back into his hand just as Emmet climbed back onto his chair.
Emmet scowled and said something to her, but the buzz of the secon
d bell drowned out his words. Marti slipped into the lone empty seat just as Mr. Thompson rose from his desk and promptly began class, Marti watched as Tony, a puzzled frown on his face, handed the paper back to Emniet.
So that's how the “suicide note” was written. Emmet had given Barry a list like that, timing it so that Barry would only be able to copy the first one before the bell rang and Mr. Thompson took over. Maybe she should have let Tony copy his first line, just to see if Emmet would have pulled his list away as soon as the first sentence had been written. No. She couldn't take that choice with Tony's life,.
“Marti, will you please read the first stanza of Coleridge's The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.’ If you haven't found it yet, if s at the top of page 198.”
Like those of an automaton, Marti's numb fingers; fumbled to the correct page. I've-got to get in temch with Karen and tell her what I've found out Tony is Emmet's next target?
Shivering, she began to read, and she could hear her words strung out like lumps of ice:
It is an ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
“By thy long gray beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?’
We've got to warn Tony. Karen has to protect him.
“How has Coleridge chosen to open his poem?” Mr. Thompson asked.
“Umm … he's starting with the sailor, the Mariner … He's setting a—”
Wait! I kept Tony from copying it!
“Setting a what?” Mr. Thompson asked.
“Oh … a scene. He's beginning the story.”
What about Charlie? Has Emmet gotten to him yet?
“Who are the three he stopped?”
“The three he … ? Oh. They're guests who are going to the wedding. Yes. Wedding guests.”
I have to talk to Charlie and Tony. Right after class is over. Both of them.
Marti was aware that Mr. Thompson was studying her, even though he was now questioning one of the other students. She leaned back in her chair, the book unsteady in her Shaking hands.
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