Shares

by A. W. Gray

  “See there?” Mrs. Dunn picked up her saucer. The teacup jiggled.

  “Plus,” Meg said, “she did some time in federal prison.”

  “My goodness.” Tea mixed with cream sloshed around and dribbled over the edges of Mrs. Dunn’s cup to puddle in the saucer.

  “Also, for the clincher, she doesn’t even have any children.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Why would she be looking into a private school if she…?”

  “Exactly,” Meg said. “I want to call the police, Mrs. Dunn.”

  The headmistress firmed her lips. “We can’t go off half-cocked. What’s the source of your information, Miss Carpenter?”

  Meg opened, then closed her mouth. She’s got me there, she thought. What do I tell her, that I found out from the ex-convict, my weekend shackup whose past has just now come up to slap me in the face? The old tyrant would really get some mileage out of that. “Please trust me, ma’am,” Meg finally said.

  “I have to have more than just your word.” Mrs. Dunn said, “if I’m to tell the Board of Regents I’m calling the authorities in. I will do this, though. I’ll call Howard Molly and discreetly inquire about the lady.”

  Discreetly inquire? Meg thought. Discreetly inquire? We probably need around five thousand national guardsmen surrounding the place, and this woman’s going to discreetly inquire. Great. “I think it needs to be done immediately, ma’am,” Meg said.

  “This is Sunday, dear. People are otherwise occupied.”

  “I’m not sure we should chance another day. The kids will all be in the dorm tonight and I’ll be alone with them. Excuse me if I won’t be completely at ease.”

  “You’re alone with them every night except weekends, Miss Carpenter, and this will be no different. Mrs. Reed hasn’t reported anything out of the ordinary.”

  “It just takes one night, ma’am.”

  “No more melodrama, please. I’ve already said, I’ll call Howard Molly. Tomorrow.” Mrs. Dunn set her saucer down and folded her arms. Audience over.

  Meg’s jaws clenched. She looked at her lap and drew in breath. She sighed. “Thank you, ma’am,” she finally said.

  Meg pulled off Forest Lane into the Riverbend School grounds at five-fifteen, a quarter hour before she was to relieve Mrs. Reed, parked, and cut the engine. Tall trees surrounded the parking lot and perfectly mowed lawns showed on all sides through the trees. More stately elms and sycamores grew in front of the administration, classroom, and dormitory buildings. The weather was muggy, spring rain in the forecast, faraway thunderheads standing out against the horizon. Likely a tornado coming, Meg thought. All I need.

  She left the car and went halfway to the dorm, then stopped with her mouth working in thought. She retraced her steps, opened the Mazda’s passenger door, and fished inside the glove compartment. Finally she stood holding her Beretta .25 and dropped the pistol into her handbag, then moved on to the dorm. Her footsteps echoed from the tan brick walls of the building, and the sound seemed to linger forever in the air.

  As she ascended the steps and pushed open the door, she pictured Frank for perhaps the thousandth time that day. Twenty-four hours earlier she’d thought him the love of her life. And what the hell, she thought, I’m still crazy about the guy. Maybe in a few days the shock of knowing he’d lied to her would wear off. In the meanwhile, she’d take things one step at a time.

  13

  The Dalforth brats weren’t about to turn their radio down, they told Meg, and they’d damn well listen to whatever station they wanted. “The Edge is rad,” Trina said. She was a pretty blonde, tall and thin, wearing a shorty gown that barely covered the tops of spindly legs.

  “It’s awesome,” Trisha said. She was a blonde as well, bigger-busted and wider-hipped than her sister, and wore blue satin pj’s.

  Meg forced a smile and hoped she didn’t look as if she was in pain. “It may be rad, and it may be awesome. But it’s not what we’re going to broadcast up and down the hall. Other people want to sleep. Plus, I don’t think the sexual innuendos are what teenage girls should be listening to.”

  The girls exchanged snickers, and then Trisha wrinkled her nose. “It’s not Howard Stern, Miss Carpenter.”

