Stunts, page 20
“I want to stay,” Addie told him, taking a stiff chair by the door. “He’ll need a doctor.”
“Dr. Burwin, I’m not … it’s quite late.”
“I’m staying,” she said, a smile without showing a hint of her teeth. “I can’t bear to be home alone.”
“Of course,” the policeman said, a sidelong glance at Evan. “Tea? Coffee?”
“Yes, thank you, coffee will do fine. And some for Mr. Kendal as well.”
Purdy nodded curtly and disappeared into the back.
Prig, Evan thought, and stood at the window, not liking to see the High Street so dark. So many shadows, so much wind moving things he couldn’t focus on, too much of the night’s chill seeping through the glass. He started when he heard a scream, back in the cells, heard Purdy cursing, heard a heavy door slam. The screams soon became sobs that soon faded, soon died.
“Trouble?” he asked when the constable returned.
“Oh aye,” Purdy said glumly, setting the cups on the counter for Evan to fetch. “Ida MacNair again.” He shook his head in supreme disapproval. “Drunk, drugs, I don’t know. Do you know, she actually wanted me to lock her up? Couldn’t do it, of course.”
“But she is,” Addie pointed out.
“Sure, after she conked me with a cane. Had to then, didn’t I?”
Evan smiled as he handed Addie her drink. “What’s her problem.”
“Who cares?” Purdy shrugged as he buttoned his tunic. “What the hell. She says somebody called ‘Him’ is out there and we’re all going to die.”
2
The radio spat static and Purdy excused himself.
Evan looked out the window again, scratching his head, the side of his neck. He wondered if the police had checked the lane beyond his house, or the bridge. He wondered how Paul could keep warm on a night like this. He tilted his head and looked up at the sky, seeing nothing, there were too many lights, and stepped back when a car swung around in a U-turn, headlamps glaring, blinding him for a moment.
He sipped his coffee—grimaced, it was too black—and set the plastic cup down on the sill. Then he rubbed his palms together, amazed he wasn’t sweating, and thought again that keeping still shouldn’t be the thing to do in a case like this. They ought to be running, fleeing in a car or galloping over a pasture or racing down a dark alley where no one heard their screams.
You’re acting again, Kendal.
He didn’t care.
Anything was better than just waiting.
“Come home with me, Addie,” he whispered.
She shook her head, but he had seen the hesitation.
Ida MacNair screamed and sobbed.
Evan watched the street.
VII
TARGETS
Twenty-Six
1
On Wednesday morning, Eric Linholm pushed away from his desk with a satisfied sigh. There had been a moment, just a moment there, when he had felt like shouting, and the sensation made his heels tap once on the floor, his fingers snap once, his tongue click against the roof of his mouth. No question about it, he was on the crest and there wasn’t anyone around to challenge him now.
Nobody worth mentioning.
Lovingly, he passed a hand over the thick manila folders closed on the leather-trim blotter.
“Damn,” he whispered. “Damn, you’re good.”
Six years ago, he had taken over Port Richmond High School at a time when even its most ardent supporters called it “Rich and Bitch High.” Grades had been abysmal, attendance haphazard and virtually willful, college acceptances nearly at a state low for a school of its position and size; morale nonexistent; the sports program a joke; and at least once a week a story in the local and county newspapers about shortcomings, drug arrests, burgeoning anarchy in the halls.
The Board of Education, liberal to the core, finally panicked when several of its children had flunked out of the Ivy League before they had finished their freshman year, and an increasing number of the most affluent townspeople made it abundantly clear that filet mignon prep schools were infinitely preferable to the hash they served up here.
Enter Eric Staines Linholm, with a guaranteed contract, a free hand, and a mandate that read, in private, more like a death threat.
Linholm had come through.
Rebels among the staff were coldly driven out, parents were contacted and scolded and made to understand that this man wasn’t vulnerable to any of their economic or status threats.
And the stupid bastards ate it up.
They licked it up.
They groveled as only the rich can when they haven’t had money long enough to know what it meant; and the rest of them, the middle-class wimps wallowing in despair while they tried to aspire to higher things, they crowed and puffed their chests and behaved as if they had known all along that all it took was a firm hand, a strong belief in the system, and a canny way with figures that proved that their Janes and Johnnies weren’t as stupid as they seemed.
Christ!
It hadn’t been easy.
But it worked.
In six years the university acceptance rate had risen to well over 75% among those who applied. The others were either not good enough or hadn’t the means even with scholarship monies, and even they had a Port Richmond diploma, which once again meant something in the job market they invaded.
The secret was easy: if you like kids and try to be their adult buddy, you’re doomed to endless sympathy and excuses; hate the little pricks, and you can get away with murder as you drive them harder than they drove their goddamn sport cars and pickups and whatever else they could steal from the pockets of their parents.
The fact that they learned to hate you in the bargain didn’t mean a damned thing. When they saw what doors opened for them, when they heard the praise from admissions officers all over the country, they also learned damned fast how to be grateful with the best.
