Kiss Them Goodbye

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Kiss Them Goodbye Page 18

by Joseph Eastburn


  She tried to jerk away—but he held on. “Look, Robby, I apologize for arousing you. It was unintentional.”

  “But I helped you. Now help me a little.”

  “Take your hand off my arm.” She said this sharply, with authority, her voice echoing across the pavement.

  He looked around, startled, releasing her arm. “You’ll give me what I want—you watch.”

  “Get lost,” she said over her shoulder.

  She stepped inside, still hearing Cole’s footsteps on the gravel getting farther away. When she closed the door, she sighed, her heart throbbing. Though she was rattled, she had to focus on why she was here. This had to be fast. Her mind was racing.

  First she went through the drawers in the desk. Nothing. Then through his suitcase. She unzipped his bath kit. After-shave, razors, deodorant, toothbrush, hand cream. She lifted the shirts, ties, and underwear piled neatly in the suitcase. Again nothing. She looked around the room.

  She saw a black briefcase sticking a few inches out from behind the bed frame. She smiled and pulled it out. It was unlocked. He hadn’t been expecting this.

  A sound in the bathroom? She looked around the dark room for a second, her breath quickening—must be her anxiety. When she opened the briefcase, she saw a number of official documents in a manila folder. Checklists for the latent investigation. Copies of initial offense reports. Copies of the reconstructions of both murders.

  Underneath these documents, she found a leather flap that was snapped down into the bottom of the case. She unsnapped it and lifted it up.

  “Hello,” she whispered.

  She paged through Fowler’s supplemental reports; these hadn’t been included with the others Judy Bayard had copied from the safe inside the station. She had already studied those.

  She skimmed through them.

  These follow-up reports hadn’t had supervisory approval yet; there were no signatures. As she read them, it occurred to her they had never been seen by the department.

  She knelt down in the edge of light seeping through the curtain, reading breathlessly. All the reports were about the same boy—the student outside whose room the first victim had been found.

  She replaced the reports, sliding the briefcase back behind the bed. When she looked around the room, she didn’t see the eyes in the dark corner—she didn’t hear the squeak of shoes—the scrape of material. Her attention was elsewhere when she let herself out.

  35

  WOULD HAVE BEEN fun, dancing the Cha-cha, cutting her.

  Start with the items in the medicine cabinet: pill bottles, prescription—some kind of ointment, aspirin, Pepto-Bismol, powder, witch hazel . . . pick up each, touch them, hold them, leave my energy, my germs, breathe on each of them, yes. Leave the voices in my head behind his mirror . . . he opens it, swarms, cries jump out at him.

  Could have tied her down, gagged her, given her a little anesthetic for some major surgery—or no needle—just the knife. See if a woman’s blood tastes sweeter than a boy’s. Don’t believe it.

  Voices intensifying now, soaring through my head. Pick up his bath kit: shave cream, deodorant, disposable razors, after-shave. Fondle them, touch everything—Band-Aids—might need a few of those, mouthwash, toothpaste, cologne, antacid, touch all, keep the scissors. Into the main room.

  Just the same, could have sliced off her tits and arranged them on the end table by the phone, called the desk, light blinking in the dark—he comes in, switches on the lamp, surprise!

  Now touch the ties, the shirts, smell them, clothes folded neatly in the suitcase. There, a laundry tag: “Nk-Flr,” carefully cut out, so he knows, remembers me, so he can worry. Use that antacid.

  Could have just strangled her, made it look like a quarrel—he catches her in his room, subdues her, oops, pinches her larynx. No, then he’d be out of my hands. She’s more valuable alive. She will lead you to me, Lieutenant.

  Funny, don’t get the same vibe as I do with boys, have to work on it, getting there though. Touching his pants, inside the cuffs, the pockets, feeling closer. Just for a minute, pull down the covers, lie on the sheets, voices blaring, conversations, a cacophony, then a terrifying stillness. Smell the fresh linen. Have to stop this—I’m losing my essence. You’re taking it away from me, Fowler. Stealing my verve. Voices in my head say not yet.