  Meg folded her arms and leaned on the doorjamb. “Same stripe. Look, kids, when you’re at home I don’t control what you listen to. But we’re accountable to everybody’s parents, not just yours. I don’t care for anyone to know I’m letting you play the freaking Edge on the radio after bedtime. Why don’t you switch to ninety-eight point seven?” She glanced in turn at twin beds on either side, identical desks built into opposite walls, the entry to the bathroom the Dalforth girls shared with the students next door. Both desks were strewn with candy wrappers, lipstick, and wadded tissues. Shoes and clothes were scattered on the floor. “I don’t think you’ll pass inspection tomorrow unless you do some straightening up,” Meg said.

  Trisha picked up a brush and ran it through her hair. “Ooo, ninety-eight point seven, that’s oldies.”

  “But goodies,” Meg said. “Change the station or retrieve your radio from me in the morning.” The boom box blared from the windowsill, in front of the lowered shade. The Dalforths’ room was on the ground floor. The window was nailed shut from the outside, partially to protect the girls, but mainly to keep them from climbing out to snort dope with their friends. Earlier in the semester Meg had found nearly an ounce of cocaine in Trina’s footlocker. After a conference with the girls’ father (during which, Meg was sure, he’d opened his checkbook and made still another donation), Mrs. Dunn had swept the matter under the rug. A torrent of rain battered the window. The shade brightened, dimmed, then brightened again as lightning flashed.

  Trisha adjusted the volume on the radio. The disc jockey bantered on about Madonna’s appearance in Spain, where the Material Girl had rubbed the national flag up and down between her legs. According to the would-be radio comedian, after Madonna’s performance the flagpole had disappeared. How utterly quaint, Meg thought. “Change the station,” she said.

  Trisha stuck out her tongue and made no move to touch the dial.

  “That’s it, Matilda.” Meg stalked across the room, unplugged the radio, and stuffed it under her arm. “You can pick this up after breakfast. Oh, and it’s ten-thirty, girls. Lights out. We’re having lock-in tonight, by the way.”

  “You’re locking us in our room?” Trisha shot her sister a glance of panic. “It’s Sunday, Miss Carpenter. Hey, please.”

  “This isn’t punishment, if it’ll make you feel any better. I’m doing this for a reason.” Call it overreaction, Meg thought, but I’ll breathe a lot easier with the hatches battened down.

  “Is too punishment.” Trisha wailed. “And you’ll be hearing about it.”

  Meg blinked. “Oh? From whom?”

  “From Daddy.” Trisha picked up an issue of Vogue and angrily riffled the pages. She looked at her sister, then back at the magazine.

  “Well, I’ll tell you, Miss Dalforth,” Meg said, “you can tell Bill Clinton if you want. At this point I frankly don’t care who you tell. Lights out.”

  Trisha sneered. “Tough titty, aren’t you, Miss Carpenter.”

  One corner of Meg’s mouth bunched. “No, I’m not tough…whatever. I’m responsible for you.” How she kept from slapping both of these little trashmouths silly, she didn’t know. With a nod for emphasis, Meg backed into the hall, tightened her hold on the radio, fished in her robe pocket for the key, closed the door, and locked the deadbolt.

  From inside the room, her voice muffled, Trisha Dalforth said loudly, “Bitch.” Meg gave the key an extra-angry twist for good measure.

  With all eighty-six boarding students locked in their rooms, lightning flashing outside and thunderclaps shaking the windows, Meg prowled the corridors in her bathrobe. Like some kind of freaking Anne Boleyn, Meg thought, her head tucked underneath her arm, ta-t
aa. The Beretta bounced heavily around in her pocket. She rounded the corner into the east wing, went down the hallway and rattled the exit door. Securely locked, only one more to go. She retraced her steps, wrinkling her nose at the fire extinguisher, and made a left into the northern section. Thunder rolled. The lights went out for an instant, then flickered back on. Meg’s heart pounded as if trying to tear its way through her rib cage. She took a deep breath and plodded ahead. The double door was ten steps away, the safety bar across, the panels tightly…The left-hand portal was open a foot.

  Frowning, a painful lump suddenly in her throat, she pushed the door further out and peered outside. The overhead floodlight glinted through rain like pellets. An inch-deep flood of water cascaded from the porch and splattered on fine white gravel in the flower bed. Meg forced a laugh; who the hell would be wandering around in a typhoon? She backed inside, yanked the door to, secured the safety bar. As she retreated down the hall she reached in her pocket to touch the Beretta’s grip.

