The 9th Girl

by Tami Hoag

  In real life—in high school, at least—people didn’t always want to be helped. Real life was more complicated.

  Kyle worked his pencil over the paper, patiently adding detail to the scene. Ultor was muscular and angular, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. His arms and legs were sculpted. His belly was flat and cut, the six-pack showing through the skintight T-shirt he wore. His brow was low, his eyes narrow, his jaw wide and shadowed.

  In this scene Ultor was putting himself between the girl he was protecting and the villain’s henchman. One arm reached back, putting the victim behind him. One arm stretched forward, directing the forceful beam of energy from the palm of his hand into the face of the attacker. Ultor was the center of the scene, the source of power. Everything else was pushed away from him by that power. Through the strength of the lines of Ultor’s body, Kyle had captured that sense of power and the tension that resulted from that power.

  He was pleased with the look of the drawing. He paused for a moment to study it closely, and it dawned on him what it really said about his hero: that through his strength he protected the weak and fended off evil, but in doing so he isolated himself. Ultimately, Ultor was alone in his act of heroism.

  The thought gave Kyle an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. Was that the price of heroism? By definition a hero went above and beyond what an ordinary person would do. In doing so the hero separated himself from others in order to save them. He set himself apart. And while he might gain the admiration and adoration of those he saved, at the same time he distinguished himself as being different from them.

  Kyle knew what that felt like without being a hero. He didn’t fit in. Unlike Brittany, he didn’t want to fit in. The clique she so desperately clung to was all about popularity, appearance, affectation. As lonely as it was to be an outsider, Kyle knew he would feel so much more alone and empty trying to exist within that phony social structure. Brittany was finding that out firsthand, and yet she didn’t want any part of him reaching out to her. She treated him like he was the enemy, while it was her so-called friends turning on her.

  He refocused on his drawing, his eye going to the girl Ultor was attempting to save. She was pretty, blond. If he were to color this, she would have eyes the blue of lakes on a cloudless summer day.

  With a couple of deft strokes of the pencil he changed her expression from one of relief at being saved to something more like resentment. Leaving Ultor standing truly alone, a hero to an ideal.

  The bell rang. Kyle stuffed his phone in the pouch of his hooded sweatshirt, closed his sketch pad, and gathered his things. Brittany fumbled with her phone, dropped it on the floor, spilled half the stuff out of her purse. Her cheeks flushed red as she scrambled to grab everything up and get out of the library. Kyle waited and held the door open for her like a gentleman. She didn’t thank him.

  “What was it Christina tweeted about you again?” he asked as they started down the hall.

  Brittany refused to look at him. “She was joking.”

  “Yeah. Lesbian slut. That’s funny,” he said flatly.

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I understand with a friend like that you don’t need an enemy.”

  She huffed a sigh and rolled her eyes. “Kyle, just butt out. You’re not helping.”

  “I thought you didn’t need help,” Kyle said. “You don’t want my help because I’m a freak. I’m a loser because I don’t think it’s funny to bully people and call girls whores on Twitter. You’d rather have friends who treat you like shit. That’s fucked-up, Britt.”

  She hugged her books and her purse tight to her chest, her shoulders hunched with tension as they negotiated the mob in the hall. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

  “Because I know you’re not like Christina. You’re so much better than her and the rest of them. You deserve better.”

  She heaved a sigh as they turned with a flow of other students and started up the stairs like salmon bucking up a stream. She didn’t answer him. Kyle wasn’t sure if she didn’t believe she deserved better or if she didn’t believe she wasn’t like Christina Warner.

  Christina was the bitch queen of the popular crowd. Girls wanted to be like her, wanted to be around her, wanted to be included in her inner circle of friends. She was the president of the sophomore class and belonged to all the right clubs. Teachers loved her. The people she liked saw her as successful and clever, always stylish. The people she didn’t like saw a different side of her.

  “Have you heard from Gray?” he asked as they turned at the top of the stairs and started down the sophomore hall. Brittany stopped at her locker and focused on dialing her combination.

