“Yeah. Rodney.”
“Bill, it’s me.”
“Well, if it isn’t the Lone Ranger.”
“Anything on the Scopolamine?”
“Oh yeah. Same drug used on Orloff, the Ballard boy, and the victim. Extensive checks, Nick. No druggist anywhere in the county has dispensed it in recent memory. The hospitals, of course, use it, but infrequently.”
“Then it was either stolen, or someone had a stash.”
“No shit.”
“Where are the needles coming from?”
“A medical supply warehouse. We’re checking mail orders. It takes time.”
“I want to jog your memory, Bill.”
A sigh of impatience. “I’m waiting.”
“Remember back a few weeks, I requested two R&I clerks be detached from county police to run record checks? Did that ever happen?”
“Like molasses, but yes.”
“Good, okay, remember I gave you a list of townspeople and faculty members? I’m curious about auto registrations, DMV requests, anything—utilities, Ma Bell—we’ve got to run histories on those people.”
“You’re a dreamer, Nick, that’s what I like about you.”
“Bill, it has to be coming from the inside. Someone who works on campus or who in some way is connected with what is going on. How else?”
“Why histories, anyway?”
“I have a gut feeling the killer is acting out some drama from his or her past.”
“How could you know that?”
“I just sense a great passion behind these killings—I’m talking years of rage, lethal stuff—and it’s escalating now. The killer’s transforming himself. He came after me the other night.”
“I heard.”
“Early childhood experiences determine a lot.”
“Why don’t you give it up, Nick. You’re obsessed. Go back to Buffalo. Find yourself a nice reporter.”
Nick paused on the line. “Anything but that.”
Bill laughed. “Look, I’ll try to feed you whatever they have.”
“Anything on where a disguise might be stashed? Maybe a rental?”
“What am I, your personal secretary? You don’t work here anymore, did that slip your mind?”
“What about a dorm room?”
“Sergeant Orloff checked the entire housing list for empty rooms. Jesus.”
“Where is Orloff now?”
“Fourth floor of Ardsley.”
Fowler was feeling impatient. “Do what you can to get those backgrounds, Bill. Wouldn’t hurt the police to look good for once.” He clicked the phone down, his thoughts racing.
ON THE FOURTH floor of Ardsley, Marty Orloff was sitting in the office, alone, his feet up on the desk. He jumped out of his chair when Fowler opened the door.
“Mr. Fowler,” he said, relaxing. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
Nick stood looking at Marty. He walked up to him. “Listen, Marty, there’s no way I can thank you for what you did the other night—how you helped Maureen—kept her from possibly being raped, me from getting beaten more than I already was. Thank you.”
Marty was smiling. “You’re all right, Mr. Fowler. I’d expect you to do the same for me.”
“If they come after you, let me know.”
“I will.”
“Call me Nick, will you?”
“Sure.” They shook hands.
Nick was sheepish. “Anything I can do?”
“No . . . unless you want to read some of the reports I’ve generated since you were fired. Don’t worry about Sergeant Cole—he bailed out to watch the football game.”
“What reports?”
“Remember that silly assignment you gave me to get me off your butt? The bathroom detail. Well, look what KP did for me . . .” He handed Nick a detailed list of the scribblings from bathroom walls.
“Refresh my memory.”
Marty sat down again, leaning back. “Some kids in the tunnels were initiating that kid, Schwerin, by making him write stuff about Ms. Coates on a bathroom wall or something, remember?”
“That’s right.”
“There’s lots of interesting stuff in there—check it out.”
Nick looked down. “Okay.”
“It makes sense, too. You want to know who someone is balling, ask the students. Better yet, go where they can write forbidden stuff. You know, these fuckin’ kids: cooped up in here day in and day out, having to wear a tie and jacket six days a week, required chapel, required sports, required activities. It’s got to seep out somewhere.”
Nick was leafing through. “Lot of washroom philosophy in here?”
“Oh yeah. All the greats are quoted . . . Plato, Nixon, the girl next door.”
