Hangman's Curse

by Frank Peretti

  “Who cleans them out?” Nate asked, now using a magnifying glass.

  “Oh, whoever needs a little punishment.”

  “But you’re sure this was Tod Kramer’s locker?”

  “Oh yeah, 106, fourth period, Tod Kramer.”

  Uh-oh. Nate moved his magnifying glass nearer, farther, back and forth, peering intensely. He quickly prepared a small length of double-back tape on the end of a toothpick and used it to extract a very tiny, crystalline object from the crack formed where the floor of the locker met the rear wall. When he brought it out into the light and had a better look at it, he nodded jubilantly. It was a tiny clump of sugar crystals, no doubt tainted with Tricanol. The soda straw had been cleaned out, but this little tidbit managed to remain. “Abel Frye” had been here. He dropped the sample into a tiny, sterile vial, tightened on the cap, and stowed it in his tool bag.

  “So, Tod Kramer was in your fourth-period class.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did he ever pick on anybody?”

  Marquardt scowled. “What kind of a question is that?”

  Nate found himself trying to be patient. He rephrased the question. “To your knowledge, did Tod Kramer ever harass, abuse, bully, tease, shove, humiliate, you know, pick on anybody?”

  Marquardt smirked a little. “I’m sure he did. A lot of them do.”

  “Would you have any idea whom he picked on?”

  “I don’t pay attention to that kind of stuff.”

  Nate didn’t like hearing an answer like that from a teacher. “You don’t?” the hand. Have you ever tried to teach a high school gym class?”

  He seemed indignant at the question. “Listen. I’m here to teach, to make sure these boys come out of this school physically fit. I’m not here to baby-sit or counsel or hold little weaklings by

  “No, sir.”

  “It’s a cage full of animals. They need to be controlled; they need to be whipped into shape. If you get soft, if you start listening to excuses and feeling sorry for whiners, the class falls apart.”

  “So you do what’s necessary to maintain control.”

  Marquardt gave a deep, sarcastic nod. “Now you’re getting the picture!”

  “But if I hear you correctly, you see no need to control abuse and harassment among your students?” Marquardt looked away, giving his head a little shake as if he were talking with a naïve child. Nate decided to clarify his question. “Mr. Marquardt, two students are dead and four are dying, and in most cases it could be because they’ve made enemies. We’re trying to find out who those enemies are.”

  “Then you must be after that Snyder kid, am I right?”

  “I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Marquardt. We’re taking a look at him.”

  Marquardt smiled a mean smile. “He’s your man. That kid’s nothing but trouble.”

  “Do you think Ian Snyder would have reason to want to harm Tod Kramer?”

  Now Marquardt laughed. “You better believe it!”

  Algernon sat at Sarah’s worktable, gazing through head-mounted magnifying glasses as he carefully dissected the soda straw with a scalpel. “Uh-huh, yes, yes, right on the money. Now we’re cooking with gas . . .”

  He cut a portion of the straw away, then held it to his nose. “Female. Definitely female.” He looked over his magnifiers at Sarah, who sat beside him. “So we had a female inside this straw. She was squirting her pheromone all over the inside of it, trying to attract a male. That’s what Max was smelling. That’s what you have on all these items belonging to the victims. Some pheromones are so sticky they spread like head lice.”

  Sarah considered the long list of scented objects. “Looks like we could also have a lot of females in a lot of places.”

  “And that would be bad news, Sarah. Bad news. So we press on . . .”

  From his tool kit, he grabbed a jeweler’s tool—a long, skinny little gadget with four grabbing fingers at one end, operated by pressing a plunger at the other end. He carefully inserted it into the straw, muttering to himself. “Like poor Rapunzel, trapped in a tower . . . waiting for Prince Charming . . .” He began to withdraw the grabbing tool, slowly, slowly. “And herrrrrre . . . he . . . is.”

  Sarah put on her own pair of magnifying glasses and looked as Algernon held a little tangle of brown fuzzy shards under the light.

  “Mm-hm,” he said, turning the little grabber and gazing through his magnifiers. “Two walking legs, one pedipalp, and . . . an anterior portion of the cephalothorax. All that’s left.”

