by T W Morse
“Yeah, but everyone is investigating the murder; they won’t notice you and me snooping around this unrelated crime,” Bob adds, moving his eyebrows up and down in a flinching motion, saying, “Please! Please!” over and over again. If this is how Bob begs, there is definitely a reason why he’s still single.
I hesitate a long moment, looking at his face contorting in grief. “I’ll look into it.”
“Logan! Thank you! Thank you!” he says as he gets up and hugs me vigorously, which feels a little awkward since he’s only in his heart-covered boxers.
“No promises! I am just looking into it,” I reiterate, already regretting my words. I see Bob relax a little, but he still looks exhausted. “It’s Sunday, nobody is at the school except custodians. You got your keys to the school, right?”
“Yeah, but won’t the police be all over that place? They are investigating a murder, inside the school!”
“Yeah, but only in the gymnasium. You want to investigate — right? Then we need to get on the computers at the school office and take a closer look at their lockers, too. But first, let's start by meeting with Terry and Jack. You have their phone numbers?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I want you to call both of them. I want to interview them for myself. If we do, this we may get muddy doing it. We’ve got to be careful. Have them meet us outside Somerset House of Pizza in an hour.”
“What you gonna ask them?” Bob looks confused.
“I don’t know yet!” I say sternly. “They must know something. They may know if and why they were framed. That is, if they are innocent,” I add with little to no confidence.
CHAPTER 19
- ULYSSES -
KNOCK, KNOCK AT THE GALLANT HOUSE
I really don’t know how Hannah talked me into this. I am thinking how manipulative she has been, as I perform covert maneuvers through the dense conservation land that abuts Mr. O’Leary’s new house.
The house, known as the Gallant house, is known to us because Hannah overheard a conversation between Principal Barron and Mr. O’Leary. A house that Principal Barron was very interested in, asking Mr. O’Leary to notify him if he found anything in his renovations. This alone would be nothing, but during Friday’s fight in the office between Principal Barron and the now-murdered Mr. Wright the word GALLANT was spoken. Coincidence? I think not!
A tall thicket and tall grasses are concealing my movements. They are enough to conceal me, while I dash from one bush to another, making wild bunnies reveal their hiding spaces and scurry away to safety.
I am less than fifty yards from the large Gallant house. It is massive and was probably a beautiful Floridian colonial home at one time. It has a wide wraparound porch, making it look like an Antebellum plantation home, reminding me of the homes Dad and I visited Louisiana.
The outside is untouched by Mr. O’Leary’s renovations. Everything looks lost in time. Vines grow in every direction while dirt, grime, and soot from the nearby freeway attach to the siding and roof. The windows are partially boarded up; the outside paint peels like a sunburned tourist caught without sunscreen.
Hannah and I think Mr. O’Leary is only living on the first floor. This floor has newer windows, and through careful inspection, we noticed lights and furniture set up, giving a lived-in appearance.
We went back to my place to get my bike and ponchos. Hannah devised a plan, and I reluctantly approved it. Hannah explained her plan like this: “I will stay on my bike at the street, keeping an eye on your bike hidden in the bushes. I will keep out of range, maybe thirty to forty yards away. When he leaves, I will text you, and when he returns I will text you again. Easy — right?”
Easy for her, safely at a distance, while I break into a possible murderer’s house.
I look at her in surprise when we finish reviewing the plan. I can’t help but think of what could happen if Mr. O’Leary catches me — what he’d do to me. I shiver as I picture a locked-up torture room scene, like something out of the movie Saw. Hannah, on the other hand, thinks she is a genius and just smiles and nods up and down in a freaky overzealous confidence, not realizing my fear and dread from the danger she was putting me in.
“What happens if I get caught?”
“We’ll think of something. We have our phones, silly.” Her smile sold it for me. I am probably more scared of what that smile could get me into in the future.
Of course, Mr. O’Leary has to live in a creepy place like this. “Probably haunted,” I gripe to myself. I have been sitting in the tall bushes for a couple of hours now, frustrated as hell. I can’t see Hannah from my position, so I sit in silence, only a few yards from the decrepit fence separating me from the conservation land.
