Kiss Them Goodbye

by Joseph Eastburn

  He didn’t see the eyes watching him from behind a cornice on the south wall. He didn’t notice the figure slip across the roof, down the stairs, the feet racing, fists pounding the walls. He didn’t hear the cries of anguish in the stairwell. How could he know the eyes were frightened, panicked, giving off an alien glow.

  MAUREEN WAS JUST getting back when it happened. She had put in a phone call to Dr. Koenig and he had, in turn, sent her details about the autopsy. She had rushed to the bank to withdraw bail money for Nick, had lost most of the morning in meetings with her editors regarding the scathing, inflammatory article written about her experience with State Police Sergeant Robby Cole. Nick’s arrest had been the last straw for Maureen. What was needed now was a bold stroke to reverse the events she herself had set in motion. She wanted to put the story in the evening edition.

  Her editor in chief, however, had asked that she put the potentially explosive material on hold, for a matter of days, try to bail Fowler out, and give the justice system a chance to work.

  Maureen was glad to hear that Cary Ballard had been released from detention. She had been driving herself hard since the terrifying night at the dance. She kept waking up in the middle of the night in cold sweats, dreaming about Ms. Coates falling out of the sky. She was comforted when she heard that the woman had been murdered a full day before the dance, but somewhere deep down, she felt responsible.

  She knew she would be kept waiting hours at the hall of justice, so she came back to have her assistant proof the transcript of Dr. Clarence’s autopsy. She was standing over the desk, her coat on, her keys in her hand, when the phone rang. She thought it might be Nick.

  “Hello?”

  “Maureen McCauley, please.” A boy’s voice, high and eerie—hadn’t had his tonsils out.

  “Speaking.”

  “I have some information about you know what.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Never mind that. Do you have a car?”

  “Can you at least tell me who I’m speaking to?”

  “No names, ma’am. I’m a student. Drive a half mile past the back entrance to the school golf course, okay?”

  Maureen was scratching the directions down. “Yes.”

  “There’s a rest stop on the left, overlooking the creek. Pull your car in there and leave the motor running. I’ll get in and we can drive somewhere safe.”

  “Look, I have a deadline that—”

  “This won’t take long. Meet me in fifteen minutes. No police.”

  “Young man, I have to know who—”

  But there was only a dial tone. Maureen put the receiver back on the phone, chewed the inside of her lip, then walked down the hall.

  The sun was down when she pulled onto the highway just outside of town. The fading light made the old gray pavement seem as though it was moving under her tires in slow motion. She drove past the back entrance to the golf course, and when she saw the rest stop, she pulled in.

  Maureen didn’t see anyone. She glanced impatiently at her watch, tapping the steering wheel. Her mind drifted. Suddenly the passenger door was ripped open. She jumped. An oversized boy, a hard mannish face, clown white. An antiseptic smell.

  Maureen jammed the car in reverse—a round-collar shirt, a cap, the mouth painted a ghoulish red—all moving toward her. A hand came out of the air. She pressed the gas. The car shot backward but was too late, the boy was inside the car, the handkerchief had hit her hard in the face, clinching her mouth and nose—the other hand came around and grabbed the back of her head like a vise. She fought against the hand, gunning the car, spinning the wheel. The car screeched around and slammed into a bank of flower beds.

  For one instant Maureen wrenched her face away, but the pressure of the handkerchief was clamped back over her nose. She tried not to breathe while she got her wits, then flailed when she felt her vision clouding. All she could remember was the strange dark eyes burning down, the clownish red mouth contorted until, as she began to fade, it spread into a smile.

  HOW COULD HE? Break into my world, my abode, MY PLACE and violate me—touch my things, my treasures . . . fondle my trophies, mementos, articles from which my change is constructed. How could he!

  He has to die. You’ll bring him to me. Voices beseeching, rising, a chorus of sounds. Now, a WOMAN in the flowers. Move over . . . I have a use for you. Let me kiss you . . . your lips so soft . . . let me smell your skin, will it be this soft, this ripe after you change? . . . are you listening? . . . CAN YOU HEAR ME?