“This must have taken you days.”
“I searched every boy’s room, men’s room, and ladies’ room on campus. Three floors on Madison. Every floor in Ardsley, in Booth. I checked the infirmary, the gymnasium, even the chapel. The language arts facilities. Even walked into a senior dormitory on east campus and had to wade through a mob of guys who had caught a freshman inside. ‘Freshman in the dorm! Freshman in the dorm!’ they yelled. Two of the seniors were so giddy they ran into the showers themselves, clothes on and all. I walked in, checked the stalls. They thought I was weird, called me a ‘Fed.’”
“I’ll study these tonight.”
“Behind the attacks on the school, dick jokes, pornographic artwork, and phone numbers—you might find something.”
Nick turned a page, started reading a poem. He scratched his head, tucking the report under his arm. “Thanks, Marty.”
50
MS. COATES PULLED a purple dress over her head. Her brown hair, worn in a pageboy, sprung out of the crew neck like a freshly cut bouquet. She tousled the hair, put a dab of perfume on her neck out of habit, rubbing the residue behind her knees, looked once more in the mirror and, as she was walking out of her bedroom, flicked off the light.
When she brushed by her office door, before turning off the light, she stopped short. A puzzled expression came over her face. Her typewriter was missing. She started searching for it under the desk.
“That’s strange,” she muttered to herself. She hesitated as if not knowing what to do. She looked around the room, then down at her watch. “I wonder where I put it,” she said out loud, clicking the switch by the door, the bulb dying.
Outside she started her yellow Mazda. The engine turned over the third time, and as she waited for the car to warm, she pulled the rearview over and scrutinized how she had applied her makeup. She looked bored and sat for a moment in the fading light with a sour expression on her face.
Her mind raced back to the night Cary had seen her lifting weights with Ray Gluckner. She had been frantic enough when two students from her math class had been murdered. Now Gluckner.
She resented that as soon as she had began to touch the boys, something terrible happened. No sooner did she taste their young lips than they were murdered. She felt cursed. She woke in the middle of the night from unsettling dreams where raging fires tore the boys’ faces away from her hungry mouth. In the early hours, she wondered if she hadn’t killed the boys herself. Her skin would begin to burn as she heard steel cylinders sliding onto barbells in her mind—the hard breaths coming out of the boys’ chests as they lifted her weights—then turned their breaths to her.
No coincidence could cause three of her math students to die as soon as she had taken them. She was terrified to think that she might have caused their deaths. The guilt was staggering. She had even gone into therapy.
She kept racking her brain, wondering if it was fate. At the school in Canada, when she first began teaching, she was only a few years older than the students she took home. Now, even though she looked young, she was usually fifteen years older than the boys she seduced. Yet that made it all the more exciting. She had been especially close to Gluckner. He was one of the few boys strong enough to handle her. She had discovered an almost uncont
rollable desire for the rough talk, the hard muscles that pinched the breath out of her. His death had quietly shattered her.
She put her car in gear. This would be her third session, she thought. She had already decided she would tell the doctor tonight, at the end, that she wasn’t coming back. She pulled the Mazda out of the driveway at South End.
She gunned her car so it climbed the grade to Academy, turned left on High Street. She parked, pulled the key out of the ignition, grabbed her purse before slamming the car door. She trotted along the sidewalk, up a walkway to a front door. A man with clear pink glasses, his hair cut close to his skull, opened the door and admitted her.
The tall figure in the cloak came out of the woods behind Dr. Clarence’s house. He walked around the house, crept up the flagstone steps, his shoes nearly silent. He snuck along the deck to a window from which a ribbon of light was emanating. He put his eye to the glass and through a break in the curtain saw a strange sight inside. Ms. Coates was sitting in an easy chair with a blank expression, staring into space. The man with the pink glasses was bent over behind her, talking softly into her ear, so softly the figure couldn’t hear him. He placed his ear against the glass to hear better.