  She entered her apartment, locked the door behind her, and gazed in disgust on ungraded themes stacked on her kitchen table. The thunderstorm, coupled with the run-in with the Dal-forth brats, had Meg wired like ten gallons of coffee. She doubted she would sleep a wink, much less face a herd of boy-crazy sophomores in the morning with anything resembling a smile on her face. She picked up the papers and doggedly lugged them through the bathroom.

  The apartment was a converted dormitory suite, with the bathroom in between the bedroom and kitchen/dining area. As she passed the shower, water dripped on tile. She’d had to buy a new twin bed when she’d moved in, because the king-size from her North Dallas apartment simply wouldn’t fit. She sat on the mattress, scootched her fanny up to lean against the headboard, and steadied the pile of papers in her lap. She reached in her nightstand for her grade book, then looked in irritation toward the lit-up TV.

  Jesus Christ, after eleven already. On the screen, the late news was wrapping up. She reached for the remote to turn the damned thing off. The remote wasn’t in its usual place on the nightstand, so she slid the drawer open and felt inside. As she did, the television clicked off on its own.

  Meg sat up straighter. Lightning flashed outside the window. Thunder shook the building.

  A woman came out of the bathroom carrying the remote in one hand. In the other she held a revolver, which she pointed at Meg. “I can’t stand TV, can you?” the woman said in a clear West Coast accent. She wore jean cutoffs and a man’s shirt with the sleeves rolled up a couple of turns. A black ski mask covered her features, her eyes and mouth visible, outlined in white.

  Meg couldn’t move. Her throat constricted. The papers slid from her lap and fluttered to the floor.

  A big man followed the woman in and stood beside her. Wet, shoulder-length blond hair hung below the bottom of his ski mask, which was identical to the woman’s. He had a weightlifter’s sloping shoulders and wore a muscle shirt along with black spandex shorts. The chauffeur, Meg thought. Sure, drove the minivan. Why the ski masks? she thought. God, do they think I’m a retard? A tight knot of fear growing in her chest, Meg giggled.

  The woman raised the pistol in both hands, and aired back the hammer with two sharp clicks.

  Meg said, “The,” then her voice faltered. She cleared her throat and said, “The kids are all locked up. You can’t get to them.”

  The woman and the muscle man exchanged a glance. He crossed in front of the woman and walked up to stand near the head of the bed. The woman said, “We can’t?”

  Meg firmed her lips. “No, you can’t. So you might as well leave.”

  The woman tilted her head. “Well, maybe they can come out. You think?”

  Meg raised her voice. “They can’t get out. You can’t get them.” On her right, the big man laughed.

  “Well, since they can’t get out,” the woman said, “then they won’t see us carrying you down the hall, will they?”

  Meg stared.

  The woman nodded and waved the pistol. “Sure it’s you, you dumb bitch. What, you think people can’t find out who you are?”

  The man grabbed Meg’s wrist and brought a wad of cloth up from behind him. She tried to pull back, but it was as if her arm were clamped in a vise. He pressed the cloth over her mouth and nose, and heady fumes wafted up her nostrils. The room tilted crazily. The woman’s image blurred. Meg held her breath until her lungs ached, then gave it up and inhaled. Her senses left her. Just as she passed out cold, she remembered the Beretta in her pocket. Useless, Meg thought dreamily, useless as hell.

  Part II

  Excecution

  “ ‘Mr. Arrington, are you testifying today of your own volition?’

  ‘Sure am’

  ‘You haven’t made any deals, or received any offers of leniency?’

  ‘Not a one.’

  ‘And if you would, sir, please tell the jury. Why would you agree to do this?’

  ‘ ‘Cause I want the record straight. I wanted the money, sure, but the rest was all him. Wasn’t none o’ me, wantin’ to kill that woman.’ ”

  —from trial transcript,

  State of Texas v. Gilbert Wayne Arrington

  and Ronnie Louis Ward

  14

  Frank was so dead to the world that the shotgun prodded his cheek three times before he came to.