  Now scissors . . . what to take . . . of course, the label of your dress . . . what else? . . . now, slip dress up, let me get my hands up your thighs . . . come on, yes, peel panty hose down, stretch, over hips, easy, out of the crease, yes, down your legs, off your feet. That’s nice, so nice . . . voices whisper now . . . be calm . . . don’t stretch them! Easy. Now cut the nylon, along the thigh, over the hip, up around and under the tummy, now—yes—got it. Oh. Oh. Smells nice. Let me just, please just once, let me change you—with this knife. No. Wait. Linger.

  Savor the delay.

  Anticipate.

  WHEN CARY WAS walking up the main road into Ravenhill School, he felt exhilarated. A state vehicle had escorted him to the entrance of the school. He took a deep breath, looked up and saw the array of chimneys along the roofs of Ardsley, Booth, and Madison halls—the gray stone, the brick chimneys, the ivy, the tall wrought-iron fence—all of it gave him a somber rush.

  On the walk in front of Ardsley, he saw a strange sight. A tall boy had appeared from behind a parked car, on his knees, crawling along the grass. He was moaning as Cary approached him. The student was apparently hurt. As Cary got closer, he just saw a black collar high over the face, a cap on the head.

  “I’ve sprained my ankle,” the student pleaded in a high-strained voice, his face down in pain. “Could you help me to the car?”

  “Yes, but . . .” Cary was flustered, wondering how he could lift him up. He bent down, placing his shoulder under the upraised arm. Before he could lift, the arm yanked his neck down, pulling his face into the grass. Another hand slapped a handkerchief hard against his face, the impact almost knocking him out. A stench like bug spray entered his nose, forcing him to heave. Cary flailed his arms, watching the boy’s face now appear, coated in white, straining, the sweat appearing on the forehead, the makeup running.

  Cary knew this face. His free hand lashed the grass. He twisted away, gasping, but the giant boy grabbed him again and clamped the handkerchief to his face.

  Cary stared helplessly into the mammoth boy’s eyes, the pressure over his nose beginning to lighten. He thought someone was smoking. Everything, the eyes, the makeup, even the hard red lips, were floating away, getting blurry, until the face was far in the distance.

  59

  FOWLER WAS BEGINNING to feel a knot in his stomach. Maureen hadn’t answered the phone the last hour. At the Tribune they said she had been called away on an urgent matter. He stood in front of the chapel. A terrible thought occurred to him.

  Inside the hall, the entire faculty, the officers of the alumni association, the board, and the trustees were all in attendance. The student council members of the four classes were there, each wearing school blazers.

  On the stage, Dr. Brandon Hickey was making his final speech as headmaster of Ravenhill. In a few moments, he would hand over the crest of the school to Elliot Allington, who would take the helm of the school as the new headmaster. The school crest was a round fourteen-karat-gold plate of the school insignia that hung over the headmaster’s desk. It was always presented to the incoming man in a formal public ceremony.

  Fowler mounted the stairs, two at a time.

  On the stage, flanked by his administrative staff, Brandon Hickey was extolling the merits of his past administration with anecdotes designed to distract attention from the murders that had driven him from his post.

  He didn’t notice Nick Fowler standing in the back of the auditorium. Dr. Hickey finished his speech a
nd, hoisting the gold school crest, presented it to Mr. Allington as the room burst into spontaneous applause. The new headmaster, flushed and proud, began to give his acceptance speech.

  None of the men on the dais noticed the man following them over to the reception room in Ardsley after the ceremony. None of them realized that he observed which of them had left early.

  THE HINGE ON the roof door directed a sharp rasp against the bricks. Nick ran toward the water tower. He pulled down the trap, flashed his light inside to see if it was safe. He vaulted up. He shone his flashlight up along the walls. He saw all the victims’ possessions just as he had left them. Then, what he most feared was waiting for him. There was new memorabilia. When he shone the light on the other side of the dank wooden slats, he saw it all. Maureen’s picture, a label from a dress Fowler had bought her, her column photo smiling at him from faded newsprint—and a round section of her panty hose—could it be? . . . yes . . . the crotch.