For a time, he wondered what it would be like to be just a boy, seeing the doctor bending over the woman through the windowpane. As the light fell across the pupils of the figure’s eyes, that thought seemed to take possession of him. He wouldn’t have to imagine for long. He would soon be that young schoolboy standing there, feeling vulnerable, without a care, yet yearning to be part of what was inside, not knowing what was inside, looking for a way to be. Changing.
He walked swiftly along the deck, around the side of the house, opened the back door, closing it again silently. He walked into the room where the doctor was still talking softly to Ms. Coates. The doctor didn’t move when the figure came into the room. He glanced over once, but kept talking in subdued, velvety tones. The figure walked up to the window and looked out for a moment. Then he drew the curtains back together.
“Is she ready?” he murmured.
“Shhh!”
The figure turned to stare at the doctor. The eyes above the scarf betrayed a deep annoyance at this outburst. He let his pupils rest contemptuously on the doctor, who was still speaking softly to Ms. Coates.
“When I clap my hands,” Dr. Clarence said softly in Ms. Coates’s ear, “you will do exactly as I say. Ready?”
He clapped his hands. Immediately Ms. Coates sat up alertly, her spine as straight as a board. The figure sighed impatiently and walked across the room, his back against the mantel of the fireplace, staring at them. He watched the doctor pull on a pair of surgical gloves, tediously pressing the latex down around each finger.
Dr. Clarence carefully placed a small writing table in front of her. He then pulled a portable typewriter out from behind the couch, opened it on the table in front of her, and plugged it in.
“Now,” he said to Ms. Coates. “As you can see, this is your own typewriter. Turn the machine on.” She did. “You will type exactly what I tell you to.” The woman placed her finger on the keys.
“I, Ms. Coates . . .” She began to type.
“. . . did willfully help Cary Ballard murder three students . . .”
Ms. Coates stopped typing.
Dr. Clarence bent over her. “I realize you didn’t really murder them, Ms. Coates. Remember this is an exercise to help you get rid of the guilt, the tortured feeling of having been involved with these boys, that’s all; if you understand, nod your head.” She did.
“All right,” Dr. Clarence continued, “begin typing again.” She placed her fingers on the keys.
“. . . murder three students . . . enrolled at Ravenhill School. The three boys . . . named Crawford, Finkelstein, and Gluckner . . . had become very annoying—what’s the matter?” Ms. Coates had stopped typing again.
“I loved him . . .” There was a mournful expression on her face.
Dr. Clarence’s voice was sharp. “I’m waiting, Ms. Coates.”
“What was it again?”
“. . . had become very annoying to us both.”
Ms. Coates typed quickly across the parchment paper, her fingers unaware of any strain. She made a mistake. Dr. Clarence let her backspace and correct it, then continued.
“However, now I am filled with revulsion at my horrid acts . . . and have decided to take my own life.”
Again Ms. Coates stopped typing. Dr. Clarence leaned over her, as if pouring poison into her ear. “I know you’re not really going to kill yourself, Ms. Coates. This is a metaphor; you’re killing off the part of you that feels guilty, don’t you see? If you do, please nod your head.”
She did.
“Now begin again . . . I leave young Mr. Ballard to his fate . . . but I can’t live with myself any longer.”
The doctor paused, gazing toward the tall figure standing at the fireplace, a strange smile wrinkling his small precise mouth.
“Signed, Ms. Coates . . . alias Arthur Murray.” He paused and silently read the letter over her shoulder. “Now, shut off the machine.” She did. “Now close your eyes and relax. You will not remember any of this. You are going to be taken home to sleep. To rest. Now . . . sleep . . . sleep.” Ms. Coates’s body seemed to go limp very slowly in the chair.
Dr. Clarence smiled. He took out a prescription bottle of pills, rolled it against her fingertips. Ms. Coates’s hand numbly clasped it, then let go as she drifted deeper into hypnosis. He now set the prescription bottle on the table. There was a strange silence in the room. The doctor looked across at the cloaked figure as if waiting for him to approve, to say something. He didn’t. He just stared contemptuously at him. Dr. Clarence began to fidget. He walked across the room to stand next to the figure, his thin body wrenched slightly to one side as if embarrassed.
