Teek

by S. Andrew Swann

  She was breaking down now, pulling herself into a ball. Macy came over and sat next to her. Macy stroked her back and said. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to know what happened. Shh.”

  It took Allison a few minutes to pull herself together. She kept thinking about David’s costume party. About her ruined costume. She couldn’t even remember what he had said. All she remembered was the crowding presence, the hands, and the alcohol smell of his breath.

  “I want my tail back.” Allison muttered.

  Macy chuckled. “He does have a talent for slapstick. Now tell me, girl. What’d you do that pissed him so much at the library?”

  Allison snuffed and sat up, getting another tissue to wipe her nose. “He was baiting me with the notebook, and I ripped it out of his hand.”

  “Huh?”

  Allison shrugged. “I must have been even angrier than I thought. I tugged a few times, and then it just— well— came loose.”

  “He let go?”

  Allison shook her head. “No, he was holding on for dear life. Let me show you.” She ran up and got her trigonometry notebook and came downstairs with it. She placed it in Macy’s hand.

  “No, palm up. Now the binding is here.” She aligned the cover so the straightened wire was parallel with Macy’s outstretched arm. “You see that hole? That’s where the thumb goes.”

  “He was holding tight enough to tear the cover?”

  “And the pages underneath. Now see?” Allison slowly drew the book over Macy’s palm. The wire drew across slowly. “The corner of the binding hooked in his palm, cut him a little.”

  Macy sighed.

  “What?” Allison asked.

  “Wasn’t a little.” Macy took the notebook and looked at the wire. The end of it was hooked and it bobbed like a sheaf of metallic wheat. “David told us Chuck sprayed blood all over. Called an ambulance. David thought you knifed him.”

  “Me? A knife?”

  “All David heard was Chuck screaming ‘the bitch slashed me.’ What would you think?”

  Allison looked at her trigonometry notebook with a little more respect. “I didn’t mean to do anything like that…”

  Macy smiled and shook her head. “I know, girl. Chuck’s such trash that no one’d care if you did knife him— ‘cept maybe the cops and his folks. Then only because they have to.”

  “How badly did I hurt him?”

  “David overheard one of the medics say something like two dozen stitches and a lot of blood loss. He also said that Chuck keeled over before the medics showed.”

  Allison winced even though she thought Chuck deserved it.

  “Hey,” Macy said. “David’s probably just exaggerating to make a good story. You know how he is.”

  “Too well.”

  “Want some advice?” Macy asked.

  “What?”

  “Go to the kitchen, right now.” Macy tapped the cover of the notebook. “Put this here thing in a baggie and keep it safe.”

  “Huh, why?”

  Macy sighed. “Think, girl. Chuck’s pissed. He might be too he-man to call the cops on a girl who bit him. But he might not be. He might figure the embarrassment’s worth it.”

  “But…”

  “This proves your story. Don’t lose it. Especially his bloodstains.”

  “Okay, okay.” Allison felt really silly, but she went in the kitchen to package the “evidence.” She couldn’t find a Ziploc bag that’d fit her notebook, so she put it in a Hefty trash bag and put it up in her room.

  CLEVELAND, OH: Sunday October 24, 1999

  11:23 AM

  Three vehicles were parked facing each other inside one of the dozen parking garages that dotted University Circle; a gray van, an old green Oldsmobile, and a blue late-model Dodge sedan that stopped just short of looking like an unmarked police car.

  A blond man in jeans and cowboy boots sat on the hood of the Olds. The sandy haired teenager called Elroy leaned against the rear bumper of the Dodge. Today his T-shirt was white and had a picture of Foghorn Leghorn on it.

  A thin man, white-haired and in his sixties, paced in front of all three cars.

  “Calm down, George,” said the man in the cowboy boots. His voice had a southwestern flavor to it.

  “Oh, ‘calm down’ he says,” said the white haired man. “Great, Barney, I’ll remember that advice when you’re in charge of a kid that blows up and starts threatening the local cops.”