  Fowler slammed his fists against the wall.

  Wait.

  A purple envelope on the floor. He opened it.

  Dear F,

  Come and get it. You’ll recognize them by the sound of two voices . . . screaming.

  Ever yours,

  Arthur Murray

  A pair of black shoes stepped over an unconscious man. A pair of gloved hands quietly flipped the man over. The gap in his front teeth glowed in the light from the furnace. Stanley had been hit hard on the head.

  The shoes kicked the ribs, pausing to see if the wombat was still unconscious, then began walking slowly toward a grimy door.

  The man in the cloak pulled open the door and stared out upon a cavernous room that dropped three stories underground. Through the gigantic wooden crossbeams, on the floor far below, he saw they were still tied to the old greasy turbine engines, both bound with ropes. They were gagged, looking up.

  On the cement floor underneath the power plant, Maureen and Cary were startled when they heard the door in the rafters abruptly open. They looked up and saw a man in a dark cloak and hat, climbing down the steel ladder on the wall. When he reached the floor, he turned to them.

  Cary froze. Maureen drew in a breath, thinking at first she had seen a specter. The scarf over the face, the hat corkscrewed on the head—he was almost laughable—like a figure in a cheap melodrama. Yet when he approached her, the laughs that were due his appearance turned to cries in her throat.

  He was moving stealthily toward them, something glimmering in his hand. It was a long stiletto.

  NICK FOWLER’S FACE was pressed again at the panes of the lead windows to the Ardsley reception room. His overwrought eyes combed the room. All the men were gone now. He was uneasy and moved through the flower bed, back under the arch in silence.

  He was staring up at the buildings. Booth Hall was a mass of black stone and chimneys against the night sky. Ardsley Hall loomed over the tall fence.

  Something caught Fowler’s attention.

  He noticed a white shape in the half-light bobbing in the distance, a high voice whimpering. It looked strangely like an apparition floating away through the fog. He broke into a run.

  He realized it was a head of white hair as he came, winded, pounding across the wet grass. The sound startled Mabel, the wombat who worked the graveyard shift, cleaning the classrooms. She was crying, running across the lawn toward the infirmary. She turned when the footsteps approached her. “Who is that?” she said, her voice hoarse.

  Nick stopped running. “It’s Fowler, Mabel. What’s the matter?”

  “Stanley’s been hurt!” A withered hand drew a strand of hair out of her face. “I was making my rounds and I found him out cold.”

  “Where?” Fowler whispered.

  “The power plant.”

  60

  THE FIGURE HOVERED over them, the knife hanging loosely at his side. He paced, anxiously, a coiled spring with burning eyes. Then he stopped. He swayed in front of them, dangerous, unpredictable. Insane.

  He pushed his scarfed face next to Cary’s. “Hope we don’t have to wait too long,” he mumbled. The gag warped under the boy’s straining chin. The figure moved along the wall until his face was opposite Maureen’s. He smiled. “I might not be able to stop myself if he doesn’t come soon.”

  Maureen couldn’t move. She was frozen with terror. She saw the knife rise in his hand. It was levitating in the air above her. She resigned herself to death and held her breath, waiting for the blade to fall, but inexplicably, the man paused.

  He moved away from her. He ran his fingers along Cary’s throat, almost caressing the white skin.

  The blade moved slowly back to Maureen. She watched the eyes with a sinking feeling now. The wavering had stopped. The last shred of accessibility had disappeared from the eyes, leaving black holes in the face. He had made his decision and the knife went high in the air. It came down. She felt cold steel by her neck. She looked up. The eyes in the face were glinting. The blade suddenly dug into something. The rope across her shoulder snapped. She shut her eyes.