“All you need to do now is sign it.”
The figure reached into his cloak and pulled out some lipstick. He twisted the bottom and a dark pink stick twirled into sight. He placed the lipstick in his left hand and walked over toward the letter Ms. Coates had typed. He stood poised over her for a long time, breathing heavily, his back to Dr. Clarence. The doctor started to become edgy. The huge form just stood there over her, swaying, beginning to speak.
“I loved you. And you betrayed me. You rejected me when I needed you most. At a time when no other woman, ever, had been good to me—you gave me trust, then you took it away. I’ll never be the same.”
Dr. Clarence began twisting his hand unconsciously. “Not now.”
The figure kept his frenzied eyes fixed on Ms. Coates. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“You’ll get worked up.”
The man looked down at the woman, bent down closer to her, whispering, beginning sadly to touch her face. “There was a brief moment when the light was changing around me.” The words seemed to pour out of his mouth. “The days were getting brighter. I actually thought I could have a life, that all these things in my head would go away. But then you violated me, you slept with . . . children . . . with my students . . . with other men, no doubt.”
The doctor moved silently toward him. “This is not the time for this.”
The figure was still fixed on Ms. Coates. “How many other men?”
The doctor touched his sleeve. “Don’t think about that. Say goodbye to her.”
The figure reached down and shook Ms. Coates. “How many?”
Dr. Clarence wrenched the man’s hands away, whispering in his ear, “Her reward is in that bottle of pills. Release her. Then you’ll be free. This is no time for anger.”
The cloaked man turned around to face Dr. Clarence. “I’ve changed my mind. I want her to see me as I am.”
The doctor’s restless pupils darted from one of the man’s freakish eyes to the other, then froze, arrested by a foreboding. “No. No. Everything has been prepared.”
“You have to be more flexible, Doctor.”
“You’re going
to ruin it!”
“Wake her up.”
Dr. Clarence began to blink repeatedly. “Now you listen to me. I’ve been against any violence from the beginning. I will not—”
“What violence? This is a gift.”
Clarence backed up almost imperceptively. “You said—”
“I’m going through a transformation. My psyche longs to let go, you said that yourself.”
“Of course you twist what I say, but don’t you dare attribute these unspeakable acts to me!”
The figure leaned toward him, cloak spreading. “I thought you were supportive of my change.”
“Yes, I am, but the horror later, the—”
“You didn’t like it?”
“I did, but . . . I can’t. I won’t.”
The figure capped the lipstick, dropped it in his pocket. “Wake her up.”
“No, please,” the doctor said, his face now puffing up, filling with dread. “We worked this all out. You said—”
“What did you say to me?”
“Wh—?”
“You said ‘shhh’ to me before!” The voice thundered out of the tall man.
“I’m sorry,” the doctor began to stammer nervously, backing away from him. “I had no right to do that—you must have felt attacked, terribly dismissed. I was wrong. I’m sorry.”
This seemed to satisfy the figure, who looked down at Ms. Coates, her carriage still untroubled, her eyes still closed. “Now.”
The doctor hesitated. “Of course, you decide, after all, you’re the great, the only Arthur Murray. The brilliant tactician behind this, but . . . if I might just mention . . .”
“What?”
“We decided that you should no longer dance. That it was too risky.”
The figure suddenly towered over the doctor. “What did I tell you?”
As if by will, the doctor curbed his trembling. “That you were changing form, and your new embodiment would . . . decide everything . . . even our fates.”
“That’s very good, Nathan.” The man turned, tore the scarf off a hideous white clown face, monstrous red lips painted on. The cloak whipped open and flew across the room. Standing there was a giant schoolboy, buckle-down shoes, knee-high socks, round-collar shirt, bow-string tie, and satchel of books. His eyes fell on Ms. Coates. “Now, wake her up.”
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