And this year’s class—he applauded himself softly.
This year’s class was going to be the final hook, the lure, the bait to draw more families to town—not because of the jobs, but because of the school. Why the hell spend all that money on a fancy-named prep school when, for a year’s worth of property tax, you can get the same results, and keep the little prick home where you can watch him, to boot?
Being mayor, being governor, couldn’t be sweeter.
Port Richmond had become his kingdom in less than a decade, and if he raped half the senior class tonight, they’d throw every bitch in jail for soliciting, if not worse.
God, he thought, life is good!
And if that moron, Bishop, had transferred last fall, life would be perfect.
Oh well. What the hell. Perfect would be next year.
He swiveled his chair around and stared out at the school’s first impression to visitors—a well-tended, grass and garden oval centered by a white flagpole. From the bottom of the oval to Coolidge Street, a stretch of lawn that ended at a waist-high fieldstone wall, on the other side of which were bronze letters proclaiming the school’s name. Stretching away from the drive in both directions, fifty yards each way, another wall—this one of low evergreen shrubs that ended at a hurricane fence.
Like a mansion.
His mansion.
Even the driveway that outlined the middle grass—entrance on one side of the wall, exit on the other, and narrow enough to discourage parking except in the designated lot far to his left, with its own entrance. His idea. Otherwise, the place looked like a factory.
The perfect setting.
One hell of a mansion.
Across the street, another vast lawn, this one dotted with flowering apple trees. The Methodist Church on the left, its parish hall in the center, both set well back from the road.
2
A car pulled in from the street.
He watched it without moving his head.
The lot was already half-full. Parents who had arrived early, to get the conferences over with so they could get back to their Rich and Bitch games.
The sorry bastards.
But they came, didn’t they, Eric? Of course they did. He had instituted Conference Day, and like sheep they obeyed.
A muted ringing.
He checked his watch: the first period just begun. Within three minutes, a secretary in the outer office would read the day’s schedule over the public address system, telling the parents where to find the teachers they wanted. He grinned and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. Some of those fools might even read the large sheet of red construction paper he’d taped over the face of the trophy case, reminding the school that there would be no games this year, that irresponsibility and criminal acts had no place in Port Richmond’s society.
Ergo, you little shits, the first son of a bitch that tries to pull a Halloween stunt this year is going to find his or her ass out on the grass. Forever looking in because, you fuckers, you ain’t getting back in.
He applauded himself softly.
A knock.
“Come in!”
A tall, thin, black-haired boy stood at the threshold. Open-necked white shirt, pressed trousers, polished shoes.
“Bishop,” he said dryly, “you look like hell.”
Shane Bishop’s lips tightened, but he said nothing, only stepped into the office and carefully placed a green binder on Linholm’s desk. “The report, sir.” Voice flat; no respect, no defiance.
Linholm pushed it away from him as if it were distasteful, then folded his hands on the blotter. “Mr. Bishop, do you have any idea why I asked you to do this little history exercise?”
The boy looked over his head to the window. “Yes sir.”
“And why is that, Mr. Bishop?”
“To get my history grade back where it belongs.”
Spineless little parrot, Linholm thought.
“That is correct. And because it’s quite clear to me that what you lack is a sense of discipline, a sense of purpose. Any student of mine who wants to succeed in life must have discipline, must have purpose. It is the only way.”
“Yes sir.”
“It is, Mr. Bishop, the only way you’re going to get into college.”
“Yes sir.”
He said nothing. He only watched the boy with eyes half-closed, not bothering to question the source of his animosity toward the creep, it just happened. There was always one. Every year, it seemed, there was always one who pressed all the wrong buttons simply by existing. And this wimp had less backbone than some. Than most. He hadn’t even had the nerve to demand an explanation for the lousy recommendation Linholm had given him.
The answer would have been easy: there wasn’t one.
Linholm just didn’t like him.
“Get out of here, Bishop. Go home. Get out of my school.”
“Yes sir.”
The boy left.
Linholm smiled, felt slightly nostalgic for the days when principals were allowed a little corporal punishment, then swiveled the chair around and frowned when he saw someone loitering down by the wall. Not a parent, the clothes were too common. He stood and leaned on the narrow sill, peered through the tinted glass. He could see out; they couldn’t see in unless their noses were pressed to the glass. His idea. Uncle Eric is watching.
A hesitant knock on his door.
Jesus Christ, can’t they leave me alone?
A snapped, “Come in!” and when a woman half his age came in, he pointed and said, “Miss McCarthy, who the hell is that?”
She stood beside him. He could smell perfume, bath powder, hair spray, makeup. His right hand itched. He didn’t look at her; she didn’t look at him.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Keep an eye on him. If he’s not gone in five minutes, call the police.”
There was no argument.
His arm brushed hers as he dropped back into his chair and kicked himself around to face his desk again. He glanced at the folders she’d placed on his blotter. Burying Bishop’s report, which he would never read. “So, now what?”
“Finals results, sir.”
He grinned in anticipation. “How’re we doing?”