  “You ain’t in charge of them ‘till we have them, George. Now if Elroy started waving a gun, then I’d worry.” Barney cocked a head in the direction of the kid leaning on the Dodge.

  “I’m sure Elroy appreciates that,” George said and resumed pacing.

  “Do you, Elroy?”

  “Sure,” Elroy said without turning around.

  “Y’all know what’d happen if you waved a gun around?” Asked Barney.

  “You’d shoot me in the head and Mr. Jackson would dump the body in a storm sewer.”

  “Smart kid—”

  George stopped pacing. “His IQ is twice yours, Barney, and I’d like you to shut the fuck up.”

  “Touchy,” said Barney, but he shut up.

  “God,” George muttered, “of all the teams to be saddled with. The boy was eighteen. We should have snagged him the moment we found him.”

  “The girl is better,” Elroy said.

  “I know, and that’s what you’re here for.” George couldn’t see the small smile cross Elroy’s face. “But—” George stared at Barney, “using someone as unstable as Charles Wilson to draw her out again was not the right way to do things.”

  “Fuck you very much,” Barney said politely.

  At that, the sliding door on the van shot open and the woman inside said, “Would you children stop bickering?” She was pointedly looking at George and Barney, “Some people are trying to sleep.”

  “Sorry Jane,” George said.

  “He started it,” said Barney.

  Jane ignored him. “Is Jackson back yet?”

  Three heads shook in unison. George said, “He’s off with some local cops, but I don’t see the federal bit lasting much longer—” George stopped in mid-sentence, because a gray haired man was walking toward them.

  “Speak of the devil,” Jane said.

  Fred Jackson walked up to the trio of vehicles. He nodded toward George and Jane, “Doctors—”

  “What’s the good word, boss?” Barney said from the hood of the Olds.

  “The word is, Charlie Woodrow Wilson is no longer a concern of ours.”

  “You’re kidding,” George said.

  Fred shook his head. “No. We’re supposed to avoid local involvement, and waving firearms at policemen is pretty involved. For what he is, Mr. Wilson isn’t worth the trouble of extracting him from the criminal tangle he’s put himself in.”

  “What a waste,” Jane said.

  “It’s his own fault, Doctor.”

  “What now?” George asked.

  “Now we shift our attention to the powerful focus that Elroy drew our attention to.”

  “The girl?” Barney asked.

  “The girl.”

  “I told you she was better,” Elroy said.

  SEVEN

  EUCLID HEIGHTS, OH: Monday October 25, 1999

  03:16 PM

  Allison felt better than usual when the last bell rang on Monday. Despite her preoccupation over the weekend, her obsessive streak had managed to pull some of her classes out of the gutter. Even Mr. Franklin, her physics teacher, smiled at her as she filed out of his class.

  She had thought physics was a lost cause.

  Physics was the last class of the day. Afterward, she went straight from the science wing to the school courtyard.

  The original high school had been an H-shaped building. The newer science wing had been built across the top of the H, turning it into a squared off A. Flanking the science wing were the south pool and the new gym, giving the top of the A much broader shoulders than the rest of th
e building.

  The courtyard filled the top of the A. Now that school was over, it, in turn, filled with students.

  Allison came out into the courtyard as usual. And, as usual, she walked past bike racks and into one of two short tunnels that led through the first floor of the science wing. After school she always met Macy at the McDonald’s across the street.

  She swung her backpack, whistling something to herself. She hadn’t seen Chuck around all day, and that lifted her spirits more than anything. After what Macy had told her about the scene at the library, it was a good thing not to run into Chuck.

  She walked along the left wall of the tunnel, whistles echoing around her, running her hand along the brick. Bright sunlight filled both ends of the tunnel, cloaking the interior with shadow. The noises from the courtyard behind, and the traffic-filled street beyond, seemed far away.

  She stopped halfway to the street. A kid too young to be in high school stood at the other end of the tunnel, staring at her. Something about the kid’s stare felt familiar—

  Oh Jeez, the library.