  “No. Why would I hear from her? She hates me. That’s the last thing she said to me before she left. That she hated me and couldn’t wait to get out of here and never see anyone from here again.”

  “Yeah, well, who could blame her?” Kyle said, leaning a shoulder against the next locker.

  Christina Warner’s laugh drifted down the hall. Kyle could see them coming: Christina; her BFF, Jessie Cook; and her guard dog / boyfriend, Aaron Fogelman. Fogelman had a fat lip that gave Kyle a feeling of great satisfaction to see since he had made that happen.

  Fogelman was over six feet tall and already beefy, like he was on steroids or had been held back five years or something. Despite the fact that he was a good enough student to attend PSI—or that his parents were rich enough to buy his way in—he struck Kyle as being as dumb as an ox. All the girls thought he was good-looking, but his eyes were a little too small and mean, and his mouth was always a little bit open. He was certainly stupid when it came to Christina. He followed her around like a big dog, willing to do whatever she told him. Kyle had given him the nickname the Henchman, though he didn’t call him that out loud. Calling people names was against his personal principles.

  Brittany heard them coming too. She huffed another impatient sigh and gave Kyle a nasty look from the corner of her eye. “Would you just leave me alone?”

  “You worried they’ll think you’re consorting with the enemy again?” he asked. “What’s Christina gonna put on Twitter this time? Last week you were a lesbian slut. Now you’ll just be a regular slut?”

  She narrowed her eyes, trying her best to look mean. “There’s a reason people don’t like you, Kyle.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Because I tell the truth.”

  “Hey, Brittany,” Aaron Fogelman said. “Is this runt bothering you?”

  Kyle pushed away from the locker and stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, his books held low in front of him with both hands. He could be quick to drop them straight to the floor and move forward out of a fighting stance. Fogelman had taken the first swing of their last fight, but because Kyle tried always to be aware and ready, as Bruce Lee had taught, he had been able to move quickly, and Fogelman’s knuckles had only grazed his cheekbone.

  “You’re calling me a runt, and I kicked your ass,” Kyle said. “What does that make you, Fogelman?”

  “You didn’t kick my ass, Hatcher,” Fogelman said, irritated. “You must have a concussion.”

  “From what?”

  The truth was his body still hurt. Fogelman had fists the size of bricks, and he used them with what they called in the fight world “bad intentions.” He didn’t hit just to connect; he hit to hurt, to do damage. But Kyle would never show that Aaron Fogelman had hurt him. Fogelman might have been able to break him physically, but Kyle would always beat him when it came to gameness and psychological warfare.

  Christina Warner held up her phone and took a picture of Kyle’s battered face. “This is what a loser looks like,” she said, tapping the keyboard. “Hashtag ‘Loser’ at XtinaW.”

  She flipped her long white-blond hair back and gave Brittany a look, her perfect red lips turning down at the corners, her dark eyes filled with disapproval. “What are you doing with him, Brittany?”

  “I’m not with him,” Brittany protested. “He won’t
leave me alone.”

  “You’re like a booger on a finger, Hatcher,” Fogelman said.

  “I guess you’d know about that,” Kyle said.

  Fogelman’s ears started turning red. It pissed him off no end that Kyle was more quick-witted than he was. He went for the cheap insult. “Why are you following a girl, anyway? Everyone knows you’re gay.”

  Kyle narrowed his eyes, resisting the urge to punch Fogelman in the mouth, which was what he wanted to do. Not because he was a homophobe but because Fogelman was one, and thought that made him superior. Kyle thought of his hero, Georges St-Pierre, and what GSP said about dealing with bullies. Stand up straight; look your bully in the eye; do not retaliate with violence; be confident and tell the truth.

  “Name-calling is the last resort of an ignorant mind,” he said.

  Fogelman took a step in close, looming over Kyle, his expression dark. Kyle held his ground, never taking his eyes from the other boy’s. His heart started to beat a little harder. His ribs hurt as he tried to draw a deep breath, reminding him of the weight of this kid’s punches.