  Sarah didn’t understand. “All that’s left?”

  He explained. “Leftovers. Somebody put a female in this straw and then sealed her in with two plugs made of sugar. She put out her pheromone, her scent, to attract a male, and this guy right here came calling. He burrowed his way through a sugar plug, mated with her—it’s not very exciting, kind of like throwing a McDonald’s hamburger into a glove box—and then . . .” He looked over his magnifiers at her. “She ate him. These are the pieces left over.”

  “She ate him?”

  He set the grabber tool in a stand and dollied his wheeled chair over to his notebook computer. “Not uncommon among spiders. The black widow likes to have her lovers for lunch. But this poor guy . . .” He began tapping on the computer keys. “He wasn’t a black widow. He looks more like a brown recluse. They’re poisonous and pretty rare in this part of the country.” An image came up on the screen—a gruesome, detailed electron photograph of a spider with black, multiple eyes, sharp claws, and bristly hairs. Algernon examined the computer image, then wheeled over for another look at the spider parts under the light. “Yeah. Bingo. Brown recluse.”

  Then he straightened up in his chair as if startled by a thought. “God help us.” Then he sat there, staring as if in a trance.

  Sarah asked, “Algernon? What is it?”

  He snapped out of it, but now he was agitated. “I don’t want to speak too soon. But here . . .” He hurried over and started unlatching another of his tool cases. “Help me get this sniffer set up. Is the school in session today?”

  “Yes.”

  That jerked his head around, his eyes wide with horror. “It is?”

  10

  a lethal

  combination

  Elisha, still covered up to the neck in a bright orange safety suit, quickly returned from the bio-chem department, fresh batteries in hand. Norman Bloom, overcome with curiosity, was walking beside her and would not be dissuaded.

  “I mean, it’s a little strange seeing a girl from biology class wearing a protective suit to school,” he was saying.

  “Norman,” Elisha admitted, “I’m actually here to do some investigating.”

  “Investigating? Investigating what?”

  “We’re checking the cold-air return,” Mr. Loman told him. He’d already used that answer on some early arriving kids who’d passed by and asked what the opened vent and ladder were all about. He looked at his watch and told Elisha, “Come on, climb in there before anybody else sees you in that getup. We’re gonna have a ton of traffic in just a few minutes.”

  Elisha hesitated. “I can’t. I have to wait for clearance.”

  “Clearance?”

  Elisha nervously, self-consciously tinkered with the radio on her belt. “I have to hear from home first.”

  “To check a furnace duct?” Norman asked, chuckling at the whole bizarre situation. “What’s going on here?”

  Elisha put on the headset and spoke into it. “Hello, Mom? This is Elisha. We’re ready to go when you are.” No answer came back. “Hello? Mom? Are you there?”

  Mr. Loman looked at his watch, then suddenly blurted, “Norman, we’re looking for some kind of bug.”

  Norman made a face. “A bug?”

  Elisha could feel her face flush with anger. “Mr. Loman! If you don’t mind—”

  Mr. Loman asked Norman, “Norman, you know spiders and bugs, right?”

  “Sure.”

  Mr. Loman unclipped hi
s flashlight from his belt and handed it to him. “Okay, up the ladder. We need you to crawl down that shaft and tell us if you see anything unusual.”

  Elisha was horrified. “Mr. Loman! You can’t do that!”

  Mr. Loman only looked at his watch again. “Well, I’m sorry, Elisha, but the time to do this is right now, and you don’t have clearance, whatever that means. This school’s going to be crammed with kids in just a few minutes and this ladder could be a safety hazard. If Ms. Wyrthen finds out I had this ladder out in the hall during school hours she’ll can me!”

  “You want me to look for spiders?” Norman asked, still bewildered.

  “Spiders, bugs, whatever. You do know what a bug looks like, don’t you?”

  Norman got indignant. “I most certainly do. I’ve collected several specimens and—”

  “Up the ladder.”

  “Norman!” Elisha countered. “Don’t go! It could be dangerous!”

  He brushed that off. “Elisha! I know insects. I know what to look for. Don’t worry.” He started up the ladder. “What if I get dirty?”