I am starting to get eaten by bugs and notice black rain clouds hiding the afternoon sun. An old, creepy, little doll is half buried by the conservation’s overgrown vegetation. The doll is looking up at me with a face smeared with mud and worn by decades of the Florida sunshine. I look back down at the doll with disgust.
I am just thinking about giving up when I feel my phone vibrate. I take it out. It’s a text from Hannah. I opened the phone, ‘Os gone, Go. B Safe!’ That was all I needed!
I leave my hiding position in the conservation area, freeing myself from the dense vegetation and creepy doll. I swing my legs over the broken, old fence and make my way towards O’Leary’s back porch.
As I land in O’Leary’s backyard, I notice mounds of dirt everywhere. I stop and take a look around. The mounds were all obscured from my line of sight because of the long grass and fence, but now I can see more clearly.
O’Leary’s backyard is covered with dug holes. Some are filled in, others not. His backyard is enormous, probably an acre, and it is covered by at least twenty dug holes. A few look big enough to bury a body, others are small, making the scene similar to a cemetery. Why the hell is O’Leary digging?
Between the black clouds, the scary doll and now this homemade cemetery, I am freaking out. I’m trying not to think of horror movies as I make my way for the large, old, empty house but am failing miserably because Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” is now playing loudly in my head. Vincent Price, please shut up! I take pictures of all the holes with my phone before moving into the house.
I continue onto the back porch of the house, knowing I do not have a ton of time. Of course, O’Leary’s house has a wooden screen door that creaks when I open it. What other horror movie cliché will I find? My skin has goosebumps, with the humidity in the air, and a rush of coldness strikes my body and continues up my spine. I nervously try the door. It is unlocked. Either O’Leary is trusting, or we live in Somerset, and why rob this place when you could go to the mansions and give them a try?
The door has peeling paint to match the rest of the house — probably lead paint. I already feel like I’ll need a tetanus shot after stepping foot in this crazy home. The part of the house I enter is not renovated yet. Dust, dirt, and cobwebs fill my line of sight. Scaffolding platforms are constructed all around the room; it looks like O’Leary is going to start the refinishing process in here next. I creep in the house at first but remember the time crunch and that O’Leary is possibly a murderer, and I hurry through the house.
I walk through another door with peeling paint, heavy and cold to the touch. The air is thin and musty. The house is very warm, especially compared to the freezing cold of a typical Florida home. I see the living room and the kitchen are both renovated nicely.
O’Leary is clearly taking up residence in the living room. A worn-out cot is set up behind an ornate couch. The kitchen looks immaculate, like something off of the home design channel Dad always watches. I look around, but there is nothing there. I’m not sure what I am looking for, but nothing incriminating is present.
I continue to the front of the house, toward a large foyer. A large ornate chandelier hangs twenty feet in the air. A winding staircase stands prominent in the middle of the room, and I travel it to the top rather quickly but suddenly
think I hear something. So I freeze. Ulysses, it’s nothing. Hannah would’ve texted if O’Leary had come back. Unless she doesn’t have reception, or her battery ran out! My mind is playing tricks on me while I am frozen on the steps. Calm it down, Ulysses, I keep telling myself. Worst case scenario, you get murdered by your friggin’ math teacher, best case you get arrested for breaking and entering. Right then, frozen on the step, I feel something at my ankle, and my body stiffens even more. Sweat starts to run down my forehead. What is behind me? I slowly turn and look down.
A fat black cat lies pawing at my leg. I take a deep breath. That must have been the sound. Just as soon as I feel a relief wash through my body, a crack of thunder strikes outside. BANG! The fat cat hisses at me and scurries down the stairs. I am so startled — I lose my footing on the stairway and skid down a few steps. Just then something piques my interest on the wall of the staircase in front of me.
Several old pictures are tacked to the wall, buried in dust and cobwebs. I take a closer look at them, wiping the dust and cobwebs from their frames.