  The kid had been in the gray van that had nearly run over her. It was the same sandy hair, the same Walkman headphones, and the same merciless gaze. Allison almost said something but just then someone from behind sped past her on a skateboard.

  She nearly dropped her backpack as she flattened herself against the wall.

  “Sorry,” said the skateboarder without slowing down.

  Allison clutched her backpack to her chest and exhaled. Her heart raced. Little high strung today, aren’t we?

  As she calmed down she suddenly became aware of two things; the kid with the Walkman had vanished, leaving her alone in this dark tunnel, and she leaned next to a brown-painted fire door.

  The door stood open, slightly.

  She’d barely had time to notice the door was ajar before Chuck reached out of it and grabbed her. In the midst of the shock, she didn’t even think to scream. Her backpack spilled on the ground as he pulled her inside. She froze up until she heard the door chunk shut behind them.

  Then she screamed.

  Chuck slammed her against the cinder-block wall and covered her mouth.

  The echoes of her aborted cry for help continued forever.

  Concrete fire stairs descended behind Chuck, down to the tunnels that connected the basement locker rooms to the pool and the gym. The thick steel door next to them bore the sign, “Emergency Exit Only.” The walls were dirty white-washed cinder-block, the floor damp, gray concrete. Light came from a flickering, unadorned fluorescent tube set high in the ceiling.

  Chuck stared at her with wide, bloodshot eyes. He wore a sleeveless flannel shirt, and his jeans were spotted with blood.

  Chuck held her pinned to the wall with his left hand. It wrapped around half of her face, crushing her lips to her teeth. Salty blood was leaking into her mouth. He leaned against her face with all his weight, pinning her and igniting the embers of another headache.

  She felt as if her heart had stopped beating. Her insides had fallen away leaving a vacuum.

  “Hi sweetcakes,” Chuck said. His breath stank. His hand stank. “Remember this?” Chuck held up his right hand. Allison felt her eyes widen even as hysterical tears filled them. Half his right hand was covered with dirty white gauze. His index and middle finger were discolored.

  “You did this, you little bitch. Here, lemme give you a better view.”

  Chuck grabbed part of the dressing in his teeth and pulled.

  He’s crazy, Allison thought. Her lungs burned, and her limbs seemed to have receded away from the rest of her body. A fire burned behind her temples, flaring with every attempt to breathe.

  The white gauze spiraled away from Chuck’s hand, revealing a purple bruise covering most of the palm. The bruise darkened to black where a line of puckered flesh ran diagonally from the heel of the palm to the web between Chuck’s first two fingers. The slice was knitted together by a line of black stitches. Chuck flexed the hand and viscous black blood seeped between a few of the stitches.

  Allison wanted to throw up. She felt as if she was on a roller coaster, but there was no upward turn, just the downward curve, down, and down, and down…

  “This hurt.” Chuck balled his injured hand into a fist. Allison could see his neck strain with the effort, and Allison was afraid he was going to punch her with it.

  She pulled at the arm holding her, kicked at him, but Chuck barely noticed. He held a trembling fist closed until beads of fresh red blood began to appear between his fingers.

  “I should hurt you, sweetcakes,” he said. The way he said it made Allison stop struggling for a moment.

  He reached into his pocket, smearing more blood on his jeans with his bad hand. He withdrew something thin and glittering. At first it looked like a pen, but then Allison saw the blade on the tip.

  When Allison saw the scalpel, she redoubled her efforts at kicking and pulling herself free. But it wasn’t just Chuck’s strength holding her captive. He leaned in, all his weight crushing against the hand on her face.

  It was so hard to breathe.

  Oh God, why doesn’t anyone hear this? Didn’t anyone hear me?

  The pain in her skull began to fracture her vision. Rainbows grew from the fluorescent tube above them. An exit sign burned like a hot coal in the corner of her vision.

  “I should cut you, like you did me.” Allison tried to claw his face, but her nails were blunt.

  Chuck laughed at her.

  Laughed at her.

  The sound made Allison curl up within herself. As if all her fear meant nothing.

  Allison felt the blade of the knife against her throat. “Calm down or I will cut you.”