  I want to kill you.

  They say wait.

  36

  FOWLER WAS PATROLLING the campus. The black Buick’s headlights swept up the steep hill in front of the school, under the stone arch that joined Ardsley and Booth halls. The sidewalks were empty as he rolled slowly past the library, the auditorium, the infirmary, up a slight grade to the gymnasium, and out into the parking lot.

  He got out of the car and gazed at the tennis courts, the track, and football field beyond. The goalposts were visible from the floodlights outside the gym just behind him. His shadow loomed across the field.

  He remembered how—before his Dad was shot—he had played football with Nick and his brother, Jim, now a career military officer stationed overseas. Jim was two years older. Like most fathers, Nick’s dad was partial to his older son. It was unspoken. The ball just flew in Jim’s direction more times. Jim got more attention, more love, and when it came time for Nick to choose professions, he chose his father’s to compensate. Jim didn’t have to.

  It didn’t really rankle Nick that much. It was something he accepted, but there was a distance between him and his brother. Nick knew that’s what kept them separate as they got older. Now they were out of touch.

  Nick saw his brother hike the ball back to his father. Nick was running downfield. He cut, made a crossing pattern. He saw the ball in the air. Sped up to meet it. Arms out, reaching for the ball. As it came toward him, he saw it wasn’t a ball. It was Finkelstein’s head, blood dripping from the neck, the mouth open, screaming right into his hands. Against his chest. He dropped it. Again.

  Nick heard himself yell, the echo going across the field. His head was down between his knees, breathing hard. He stood up and looked around. There was some movement in the bushes at the edge of the track—between the woods and the gym, a dark shape. He was losing it now, seeing things, afraid he was being followed. Paranoid. He faced the bushes defiantly. He was about to break into a run.

  He heard a crackle on the car radio. He jogged over, opened the door, listened to the transmission, got in, and turned the key.

  IT WAS TOO bad that Ballard couldn’t remember what had been running through his mind. For a long time, he didn’t know where he was. He thought his eyes gazed up into a dark sky. He thought he was lying at the bottom of a primeval cliff where a red sun flashed over the horizon, sunk out of sight, only to reappear then sink again. He heard a crackling sound. Rattlesnakes, he was sure. Dinosaurs.

  It was a while later he realized he was looking up at the hedge in the backyard of South End; the red sun was a police light revolving, throwing its beams along the wall of tiny leaves. A stick of smelling salts had been broken under his nose. A police radio came up into a hand above him.

  “This is Fowler. We have a student down in the back of South End, one of the dorms up at the school. An EMS vehicle already on the scene. We’ll take care of it, over.” The radio answered in a garbled language Ballard couldn’t understand.

  Marty Orloff leaned against Fowler’s car. He had found Ballard near the hedge and had called the emergency medical service. A young woman washed the blood off and examined Ballard’s face. Nothing was broken. He would have two black eyes, terrible bruises. She lifted his head up, giving him a paper cup full of water to take a painkiller with. She held an ice pack on his face and asked him to keep it there. He was to come to the hospital emergency room the next day. Now he should get some sleep.

  Fowler walked over to where Marty was leaning against the car.

  “He was following a student named who?”

  “Gluckner.”

  “Did anyone else come or go?”

  Marty
flipped the pad in his hand. “Ms. Coates, his math teacher, with another teacher—what’s his name.”

  Fowler cranked the back door of the car open and pulled a bound book off the backseat. He handed the book to Marty. “The yearbook for last spring. See if he’s in there.”

  Marty paged through the faculty pages of the book. “Okay, that’s him. Mr. Toby. English teacher. Huh. Drama club. Webster Society.”

  “Marty, when did they go out?”

  “About forty-five minutes ago.”

  “Then?”

  “This guy Gluckner drags the Ballard kid out and dumps him by the hedge. Beat him up pretty bad.”

  “Okay, good work. Look, I’m going to drive the kid home. I want to talk to him. I want you to watch this house all night if necessary. I want to speak to Ms. Coates tonight.”