  He’d tossed and turned and stalked his apartment until three in the morning, picking up the phone to call Meg a half-dozen times before changing his mind. When he finally did sleep he had a series of nightmares, all with Darla Bern as the main performer. A couple of the dreams featured Darla in a Catwoman costume, scaling walls with feline grace and snatching sleeping kids from their beds. Twice Frank woke up in a cold sweat, got up, and plodded into the kitchen for a drink of ice water. Finally at six in the morning he snored off, only to dream of Darla once more. This time she was in bondage-game leather, snapping a lion tamer’s whip at three teenagers who cowered in a corner. Just as she reared back to strike, something hard poked against Frank’s cheek. He pushed the thing away and snuggled deeper under the covers. Darla had changed in the dream; now vampire fangs protruded from her mouth. The something hard nudged Frank a second time. He pushed it away again. He was in the dream room with Darla now, reaching out to grab her hand as she cracked the whip. He strained with all his might, trying to…The hard thing prodded Frank again, with enough force to cut his cheek against his teeth. A husky male voice said, “You’re not asleep, asshole.” Frank opened his eyes. He tasted blood.

  He was looking down the barrel of a sawed-off over-and-under. The slim young guy holding the shotgun squinted one eye. “Please try something, motherfuck,” he said.

  There was movement on Frank’s left. He ran his tongue over the cut in his mouth as he shifted his gaze, getting a profile view of a second guy, this one husky with thick hair the color of dishwater, standing over the bureau with the top drawer open, rummaging around inside. Frank looked back at the shotgun. The slim guy grinned at him.

  “The money’s on top,” Frank said, “in a clip, next to the wallet.” His throat was dry. He was still too sleepy to be really scared, but the fear glands were beginning to flow.

  The husky one paused, holding up one of Frank’s three neckties. The tie was blue with white polka dots. “You got shitty taste, man,” the guy said. “And I already found the money. You got thirty-eight bucks, Rockefeller, you think this is a heist?” He wore faded jeans along with a waist-length blue windbreaker. He turned his back to reveal “FBI” stitched between his shoulder blades in large gold letters. “We’re the heat, Harold. Now you get up slow and get some britches on.”

  Frank expelled breath as anger welled. “Move the fucking shotgun,” he said.

  The thin guy sneered and prodded Frank’s nose with the barrel.

  Frank watched the guy. “I said move it. And show me a warrant or get the fuck out of my apartment.”

>   The windbreaker wearer closed the drawer, turned to face the bed, leaned his rump against the bureau and folded his arms. “We got no warrant, Waldo. You used to be a cop, Chris, you’d know about all that. This is what we call emergency strategy. You don’t like it, write your congressman.” He looked toward the shotgun toter and said, “You can lower the weapon. You won’t have to shoot this guy. Watch Mr. White put his pants on and then escort him out in the living room.” He stepped toward the bedroom exit.

  The guy backed off and lowered the over-and-under, barrels up. Frank threw the sheet back and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Mr. Windbreaker paused in the doorway and turned back. “The pants are optional, Oscar. But there’s a lady waiting for you out here. You want to see her in your underwear, it’s up to you.”

  There were two more men in FBI windbreakers searching the kitchen. As Frank came out of the bedroom followed closely by the shotgun, one agent toasted Frank with a coffee cup. “How you doing?” the agent said. They’d helped themselves, the Mr. Coffee pot half full on the counter alongside a pound tin of Folgers and a jar of powdered coffee creamer. The second agent was down on his haunches, peering up under the sink.

  Frank made a right and led Mr. Shotgun into the living room. The shock had just about worn off, and Frank wasn’t sure how he felt. Mad, yes. Afraid as well. The first year he’d been on parole, he’d felt like diving for cover every time a squad car drove by. As he entered the living room his emotions congealed into a lump that settled into the pit of his stomach like lead.

  Ms. Marjorie Rapp wore the same outfit as the last time Frank had seen her, a plain brown dress with a shapeless skirt bunched around her calves, and brown flats. She clutched her plain brown shoulder bag in her lap, just as she had at the icecream counter, and regarded Frank with lifeless eyes beneath grainy lids. She was seated on the sofa alongside the husky FBI man. Frank coughed nervously and sat in an easy chair. Mr. Shotgun stood off to one side.