  “You get to go home and change,” said Mr. Loman.

  Norman headed up the ladder as Elisha stood there helplessly, watching someone else bump her from her adventure. She got on her radio again. “Mom! I’d be ever so pleased if you would answer!”

  Nate and Mr. Marquardt were back in the gym office, Marquardt at his desk, Nate in an available chair. Marquardt seemed to draw strength from being in his office, kind of like a king in his own little throne room.

  “Stupid kid,” he was saying. “Wears a dangly earring in P.E. class. One of these days somebody’s gonna rip that thing out.”

  “Somebody like Tod Kramer?”

  Marquardt stayed cool as he slowly nodded. “If Snyder asks for it one too many times, yeah.”

  “So Ian and Tod were in the same fourth-period gym class, is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And Tod abused Ian Snyder on occasion?”

  Marquardt actually seemed amused. “On occasion?”

  Nate consulted the class schedule they’d gotten from the school office. “Well now. Brock Hanley’s in your fourth-period class, too. He’s your teaching assistant.”

  Marquardt turned defensive. “So what’s he done?”

  “Oh . . . found an interesting way to get lunch money.” Nate found a name that almost startled him. “Norman Bloom is in fourth period!”

  That name brought a derisive sniff from Mr. Marquardt. “Bloom,” he muttered disgustedly.

  “You seem to have a low opinion of Mr. Bloom.”

  “He’s a wimp.”

  That stopped Nate in his tracks. “Norman Bloom is a wimp?”

  “Sure. All his growth hormones went to his brain. The kid can’t throw a football.” He laughed. “He can’t even hold a football.”

  “Have you told him that?”

  “I let the boys know when they can do better, you bet.”

  “Did Tod Kramer or Brock Hanley ever pick on Bloom?”

  Marquardt tilted his head as if ready to scold a child. “Oh, are we sticking up for Bloom now?”

  Nate reminded himself to keep cool, go slowly, speak gently. “I’ve been hired to track down what’s happened to some kids in this school, some of whom were your star athletes, which means I have to find a culprit and a motive, which means I have to find out if any of the victims had enemies, which means I have to ask questions about people like Tod Kramer and Brock Hanley and whomever they may have picked on.”

  “And my answer’s going to be the same for all of them!” Marquardt’s temper was starting to show. “Every kid in my classes gets an even break. Every kid gets the same pressure. We push them to produce, we don’t accept excuses, we require maximum effort. If the strong prey upon the weak at times, so be it, that’s part of their education. That’s life talking. That’s the way the world is. It’s what makes us tough. Just read your science book, Mr. Springfield. This is a world of winners and losers. The weak toughen up, or they fall behind; the strong prevail, and we’re all better off. Maybe people like you don’t like it, but that’s the way it works.”

  Nate began to pity this man. “That’s quite a philosophy, Mr. Marquardt.”

  “It’s how I’ve survived, Mr. Springfield. It’s how I fought my way through school and got where I am today. It’s how all of us have to survive. We live in a lousy world in case you haven’t noticed, and I’m not about to shelter anyone. The tough survive. It’s as simple as that.” Then he added with more than a hint of pride, “The tough win games, too. You may have heard, we’re heading for the championship on Turkey Day.”

  “Without your star quarterback?”

  “The tough survive, Mr. Springfield. We’ll be ready, make no mistake.”

  “The tough survive,” Nate repeated thoughtfully. “So if one kid abuses and harasses another, that’s fine with you?”

  “I let the kids work it out. That’s the way you and I have to do it. They may as well get used to it.”

  Nate drew a long, careful breath and then spoke in a low, very controlled tone of voice, his eyes locked on Marquardt’s. “Mr. Marquardt, I’ve never taught a gym class, but I’ve spent years investigating crime scenes—you know, the aftermath of the strong and ruthless preying upon the weak and innocent. I’ve had to smell death, sample blood, reconstruct in pencil or clay what people used to look like before they were beaten to death so the police can even guess who they were. Now maybe you consider that ‘life,’ the way things are, something everybody has to get used to, but let me tell you something: Cruelty is no sign of manliness, and having dealt with the results of cruelty for years, I can assure you, you never get used to it. Now . . .” Nate repeated the question Marquardt hadn’t answered. “I still need to know, did Tod Kramer ever pick on Norman Bloom?”