“Better than last year, by ten percent, give or take three.”
His eyes closed in thanks. The best he had hoped for was a five percent increase. More proof that his methods were working; more evidence for those assholes on the faculty who still thought he was driving these kids too hard. Hell, he’d drive them into the goddamn river if he thought it would do any good.
He set the folders aside.
Another check of his watch—his first pair of simpering parents weren’t due for a while—and he closed his eyes, leaned back, pushed away from the desk.
“Lock the door, Betty,” he whispered urgently. “We’ve got fifteen minutes.”
3
Just past noon, Rita slipped out of the house before her mother could check the set and cut of her uniform again, her hair, her fingernails, her for-crying-out-loud posture. It was like the army, for god’s sake; not even her boss did more than glance to be sure she had all her clothes on.
Although she was close to being late, and a hell of a way to spend a day off, she tried not to run. The afternoon had turned chilly, the sun too weak to do anything but make promises. And the wind drove her in spurts, racing down driveways to shove her, then racing ahead to wait at the next block. Running would only make it worse, make her nose drip, stiffen her cheeks with red, make her lungs burn. No need to run. She’d make it, no problem.
Brian hadn’t said much to her last night.
Corky wanted to know what they thought of painting the school orange. After all, he complained, they only had until Saturday and nobody was taking this stunt thing seriously, for Pete’s sake.
How true, she thought; Corky, you ass.
The wind again, more steady now.
Somewhere along the line somebody had mentioned Shane Bishop, but he hadn’t been at the show. That surprised her. Cops and guns and buildings blowing up was his favorite mix; often enough, when they were in study hall together or stuck in line someplace, he would tell her about the screenplay he wanted to write, the ultimate explosion, total cataclysm, special effects that would tear the screen in half.
Poor Shane, she thought, and as she crossed Tyler Avenue, she reminded herself to give him a call if nothing else, see how he was doing, maybe hint that they could use him for Corky’s dumbass stunt.
She saw him on the corner.
Fate, she decided, and waved cheerily as she approached. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, the wind had thrown his hair over his eyes.
“Hey,” she said.
He looked at her, and sniffed. “Hi.”
“You hanging out or what?”
He shrugged. “Had to go in this morning.”
“What?” She poked his arm, but he wouldn’t look at her. “Who made you do that?”
“Linholm.”
“The bastard.” Her eyes widened briefly. “Oh, that stupid report, right?”
He nodded. “He won’t read it, y’know. He won’t even give it to Miss Atkins.” He stepped off the curb, checked the traffic. “He isn’t going to read it.”
“Shane, wait.”
A wave of a hand over his shoulder and he ran the rest of the way across, headed south. His back was straight, his head up, but Rita could feel from over here the anguished bewilderment, could hear the why me? over the sough of the wind.
God, she thought; god.
4
The house was small—three bedrooms, a living room, not much else, on a single white clapboard level. All the houses in this neighborhood were small compared to the monsters that lined Palisade Row. Shane had seldom thought of it that way before. Small. Large. Rich. Not so rich. Three years ago it hadn’t made a difference; in eight months it would make all the difference in the world.
He sat on the back stoop.
He listened to his mother in the kitchen, talking with Mrs. Galiano. No doubt, he thought sourly, trying to fix him up with Rita. What a joke.
His head lowered; he stared at the step between his feet.
“Shane?”
A glance over his shoulder, a moment of tension until he realized his mother was only peering through the screen door; she wasn’t planning to come out.
“I’m going to the store. Want anything?”
“No.”
“See you later.”
And gone.
Shane, he thought then; oh Shane, come back, Shane!
Christ, as if things weren’t bad enough, his mother had to be a goddamn western fan. What the hell kind of a name was Shane anyway? Who gave a damn?
Shane. Come back, Shane.
He looked at the yard without really seeing it. He sensed it, rather, and the road beyond the trees. The highway that led past Port Richmond. Trucks this time of day, eighteen wheels shaking the ground; women on their way to a mall; salesmen; strangers; all of them passing by, maybe one in fifty catching a glimpse of him through and, perhaps, wondering who he was, or envying him for where he lived.
Perhaps wondering why he wasn’t in school, like all high school kids are supposed to be on Wednesday afternoons.
He grunted.
He supposed the guys would be at the Luncheria, Corky mouthing off about doing something on Sunday. There was no sense in his going.
Why should he? All they’d do is ask him how the college thing was going, had he picked up his grade, had he appealed the suspension, had he stopped acting like a jerk and gotten his ass back in gear; all they’d do is make him wonder why he bothered to bother in the first place.
People riding by.
Not knowing about the nightmares he’d had the night before, black ones, seeing his goddamn barely remembered father and wasn’t that a laugh running away from the house, shrieking with joy, while his mother sat at the telephone and tried to set him up with one girl after another.
People riding by.
But he knew they couldn’t see him clearly.
They couldn’t see how stiff his face had become, how vividly his cheeks had flushed with rage, with shame, how he swallowed dryly several times a minute.
Get out of my school.