  But instead of hitting him, Fogelman grabbed for his books, snatching hold of his sketch pad and quickly stepping back. A big grin spread across his stupid-looking face. Christina Warner laughed lightly, like she thought he was delightfully cute.

  “What do you have in here, runt?” Fogelman asked.

  Kyle stepped toward him and swiped at the sketch pad. Fogelman held it up out of his reach.

  “Give it back,” Kyle ordered.

  “Pictures of your boyfriend?”

  “Fuck you, Aaron, that’s my work. Give it back.”

  He grabbed at the pad again, and again Fogelman lifted it out of his reach. Changing strategies, he stepped back and rested his hands on his hips, waiting. He looked off to the left, down the hall. Mrs. Arness stepped out of her classroom, glanced their way, disinterested, and went back inside.

  Fogelman opened the sketch pad and laughed out loud at the first page, a series of three drawings of Ultor showing different degrees of energy through movement.

  “Is this supposed to be you?” Fogelman asked, holding the pad so Christina could see it.

  She laughed. “Oh my God! That is so gay!”

  “You think you’re a superhero or something, runt?” Fogelman asked.

  Kyle stepped toward him, reaching out. “Give it back.”

  “Too bad you’re not ripped like this, dude; maybe you could take it away from me.”

  “Maybe I could anyway,” Kyle said.

  Fogelman turned away from him and called out to a couple of his buddies down the hall.

  “Hey, look what the runt thinks he looks like!”

  More laughter. Kyle felt his face flushing red. His blood was roaring in his ears.

  “It’s missing something,” one of Fogelman’s friends said, grabbing the pad.

  Kyle tried to push his way past Fogelman. Fogelman blocked him. Kyle stepped right, pivoted around, and tried to lunge forward, only to be blocked by another body, and another body. By the time he got through the knot of people, Fogelman had taken the pad back and was holding it up for all to see. Someone had taken a pencil and drawn a giant erect penis onto each version of Ultor, making it look like the first one was having anal sex with the second one, who was having anal sex with the third one, who was masturbating.

  “Give it back!” he snapped at Fogelman. To his horror, his voice cracked, drawing more laughter from the bigger guys. Anger spiked through him. He moved toward Aaron Fogelman with purpose.

  “Give it back!”

  Fogelman laughed, still holding the sketch pad up out of reach. “Or what?”

  “Or this,” Kyle said.

  He hooked his right leg around Fogelman’s left and drove his shoulder hard into the bigger kid’s solar plexus. The breath left Fogelman in a gust, and he tripped backward and fell like a giant redwood. Kyle went down on top of him, kneeing him in the groin, then the stomach, as he scrambled his way up Fogelman’s body, reaching for the sketch pad, now on the floor.

  As he grabbed for it, a pair of polished dress shoes came into view. Kyle’s stomach dropped as he looked up to see Principal Rodgers glaring down at him.

  Rodgers bent over and picked up the sketchbook, scowling at the pornographic drawing. “Mr. Hatcher, Mr. Fogelman. I will see you both in my office. Now.”

  Fogelman groaned and rolled onto his side, cupping his balls with his hands. Kyle scrambled to his feet, shooting a glare at Brittany, who looked on with wide eyes, her books clutched to her chest.

  “Nice friends you’ve got, Britt,” he said. “I can see why you’d rather hang with them.”

  15

  “Are you nervous, Jamar?” Liska asked. “There’s really no reason for you to be.”

  “I’ve never been hypnotized before,” Jackson admitted, his eyes darting from Liska to the other woman in the room.

  “It’s nothing to be worried about,” she said. “I promise.”

  The other detective was Valerie Edgar, who worked Sex Crimes. She was a nice-looking woman in a next-door-neighbor kind of way—simple, shoulder-length brunette hair; a friendly, open face; a nonthreatening, feminine quality. Hypnosis was something she had studied and become very good at in addition to her training as a detective, in order to help victims and unlock the memories of witnesses. Her demeanor was comforting and reassuring.