  As if to make a point, Marquardt laughed. “Of course he did! What do you expect?”

  Mr. Loman stood at the top of the ladder and hollered into the open vent. “How’s it going, Norman?”

  From where she stood below, Elisha could hear a faint, echoing voice replying, but she couldn’t understand what Norman said.

  “Okay, fine,” said Mr. Loman. He called down to Elisha, “He’s reached the bottom. Now what do you want him to find out?”

  Elisha was looking at the building plans, trying desperately to make the best of it, but mortified and angry. “Tell him . . .” She had to take a breath and calm herself. “Tell him if there seems to be a visible connection between . . . I mean, ask him—” She got on the radio. “Mom? Hello?”

  Mr. Loman called down the shaft, “Do you see any spiders, Norman?” His tone seemed to mock Elisha, as if she were a timid girl afraid of spiders.

  Elisha heard Norman’s off-handed reply. “Sure.”

  “Well, don’t let ’em getcha.”

  There was a metallic groan, then a clatter.

  “What’s up, Norman?”

  A hollow clunk.

  “Norman? What’re you doing?”

  No answer.

  “Norman?”

  Elisha gripped the ladder and listened.

  Mr. Loman called more loudly, “Norman?”

  No answer.

  Algernon Wheeling plugged in his “sniffer” and turned it on. It was a black box the size and shape of a VCR, with digital readouts on the front, rows of tiny silver knobs, and a small wand that resembled a microphone on a cord. The wand was the actual “sniffer,” a receptor for airborne molecules that noses interpret as smells.

  “A dog like Mr. Maxwell is still the most practical way to go,” Algernon conceded, “but a dog can’t tell you exactly what molecules are in a smell, or exactly who left it there. This machine can. And so . . .”

  He held the wand over the soda straw that had contained the female spider, and the machine began to blink out rows of numbers on its readout. Just a few feet away, a computer printer began to reel off data. The moment the printing was
completed, Algernon grabbed up the paper and studied it. “Don’t be, don’t be, come on now . . .”

  “What are you looking for?” Sarah asked. She could recognize many of the chemical formulas, but only Algernon knew what they meant.

  “What I desperately hope not to find,” he answered. He set the sheet of paper on the worktable and grabbed up a reference manual filled with more formulas, more numbers. He flipped through the pages hurriedly, frantically. “00-2-9975, Category 5 . . .” He flipped some more pages, forward, backward, searching. “No, no, too wide a band . . .” Flip flip.

  His finger landed on a page and stopped there. His eyes went from the printout to the manual and back again, comparing, comparing.

  He sat down, the manual open in his hand, his finger still on the page. “Mmmmm-hm. African spotted wolf. Sarah, could you please call the hospital? I need to talk to the physician in charge of the victims.”

  Sarah grabbed the telephone and dialed a direct number Dr. Stuart had given her. “Hello? Dr. Stuart? Sarah Springfield. I’m going to hand you over to Algernon Wheeling, professor of entomology at the University of Washington.”

  She handed the receiver to Algernon.

  “Hello?” he said. “Dr. Stuart? Hello, sir. Very well, thank you. Do you mow your own lawn, sir? Yes, sir, I am serious. Okay. Do you put the grass clippings in a pile somewhere? All right. So you know what hot, composting grass smells like? Okay, great. I’m ecstatic. Can you do something for me? Check your patients’ breath, smell their skin, particularly under the arms. We’re looking for that smell—oh, and could you check the base of their gums? There should be a concentration of greenish plaque under there with the same odor. Okay, we’re standing by.” He addressed Sarah. “He’s checking.”

  “And if he finds it?” Sarah asked.

  Algernon gave a shudder. “It’ll be the Kenyan disaster all over again.”

  Mr. Loman looked worried. “Norman!” He eyed the vent opening. There was no way he would fit through.

  Elisha made a decision. She dropped the building plans on the floor, then put on her protective hood and headlamp. “Excuse me, Mr. Loman.”