  That’s when she heard the gunshot. A bullet glanced off the floor inches from the man’s feet. The man in the scarf dove to the floor and cut her ankles free. He grabbed her hand, backpedaled, dragging her across the floor, behind the old turbine. There was another flash from the ceiling door, high in the rafters. The bullet ricocheted off the wall above the turbine.

  “Drop the knife,” said a voice from the rafters. Fowler was descending the metal stairs one at a time, his gun aimed down at the cold boilers. “Throw it out in the middle of the floor!” he yelled. There was no sound in the room, only his shoes on the rungs. He paused halfway down the wall, listening.

  Silence.

  He shoved the gun back into his holster and took the rungs two at a time all the way down the wall. Once down, his hand went back into his coat as he rushed across the cement floor, in a crouch, both hands now on the gun. He moved around the side of one boiler, thrusting his gun in. Nothing. He moved now to the second boiler, his gun in tight, and threw himself around the side of it.

  There, in the stone wall, was a jagged opening into an underground passageway.

  An old wooden door was ajar.

  He pulled the small wooden door aside, looking into blackness. He shone his flashlight into a passageway. He understood immediately he was staring into the tunnels.

  He opened the small wooden door and crept into blackness.

  Fowler’s light illumined a short passageway with stone walls, not high enough to stand, so he crawled. About fifty feet in he came up against another wooden door. This one was locked. He could see fresh prints when he shone his light down on the dirt near the door.

  Then he heard Maureen’s voice. She was calling into the passage, her voice far in the distance, whimpering, pleading for help. He banged maniacally on the door, drawing blood on his fist. Nothing. He maneuvered around and crawled back.

  Nick found Cary unharmed. He cut the ropes binding him, and without a word, they ran across the floor. With his arms around the boy, they climbed.

  Fowler coached him up one step at a time.

  “Where’s Maureen?” Cary asked slowly.

  Fowler kept inching him up. “In the tunnels. Don’t look down.”

  “With him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know where they lead?”

  “Ardsley.” Nick glanced down. The floor below began to look like a cavern in the distance. When they got to the top, they ran outside.

  Nick got on the police radio in his Dodge to call for backup. He asked Cary to get in the car and wait. Cary refused. The boy was determined to go up on the roof with him.

  Fowler stood in the dark weighing what to do. In the silence of that moment, the boy looked at the great black fence surrounding Ardsley. He studied the waists of scrollwork, the steel shafts thrust into the dark sky. He knew in an instant those bars would forever imprison him if he didn’t go along. Fowler glanced down at the boy. He must have sensed this.


  MAUREEN WAS ON her hands and knees crawling in the dirt down a long tunnel. She had quieted down, trying to get a hold of herself. She could hear just breaths behind her, nothing else. The ghastly breaths of a killer so vile he would cut people open and paint walls with their organs.

  She tried not to think about it. She focused on the breaths. Behind her was a light source. It illuminated the arched railroad-tie bridging that held up the tunnels.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  No answer. Just the breaths, short plodding sounds. Hands against moist dirt.

  “Are you going to hurt me?”

  No answer.

  She kept crawling, bits of sand and gravel falling in her hair from above. Had to get through to this man.

  “Do you know when these tunnels were built?”

  No answer.

  Crawling. She flinched as her kneecap pressed down on a stone. Only then did she realize her panty hose was off her body. This sent cold needles across her forehead, a shudder down the back of her neck. She had to quiet her fear.

  “I did a story on these tunnels,” she said nervously. “They were gouged during the war, when the school was used for military training. Did you know that?”

  No answer. Has to be something to make him talk.

  “They dug a series of underground tunnels in case they were bombed,” she said. “At one time, they ran up under all the major buildings.”

  She cringed when she heard the unearthly voice. “You can get to other dorms from here?” The words seemed to fall out of the ether.

  “Only Ardsley. The others caved in.”

  She realized then why he had asked this question. The thought made her sick to her stomach. She started to feel dizzy. Her wrist collapsed and she fell forward into the dirt. A hand grabbed her hair and pulled backward. She felt a sliver of cold steel against her neck.

  “Don’t make me cut you down here. The rats will finish you off.”