Legacy of Masks

by Sallie Bissell

  “I know,” said Kayla, morose. “That’s the hard part.”

  “I think we’d better just go ahead with my plan,” Avis said. “I don’t think giving Mary Crow those tapes will work, and we need every shred of evidence we can get.”

  Kayla envisioned Coach Keener sticking his tongue in Avis’s mouth and shuddered. “But what if he tries, you know, to do something to you?”

  “If he does, I’ll scream. Or throw up. Rapists hate it when you throw up on them,” Avis said knowledgeably.

  Kayla closed her eyes. All night she’d worried about this and despite Avis’s assurances, she still had a terrible feeling about the plan. “Avis, please just forget about this. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Don’t you want to catch the man who murdered Bethany?”

  “You know I do,” Kayla whispered, feeling like she’d just swallowed sand.

  “Then this is the only way we can do it,” said Avis. “It’ll be okay. I won’t be with him long enough for much to happen. He’s got to show up at ball practice, then he’ll take me home. My parents will be back by then. If I’m gone too long they’ll get suspicious, and he won’t want that.”

  Kayla sank down on her bed. Avis did have a point. Coach Keener wouldn’t have more than about ten minutes to mess around with her, coming to and from the ball field.

  “Look, Kayla, I’ve got to go—my mom wants me to help sort out some clothes we’re giving to Goodwill.”

  “Will you call me the second you get home?”

  “I will.” She heard the smile in Avis’s voice. “I promise.”

  Kayla fingered Bethany’s strawberry necklace that now hung around her neck, trying to send Avis all the good luck that had eluded her sister. “Just be careful, Avis. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  After that, Kayla had nothing left to do but wait. Usually, on grief-counseling days, her mother managed to rouse herself at noon, showering and dressing in time to appear downstairs to wait for her father’s arrival at two-fifteen. He’d pick them up in his Keener car. They always saw Dr. Shope as a family, though her father did most of the talking, telling the therapist how “they felt this” or “they were angry about that.” Today was no exception. As her mother sat dressed in jeans and a cotton sweater, picking at a plate of cottage cheese, her father roared up the driveway, blowing his horn.

  “Oh.” Her mother looked up stunned, as if she never heard of Bethany or Kayla or Pisgah County or for that matter, planet Earth.

  “Come on, Mom.” Kayla shouldered her all-important purse. “Hurry. He’ll get mad if we’re late.”

  Her mother, who’d just six months ago run a five-kilometer race, now shuffled to the car with tentative, old lady steps. Her father revved the engine while Kayla hopped in the backseat, hoping to avoid his notice. He drove them to town angrily, going too fast along the twisting roads, squealing to a stop at the intersections. Twenty minutes after their trip began, they sat in Dana Shope’s office, her father telling Dana that he thought they all might be feeling “a little better these days.” Kayla had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

  “Really?” Dr. Shope raised a dubious brow and looked directly at her. “How about you, Kayla? How are you feeling today?”

  She clutched her purse. Ever since she’d said good-bye to Avis, she’d racked her brain for a way to get the letter to Mary Crow. She thought she’d come up with something that might work, provided her father wouldn’t act like the asshole he truly was.

  “I’m feeling okay,” she finally replied. She wanted to say she was feeling like shit, like she wanted to scream, like she wished Coach Keener had killed her father instead of her sister, but she knew better than to tell the truth. Today she needed to keep Dr. Shope’s therapeutic spotlight focused on some other member of her fucked-up family. “I’m getting worried about my mom,” she said, oozing concern. “All she does is sleep.”

  Kayla held her breath as both Dana Shope and her father turned on her mother. Paula Daws looked as if they’d all caught her picking her nose in public.

  “How about that, Paula?” asked Dr. Shope kindly. “Have you been sleeping a lot?”

  Her mother fumbled for an answer, saying well, yes, maybe she had been spending a lot of time in the bedroom. Dr. Shope asked her another question, then her father chimed in. Kayla smiled. So far, the first part of her plan was working like a charm. Now safely out of the therapeutical loop, she turned her attention to the next step.