They were definitely taken a while ago; the colored pixels look faded compared to the crisp high definition pictures of today. I can make out a date on the bottom of one of them. It read the tiny red lettering on the corner, 6/2/90. Twenty-eight years old.
In one picture, a blonde man is posing with his wife and two children, they look happy, and, based on their clothing for that time period, they look wealthy. Another picture on the wall shows the same two small blonde children being held by a different woman, not pictured in the other photos. She is joined in the picture by the woman in the first photo, presumably their mother. The mother is very beautiful with short blonde hair. The two women looked to be in their early thirties. The mother is prettier than the other woman, who had a darker, flat face with long black hair and intense green eyes. The two children look like twins, one girl and one boy. They have the same platinum blonde hair, like their parents, and appear to be about three years old. Everyone looks happy.
“This must be the Gallant family,” I whisper to myself.
I continue upstairs, checking each of the decrepit bedrooms, all looking old, dusty, and practically pitch dark, since no new lights had been installed yet. I use my flashlight on my phone sparingly to find my way around. I don’t want to waste its battery, which is already a little low, so I place it back in my shorts pocket.
I’m not finding any evidence of Mr. Wright’s murder or his argument with Mr. Barron. “Why am I here?” I ask out loud in frustration. Maybe Mr. O’Leary is not a murderer. It’s probably just a coincidence that the name Gallant came up in two of Mr. Barron’s conversations. Or I may have misheard it. Maybe it was, “I like ants,” or something crazy like that.
As my mind wanders, I look outside into Mr. O’Leary’s backyard. At this height I can see his entire yard. The holes and dirt piles look like an archaeology site — or a graveyard. It has started to rain. Damn! That means Hannah’s out in the rain. I better go, I think before doing a double take, and my stomach finds its old companion in my feet again. As I look back out the old smeared window, I see a person in the backyard!
“What the hell!” I blurt out loud. Someone is down in one of the holes!
It is the hole closest to the conservation area, near the fence line. The sky is growing darker by the minute, with rain blurring my line of sight. The smear on the window pane, neglected for decades, doesn’t help my vision either. I can see the figure, dressed all in black, even a black ski mask. In this heat, that was not smart. The figure is furiously digging, for what — I don’t know.
Just then I feel my phone vibrate. I take it out from my shorts pocket, reading the display. It reads six missed text messages — from Hannah! How did I miss these! My hand starts to shake and a knot in my stomach starts to twist as I open my phone and quickly read all of Hannah’s messages. Each text was a warning that O’Leary was coming back! Each text becomes more and more urgent and desperate. The last one says, ‘HE'S COMING IN — GET OUT!’
CHAPTER 20
- ULYSSES -
IT'S A HOLEY ESCAPE!
I must’ve not felt the vibration of my phone in my shorts between the cat scaring me and noticing the pictures on the wall. I quickly text her back, ‘B 2 u soon! Masked man in the backyard!’
I hear a door slam downstairs. “Damn,” I gasp in a hushed whisper. I was out of time! It’s O’Leary! HE’S BACK!
My eyes almost pop out of their sockets. I think, quickly looking around for a place to hide, trying to find anything promising — nothing! Not good! I am out of ideas, alone in this dark creepy room — about to be murdered!
I cautiously tiptoe to the door, so I can hear him better. It sounds like Mr. O’Leary is unpacking groceries or hardware store supplies in the kitchen. Let’s hope it’s groceries and not hardware supplies, I think, envisioning saws and hammers that he can use to attack me in this house of horrors. I swallow hard. My frenetic thoughts are growing, beads of sweat run down my forehead, my mouth is going dry and my face starts to twitch.
I glance outside the bedroom window again. The rain is now coming down in sheets, but the black figure is still digging. It’s probably getting hard to shovel when the ground is turning to mud. I can’t tell how tall or short the intruder is from this distance.
Thunder blasts around me while the lightning gives me glimmers of light in the darkened room. I anxiously wait in the upstairs bedroom of Mr. O’Leary’s house, thinking of my next move. But the only thing I can think of was how Mr. O’Leary was going to kill me!