  Jamar Jackson, however, did not seem comforted or reassured. The sweat on his forehead gleamed under the fluorescent lighting in the interview room. He wiped it off with his hand and shoved up the sleeves of his sweater.

  “Man, it’s hot in here,” he complained, shifting on his chair. “Why is it so hot in here?”

  “I’m sorry,” Liska said. “There’s some problem with the heating system. They can’t seem to get it sorted out.”

  “Eight freaking degrees below zero outside and it’s like the damn jungle in here,” Jackson said, then quickly caught himself. “Pardon my language.”

  “I hear you,” Liska said. “It’s like a sauna. We’re all dying here. If they don’t get this fixed today, I’m coming to work in a bathing suit tomorrow. Can I get you something to drink, Jamar? Water? A can of pop?”

  Jackson looked suspicious, like he figured they would try to slip him something.

  Kovac watched through the one-way glass and rubbed at the tension in the back of his neck. Tippen stood beside him, eating a red Twizzler.

  “Jesus,” Kovac muttered, “you’d think he killed the girl with his bare hands. I’ve never seen a witness so freaked out.”

  “He probably thinks she’s going to put him under and make him cluck like a chicken,” Tippen said.

  Jackson tried unsuccessfully to look cool about the whole thing. “Naw, I’m good. Thanks.” He looked at Edgar, forcing a smile, like he wanted her to think he was joking. “You’re not gonna make me cluck like a chicken or anything like that, right?” He tried to laugh a little.

  Valerie Edgar smiled warmly, sharing the joke. “No. I promise. All that happens here is I help you relax so you can easily access your memories. It’s a good thing. You’ll feel calm and safe, with none of the tension you had during the event itself. You’re in complete control the whole time.”

  “Will I be out? Like unconscious?”

  “No, not at all. I want you just to take a deep breath now and exhale slowly through your mouth.”

  She took him through that exercise for a good five minutes before asking him to close his eyes. He squeezed his eyelids shut like a five-year-old child pretending to take a nap. Edgar continued with the breathing exercise, her voice going softer and softer.

  In another five minutes, Jackson cracked open one eye. “Am I out? Is this it?”

  Kovac swore and tipped his head back, looking at the ceiling. “This is a fucking disaster.”

  “Just wait,” Tippen said. “Valerie is good. I’ve watched her hypnotize a rape victim who was so terrified she couldn’t bring her
self to close her eyes. She’ll get him.”

  Again Valerie Edgar smiled gently. “You feel fine, don’t you? You’re in complete control.”

  “Yeah,” Jackson said, relieved. “I’m good. It’s all good.”

  “This is all there is to it. Relax, close your eyes; breathe deeply and slowly.”

  Kovac could see the tension leave Jamar Jackson’s body. The kid relaxed. His breathing deepened. Impressive.

  Edgar asked him a couple of easy questions first, as he settled into that mysterious state of unconscious consciousness, gradually leading him to the heart of the matter: those crucial few moments before and during the incident on New Year’s Eve.

  Jackson recalled vivid details about the goings-on in the back of his limo, right down to the color of the pubic hair on the girl with no panties (not a natural blonde). Details of what had been going on in front of his Hummer were sketchier.

  The box truck to his left had been white with orange and black lettering. He didn’t remember what it said. Probably a U-Haul truck, Kovac thought. There had to be hundreds of them based in the Twin Cities, to say nothing of trucks coming into Minneapolis from anywhere else.

  The body of Rose Reiser—New Year’s Doe—had been discovered by a guy driving a box truck. But they had thoroughly searched the truck, and the driver had been completely cooperative with the investigation. He had been ruled out as a suspect. This box truck was probably no more significant to the Zombie Doe investigation than that one had been to the investigation a year past.

  The detail Jamar Jackson was very clear about was the image of the girl coming out of the trunk of the dark car in front of him. That image had seemingly blinded him to all else. Even in his relaxed hypnotic state, he had nothing to say about the make or model of the vehicle, and no memory of the license plate.