  She looked at Dana’s closed door. Outside, just across the landing not fifteen feet away, stood Mary Crow’s office. She just had to figure out how to leave Dr. Shope’s, and press her letter into the lawyer’s hand without her father catching on. Mary Crow would probably think she was crazy until she read the letter and listened to the tapes. All hell would break loose then. Who knew what her father would do if Avis was right about Coach Keener? With her fingers nervously working the strap of her purse, she waited for a pause in the conversation, then she stood up.

  “I’m sorry.” She clutched her purse as everyone looked at her in surprise. “I need to use the rest room.”

  “The rest room?” Her father scowled, as if rest room was some new word he’d never heard before.

  “It’s right outside the door, honey,” Dr. Shope smiled. “On the landing.”

  Her father stood up and opened the door. “Hurry up,” he growled, glaring at her. “This therapy is costing Coach Keener a lot of money.”

  “I’ll be right back,” she said as she trotted past him, her voice squeaky as a mouse.

  She hurried into the bathroom and locked the door behind her. She was so nervous that she went ahead and peed, even though she’d been unaware that she had to. As she sat on the toilet she dug the letter from the bottom of her purse. Just get up, cross the hall, tap on Mary Crow’s door, and get back to Dr. Shope’s. It won’t take you thirty seconds, tops.

  She breathed deeply, filling her lungs with air as if she were about to swim an underwater race. She stood up to flush the toilet, but stopped just as she was about to press the small lever. If her father heard the flush, he would expect her back immediately. If he didn’t hear it, she would have more time. Though it was gross to leave a commode unflushed, that’s exactly what she did. Holding the letter tightly in her hand, she cracked open the bathroom door. Her father had left Dr. Shope’s door slightly ajar. She could see him sitting beside her mother, his arm around her.

  Damn, she thought. He changed seats! He’s now facing this direction. She would have to wait, and dart across the landing when he wasn’t looking. With her heart beating a million miles an hour, she watched and waited. Suddenly he pulled out his handkerchief and covered his nose to sneeze. Now, she told herself. Go now!

  Slipping from the bathroom door, she strode quickly across the landing. When she reached Mary Crow’s office she tapped softly on the door. Seconds ticked by as she waited for an answer, but no one came. Nervously, she tapped again, but again, nothing. Desperate, she tried the knob, but it did not turn.

  Shit! She thought. I can’t come this far and fail. Ridge’s trial begins in just a few days and I won’t be up here again for another week. Quickly she dropped to her knees. Though the envelope was thick with the tapes, if she pushed hard, she could just work it underneath Mary Crow’s door. Hurry, she told herself as she wiggled the flimsy paper forward. Hurry, hurry, hurry!

  “Kayla!” Her father’s voice scared her so badly, she jumped. “What the hell are you doing?”

  She gave the envelope a final push. “I—I dropped a quarter,” she lied, scrambling to her feet. “It rolled under this door.”

  He looked at her with eyes that seemed to bore down into her core. She could tell he thought she was lying, and he would make her pay for it later.

  “Since when have you ever cared about a quarter?”

  She shook her head. Her tongue felt stuck to the roof of her mouth. “It was a North Carolina quarter,” she blurted. “I dropped it when I came o
ut of the bathroom. It rolled all the way across the floor, under this door.”

  For a long moment he just looked at her, but questioned her no further. “Get back in here,” he finally said, jerking his head toward Dr. Shope’s door. “And stay away from that office. I’d hate for you to disturb Ms. Crow.”

  I just disturbed Ms. Crow more than you’ll ever know, Daddy, she thought as she walked past him, back into where Dr. Shope was telling her mother that she really should make an effort to get out of bed and help Kayla’s life get back to normal.

  38

  “Avis? We’re leaving for Greenville now. We’ll see you later!”

  Avis rushed from her bedroom to the staircase to catch her mother and little sister before they walked out the door. “What time will you be back?”

  Darlene Martin looked up at her daughter, who hung over the banister, an oversized Panthers cap on her head. “Around nine, probably. It’s two hours there and back, plus Dad says we can stop for supper. You sure you don’t want to skip softball and come with us?”