  “Shall I call this in?” Marty looked up at Fowler.

  “No, I’ll make out the offense report.”

  Marty glanced at Nick. “You’re the boss.”

  Fowler let that slide. He gave Marty a look that let him know he was in no mood. He carefully led Ballard to the passenger side of the car, helped him inside, and drove slowly down the hill into Ravenstown.

  They rode in silence for several minutes.

  Finally Fowler loosened his tie, turned to the boy. “You all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You said Gluckner made fun of you in the library?”

  “He never used to bother me.”

  “But he suddenly starts picking on you . . .” Fowler turned the corner and drove up a hill past the waterfall. The road circled past High Street, around the lake. “What did he make fun of you about?”

  “Nothing.” The boy buried his face in the ice pack.

  “Cary. What did he make fun of you about?” The tone in his voice was sharper now.

  The boy’s head was bobbing from weakness. “Janine.”

  “The girl in the graveyard.”

  The boy looked at him with surprise then shook his head. “What is it with them?”

  “Them?”

  Ballard turned groggily to face him. “First Finkelstein, then Gluckner does the same thing.”

  “You mean he also made fun of her?”

  Ballard snorted. “Yeah, really.”

  Fowler was silent as he pulled the car into Brookside Cottage. He shut off the engine. “Cary, I need to ask you something.” He turned slightly in the seat. “Are you as angry at Gluckner as you were at Finkelstein and Crawford?”

  Ballard looked at him strangely. “What?”

  “As soon as you get angry at someone, they . . . end up dead.”

  Cary stared out the windshield. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “There must be a link, that’s all I’m saying.” Nick was deep in thought. “It can’t be a coincidence.”

  Ballard’s face was beginning to hurt. “What are you going to do?” he said, his eyes watering.

  “Nothing, yet.” Fowler reached over, ran his hand through the boy’s hair. “But you got to help me out here, Cary. I’m running out of time.”

  Cary Ballard’s young face was somber as he got out of the car and ambled over to the front door of the cottage.

  WHEN HE OPENED the door to his room, Ballard saw Mr. Bendleby, his housemaster, seated awkwardly in his desk chair. Across the room, squatting on the sagging bedsprings, was Mr. Allington.

  Ballard looked from one man to the other. Neither man moved much, but both opened their eyes in shock.

  “What on earth happened to you?” Allington said, standing up.

  “Nothing—got into a fight, sir.”

  “With whom?”

  “Gluckner.”

  Allington stood up, pacing the room. He stopped near Ballard long enough to touch his chin and inspect the damage. “God,” he exclaimed under his breath. “First you faint, then this.”

  Ballard lowered his head.

  Bendleby moved awkwardly in the little desk chair. “Say, uh, Ballard, why didn’t you tell me you were involved in this, uh, you know—”

  “Just a moment,” Allington broke in. “We’re not sure of that yet, Mr. Bendleby. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask the boy a few questions.”

  “Uh, sure, I just, uh, like the boys down here to let me know what’s going on, so I don’t, you know, have to be the last to, uh—”

  “I understand,” Mr. Allington said. “You have every right to know. So does the entire student body and faculty of Ravenhill. As do the parents of these unfortunate boys. And the police.”

  “Ah,” Bendleby said, setting his jaw against these facts.

  “Mr. Ballard,” Allington started. “This afternoon I asked you to bring me the other pair of white gloves. When you did not return, I decided to come look myself. In the meantime, I’ve had a long talk with Captain Weathers.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said quietly.

  Allington stood up and opened Ballard’s closet door. “Let’s stop playing games, shall we?” He slipped several hangers across the metal bar that was holding up his clothes. When Allington came to his dark winter coat, he thrust his hands in the pockets. Nothing was there.

  “The second pair of gloves, Ballard?”

  The boy looked down at the floor. “I must have lost them, sir.”