  Allison felt her arms drop. She wasn’t getting enough air, and her vision was turning red around the edges. Her head was on fire and she could feel her consciousness slipping.

  It would be so easy just to stop fighting.

  The hand fell away from her face, and for a moment she gasped for breath. She had a few breaths as Chuck reached around behind him. It took her a second to realize what he was pointing at her.

  Her eyes widened as she realized that Chuck held a gun.

  He’s going to kill me.

  The blade in Chuck’s right hand traveled down the front of her blouse, taking buttons as it went. “I don’t want to hurt you, sweetcakes. I like you— really I do.”

  The blade severed the front of her bra.

  It wasn’t until Chuck had dropped the knife and was reaching for his own pants that Allison’s panic-fogged mind registered what Chuck wanted to do.

  Oh God no! I never— and with him—

  The thought ignited such a pain within her skull that she thought she was going to die right there.

  “No!”

  Anger and pain balled up with in her, and erupted outward, toward Chuck.

  “No!”

  All her panic and rage fed into that one word. All she could think of was pushing him away. She threw up her arms to defend herself and stared at Chuck’s right hand, still at his pants. At that moment she felt the ball of pain shoot away.

  She heard something.

  A loud snap, something like a muffled rifle shot, or someone flicking God’s own wet towel.

  As her vision cleared, she watched Chuck’s cheeks puff out as he violently exhaled. His eyes widened. He wheezed, as if he couldn’t catch his breath.

  The gun fired into the wall, deafening Allison and spraying her with concrete shrapnel. It fired again, into the floor, filling her nose with acrid gun-smoke. Then it clattered to the ground.

  Both of his hands shot to his groin as he doubled over.

  He collapsed to the ground, next to the gun.

  She froze against the wall as she watched bright red blood begin to leak from between his fingers.

  Something had happened to his jeans. It looked as if all the seams had given way. Blood pooled under him.

  Chuck screamed. The sound brought Alliso
n to her knees, knifing her with a pain in the temples that rivaled any headache she ever had. She nearly passed out.

  From below, where the locker rooms were, a half-naked teenager ran up the stairs, trunks still damp and eyes red with chlorine. His gaze landed on Chuck’s prone form and he began yelling for help. He whipped a towel from around his shoulders to put pressure on the spurting wound. The swimmer kept crying and cursing because Chuck wouldn’t let go and every attempt to staunch the bleeding made Chuck scream even more.

  Howling, animal screams tore into Allison’s skull like a band-saw.

  The pain drove her away from everything. She wasn’t really there, couldn’t really be seeing this.

  The swimmer and Chuck screamed at each other. Both unintelligible. The towel turned red.

  More people up the stairs. The swimmer shouted them back. Mr. Geraldi, the swim coach, carried one of the ubiquitous blue-bottomed first aid kits. Geraldi saw the blood and a look of hopelessness crossed his face.

  Geraldi screamed at the students to call an ambulance. Not a yell, but a scream, as if it was his own flesh torn and bleeding. He dropped the first aid kit and knelt next to the swimmer. Geraldi’s muscles knotted as he pried Chuck’s hands away, so he could get pressure on the wound.

  Chuck’s screams finally died away, and that was the worst sound of all.

  Then the door was open and there were police.

  One of the cops had to drag her outside, away from the bloody chaos on the concrete landing. Allison realized that her blouse hung open, and she folded her arms.

  People— students— were everywhere. Dozens of uniformed cops seemed to have arrived out of nowhere. A cop car, flashers going, had driven into the courtyard. Police kept the students and faculty back, away from the fire door and the tunnel under the science wing.

  Someone, it might have been Mr. Franklin, draped a jacket over her shoulders.

  Paramedics she didn’t remember arriving carried out Chuck on a wheeled cart, their orange windbreakers spattered with blood.

  Cops surrounded her. She thought she saw a twelve-year-old kid staring at her from the crowd. The kid’s gaze seemed to pierce her, straight through what had just happened. It was as if the kid saw everything, and didn’t care at all.