  Yes, thought Avis. The prospect of sitting around a dopey old truck showroom suddenly seemed infinitely preferable to secretly taping Coach Keener. Yes, yes, yes. A million times yes. What had she been thinking when she dreamed this up? She sighed wistfully. “I guess I’d better stay here.”

  “Well, there’s lots to eat in the fridge, if you get hungry. And don’t forget to thank Coach Keener for bringing you home.”

  “I won’t,” Avis answered, feeling as if her voice belonged to somebody else.

  “Then we’ll see you in a few hours,” her mother called, tugging Chrissy along behind her.

  “Bye.” Avis gave a dejected wave. “Have a good time.” She almost added I love you, but stopped herself. Her mother would think it odd for her to bid them such a profound farewell for a trip to buy a Dodge.

  The house was still, silent except for the muffled hum of the central air. Her stomach was churning. As she sat down on the toilet for the umpteenth time that day, she wondered why none of her favorite fictional detectives ever felt the physical manifestations of fear. Sherlock Holmes never had diarrhea; Hercule Poirot never had to chercher une toilette. Why her?

  “Because you’re not a detective at all,” she reminded herself bitterly. “You’re just a fake. A pathetic fake who couldn’t stand the thought of losing your one friend.”

  Her words echoed in the tiled bathroom as their truth made her eyes sting. She knew nothing about solving crimes. She was just a loser who preferred the worlds that books offered—where clever detectives could sniff clues from a handkerchief and discern motive by the glint in someone’s eyes. She herself could barely figure out whether to bat or bunt. Now here she was, about to lure creepy Coach Keener into feeling her up? And then taping him? Had she lost her mind?

  “Just call Kayla,” she told herself reasonably. “Call her and tell her that you can’t get the tape recorder to work. Or that your mother is making you go to pick up the truck with them.” She looked at herself unsparingly in the bathroom mirror. “Or tell her that you’re just too chicken. It’ll be okay. Kayla will understand.”

  Yes, she thought as she leaned over to wash her hands. Kayla would understand. Kayla would probably even forgive her. But Kayla would also never again talk to her in quite the same way, her eyes sparkling with plans, her voice intimate with secrets and confidences. She would continue to call for the rest of the summer, then their friendship would fade. When school started they might chat briefly between classes, but by Christmas they would pass each other in the hall like strangers. People would forget the bad things that had happened to Kayla, and welcome her back into the tribe. Avis, on the other hand, would sink back to being that loser from South Carolina, who, for two bizarre months last summer, had been best friends with Kayla Daws.

  “No,” she whispered, tearing up as she imagined her life reverted to its former friendless state. “You’ve got to go through with it.”

  Wiping her eyes, she studied herself in the mirror. She’d widened the adjustable band of her father’s cap—a necessity with the minirecorder taped inside. Though it had, just as she’d told Kayla, clearly recorded her mother’s voice, the thing was so heavy that at first it sat on her head like a bowl, not moving at all when she turned her head to either side. She’d fixed that with four of Chrissy’s bobby pins, anchoring the hat with two on each side of her head, just behind her ears. Though she knew the cap looked odd and would only further deepen her teammates’ already low opinion of her fashion sense, it concealed the tape recorder perfectly. She couldn’t even hear the whirring of its tiny wheels when it was on her head.

  “Okay,” she nervously told her reflection. “Show time!”

  She grabbed her softball glove and ran downstairs to the kitchen, her legs as rubbery as if she’d just gotten off a boat. It was 4:22. Coach Keener would be here in eight minutes. He was always on time. She opened the refrigerator, wondering if she dared eat. She didn’t want to risk having an upset stomach when Coach Keener showed up. She was trying to decide what to do when she heard two beeps from a familiar horn. She looked out the kitchen window. Coach Keener’s black SUV sat waiting, sleek as a beetle in the late afternoon sun. She glanced at the clock again: 4:28. For some reason, he’d come early.

  “Okay,” she said, her fingers like ice. “This is it.” Just as she’d practiced, she reached up to punch the RECORD button of the tape machine through the wool of her cap. When she heard the barest hiss of the recorder, she knew she was ready to go. Scooping her glove from the kitchen table, she glanced one final time at their wonderful test house, then she went outside to greet the man who’d given it to them.