  Allington was about to close the closet door, when a sock hanging on the door hook fell down. He picked it up. Something caught his eye. It was a name tag on the neck of the sock. He walked slowly over to Ballard and held the sock down in front of the boy’s face. He could plainly see the name on the tag: It said Harold J. Finkelstein.

  Ballard looked numbly down at the sock. It was navy blue.

  “I’m going to have to show this to Captain Weathers, Cary. I’m sorry.”

  Ballard nodded again. Bendleby sat very still in the chair.

  37

  WHEN BALLARD AWOKE, his eyes were full of stars. He was lying on the roof in a kind of half sleep. He had been having a dream about Crawford and Finkelstein, where they moved toward him in slow motion, their arms waving. They asked him why he had killed them. When they spoke, bubbles came out of their mouths as though they were fish.

  He felt the soft tar under his back. He realized each image from the dream fixed itself on a star in the black sky. He rolled over and slowly got up to his knees. That was when he heard a sound on the pavement below. He walked silently to the edge of the roof but saw no one was there. He looked across the road at the woods. He thought they were dark and terrible. He walked to the roof door, then down the stairs to the rooms.

  He shuffled into his room, not wanting to put on his light for fear that he would wake up Bendleby. He felt the gloom pressing in again and just stood there, thinking he should run away. Take off in the middle of the night, he thought, pack a suitcase and grab a bus home. Then he realized how that would go over. His mother would freak out.

  He heard a footstep on the roof. His neck began to tingle as shivers chased up and down his spine. He stood stock-still, his eyes glued to his ceiling. Another foot scraped across the tar. Then the sound came from a place on his ceiling that was closer to the window. Ballard tried to remember what that side of the roof looked like. He had just been there. There was the small retaining wall, from which drooped the old mansard eaves, covered with slate. His window was cut into the side of the front eave.

  His breath was racing in and out of his lungs. He now distinctly heard a spring as the weight of someone left the roof and started sliding down the slate next to his window. Again, he couldn’t seem to move. He felt helpless to run.

  A foot appeared on the wide sill. Then another foot. The knees of a figure started to bend down and the face came into view, as it always had, draped in the black scarf. The hat was pulled a little lower than usual. The eyes glowered down at the bed under the window, then seemed, like a cat, immediately to accustom themselves to the dark and raised up searching, finding the boy standing there frozen in the middle of the room. Hands crawled up t
he windowpane and slipping fingernails over the top window ripped the window down so there was nothing between the figure and the boy.

  “Come here,” it said in a hoarse whisper.

  Ballard wet himself.

  “Did you hear what I said?” the whisper came again.

  “Yes.”

  Ballard took a step forward. The wet material on his thighs seized the loose flesh inside his pants, then broke loose as he strode toward the figure looming in the window. The hat wrenched down, the scarf whipped tightly across the face, the hunched shoulders, all seemed to lunge toward him—but it was he who was lunging toward the figure—his fragile hands reaching toward the face.

  The figure drew back but didn’t stop him. Then both hands, still shaking, were on the face, the black material snatched in his sweaty hands, pulling it down. There was a face that seemed to come at the boy from miles away, a face he knew, smiling.

  It was Fowler.

  “What are you doing?” he heard himself ask.

  Fowler pulled off the hat and leaned forward, catching Ballard by the arms. “See? You did it.”

  “What?”

  “You went through the fear,” he said, shaking him slightly. “I’m proud of you.”

  “It’s you.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not—”

  “No.”

  Ballard blinked. “I . . . went through it.”

  “That took courage.”

  “I thought, anything—death is better than this.”

  He pulled the boy closer. “This stranger who haunts you—this phantom—who is it?”

  Ballard’s thoughts raced by him. He felt as if he were on a roller coaster where snatches of memory whipped by like the cross sections of a track, lasting only a instant before they were out of sight.

  His mind came to a stop. “The first time I walked in my sleep, my father found me in my room in the middle of the night. I think he heard a scratching sound on the wall and when he opened the door to my room he saw me running my fingernails up and down this wallpaper that had large ships printed on it. I was trying to get into one of the ships to get away.”

 

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