Crazy thoughts of Dad having to identify my body in the morgue flood my mind. He probably won’t be able to recognize it because O'Leary will hack my face off. My breath starts to explode rapidly. How the hell am I going to get out of this house?!
My panicked mind flickers for ideas on how to get out of this house. I creep to the staircase, peering over cautiously. Everything in this ancient house creaks with chalkboard-scratching irritation, so I keep every movement excruciatingly slow. Just then I hear a loud bang. BANG! BANG! That wasn’t thunder!
I peer over the staircase just in time to see Mr. O’Leary walk slowly to answer the door, swinging it open in disgust. On the front porch is Hannah! She is wearing a bright yellow poncho drenched in rain.
“Afternoon, Mr. O’Leary,” she sheepishly smiles.
“What are you doing here? Ms. Reyes!” he says in a loud, confrontational tone. Even out of school he is a dink.
What is Hannah doing? It is bad enough O’Leary is going to find me and chop me into little pieces, it is another thing hurting Hannah!
Hannah appears nervous but continues on, “Um, I was riding my bike by your house, knowing you just bought this - great place.” I can hear the slight sarcasm in her tone. “I could see around your porch, into your backyard. I saw a masked man dressed all in black digging holes in your backyard.”
“Him again!” From what I can see from up and behind him, he looks pissed! He quickly yells, “I’ll catch him in the act this time! This prankster won’t escape me!” He turns away from Hannah and runs away from the door, leaving Hannah in the door frame. For a math teacher, he sure can run. I can hear him burst through the back-porch door, the same one I came through earlier, yelling so loud I can still hear him after the porch door slams shut behind him. He sprints into the pouring rain. “Hey, you! Stop! You’re trespassing!”
I take this opportunity to move to the top of the stairs to see Hannah take a few steps away from the door and motion me to come along. Without hesitation, I dart down the stairs, running for my life.
Half way down, a crazy idea to steal one of the pictures off the wall jumps into my head. I don’t know why this thought came to mind. Why in the heat of running for my life, away from a creepy house, possibly being tortured and murdered by my math teacher, would I take the time to steal a framed photo from his staircase? I stupidly stop, quickly grab the picture with the two kids and women. I slip it under my shirt
and continue my desperate departure. I burst out the front door of the house to meet Hannah on the porch. I grab her hand as we both run back to where we hid our bikes.
It feels like we’ve run for a mile, but it is only a few yards. I throw on my poncho. My adrenaline is still making me breathe fast and hard. We both hop on our bikes and race like we are in the Tour de France. All the while, I keep the frame under my shirt, tucked tight into the waistband of my shorts. Finally, when we’re several miles away from O'Leary's house, we breathe a sigh of relief.
Hannah finally looks over at me, panting from running and then our quick bike ride. Her bangs are soaked to her mocha skin that protrudes from her yellow poncho hood; she looks so beautiful. She breathlessly asks, “You okay? What did you find?”
There is so much adrenaline running through my body; going through all of that made me feel so wired and alive! It was like having ten cups of Penny University’s Cuban coffee.
Finally catching my breath, I look into Hannah’s eyes, smiling, and reply ecstatically, “You were terrific! I owe you my life!”
With both hands, I quickly grip her wet yellow poncho and pull her into my wet poncho, giving her a long and well-deserved wet kiss.
CHAPTER 21
- ULYSSES -
A NOT-SO-PRIVATE READING NOOK
W e arrive back at Penny University, after a long sloppy bike ride, wet and tired. We discard our ponchos and sit at a bistro set in a corner reading nook out of prying eyes. We are cold but are soon warmed by some frothy cappuccinos.
“You stole one of Mr. O’Leary’s pictures!” Hannah says, baffled.
“Shh! Keep your voice down,” I whisper. “I didn’t steal anything! I’m just borrowing it. I don’t think this is his anyway. Look at the date. O’Leary is, what, forty-five? The boy in this picture would only be around thirty at the most. I think these are the Gallants. I think the picture came with the house.”