  “Hey, good-looking!” He called her that every time he saw her—his voice upbeat and happy, but something else, as well. Until she’d listened to those tapes, she hadn’t known he’d been coming on to her, in a joking kind of way. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.” She climbed into his car, the leather seats cold against her bare legs.

  “You expecting rain?” Laughing, he tugged at the bill of her cap. Involuntarily she shrank back in the seat and gave a small yip of alarm.

  “No,” she replied sharply, her voice thready with fear. She hadn’t been in his car ten seconds and already she’d almost blown everything. “Why?”

  He grinned. “I just never have seen you in such a big cap.”

  “Jeannette Peacock wore one this big last week,” she huffed, defensive. “A Dodgers cap, too.”

  “Okay, okay. I know how you girls are. Far be it from me to buck a fashion trend.”

  He backed out of her driveway. She knew from experience that for the first few blocks he would say either nothing or ask how her family was doing. Then, five minutes into the trip, he would turn on his CD player and start firing little jokes at her. Just like clockwork, as soon as he turned on Cowee Road, he started asking if her mother was excited about getting a new truck, and if her little sister played softball, too. When he punched in one of his CDs, her heart gave a little jerk—it was the same music she’d heard on Bethany’s tape! Old rock ’n’ roll—the kind of stuff her parents liked. Closing her eyes, she tried to force air deep into her lungs. Act nice. Cute. Sexy. Get him to do something, but don’t let him see the inside of that cap!

  She rearranged herself on the seat, curling up in what she considered an alluring pose, and forced her trembling lips up in a smile. He asked about the books she was reading, whether or not she was looking forward to school. She answered his questions coyly, just like some of the girls she’d seen on television. At first he kept grabbing quick little glances at her—one minute he’d pay attention to the road, then he’d look at her, the smile on his face growing. Finally he made a sharp turn onto a winding road that twisted through some woodsy picnic grounds. Her hands grew clammy with fear. He’d never driven her this way before.

  “How’re those puny little muscles of yours today?” He reached over and ran his hand up her leg from mid
calf to midthigh.

  “Fine,” she replied, trying hard to keep her voice from wobbling as the same hands that had smashed Bethany Daws’ skull now caressed her leg.

  “What happened there?” He pointed to a red scratch across her kneecap.

  “I cut myself shaving.”

  “Shaving?” He widened his eyes in mock alarm. “You shave your legs? You actually have enough hair on your legs to shave it off?”

  She nodded, remembering the early summer taunts of “Apegirl” and the jar of Nair someone had left in her baseball glove.

  “Well, gosh, I didn’t know you were that old. How about there? You shave there yet?” He grabbed her left shoulder with one hand and slipped his thumb under her sleeve, tickling the bare skin of her armpit.

  “Yes,” she whispered, instinctively squirming away.

  “Son of a gun!” He whistled. “You’re not getting bikini waxes yet, are you?”

  She couldn’t speak; her face felt so hot, she feared it might melt. As she shook her head in answer to his question, he turned the car off the road into a shabby little picnic shelter half-hidden by straggly laurel. He parked his car behind some pine trees, then reached over and unbuckled her seat belt. Up close, she could smell his cologne; she could also smell the odor of her own fear.

  “Avis, have you ever met somebody and just known right off the bat that they were going to be special in your life?”

  She nodded, struggling to turn her head so the microphone would be closer to his mouth.

  “Well, that’s exactly what I felt about you, that first day I saw you. You reminded me of a little girl I knew a long time ago. A sweet, beautiful little girl.”

  Her blood turned to ice as he reached over and hoisted her into his lap.

  “We haven’t known each other very long, but I bet as time goes by, you and I will become real close friends.” She felt his breath, hot and moist on her neck. “The kind of friends that do each other favors. Would you like that?”

  She sat, rigid with fear, unable to reply. She gave the merest nod of her head as she grew increasingly aware of the tape recorder, hard and heavy as it dug into her scalp.