by Ed McBain
She was entering a stretch of ground flanked by large, solid trees. Their branches were bare, but they were heavy and they arched over the sidewalk, blotting out whatever moonlight there was. She quickened her pace, listening to the sound of her heels and the thunder of her own heart in her ears.
Tears sprang into her eyes and coursed down her cheeks. She bit her lower lip until she tasted the salty flow of blood in her mouth. The footsteps were still behind her.
She stopped suddenly, and the follower stopped.
There was only the darkness, and the silence, and the terror deep within her.
She began walking again, straining her ears until she heard the sullen shuffle behind her. Had he come closer? Didn’t his footsteps sound closer?
She stopped again, whirled abruptly, and shouted, “Don’t come near me!”
She heard the echo of her own voice on the deserted street. She sobbed wildly, staring into the darkness.
“Go away! Go away, or I’ll scream!”
There was no answer. She felt him waiting there in the darkness, silently watching.
“Go away!” she shrieked. And then the scream bubbled onto her lips, high and piercing. She listened to it, shocked until she realized it was coming from her own throat. She heard the footsteps start again, heard them break into a fast run. She dropped to the pavement, her shoulders heaving, a wash of relief flooding her body. She heard more footsteps, running, and she almost screamed aloud again until she heard a voice she recognized.
“Mrs. Brant? Is that you, Mrs. Brant?”
She tried to speak, but her voice was smothered with sobs. She nodded her head dumbly, waited until Mr. Jaeger drew up alongside her.
“Mrs. Brant, are you all right?”
She nodded again, her face buried in her hands. She felt extremely childish, sitting in the middle of the pavement, sobbing like this before the old man.
“Come on, now, I’ll take you home.” His voice was kind, but puzzled. He helped her to her feet, and she looked down the long, dark street once more before they turned toward her house.
It was empty.
Mr. Jaeger and his wife sat with her until Bob came home. When he walked into the living room and saw them there, he rushed to Ella immediately.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “What happened?”
His hands were cold from the outdoors when he took her in his arms. “Ella, darling, darling, what’s happened?”
“I found her sitting in the middle of the sidewalk,” Mr. Jaeger put in. “Just sitting there and crying. Down by the empty lots. You know.”
“Did you see anyone?” Bob asked quickly.
“Why, no. Just her. I heard her scream, and so I came running. I didn’t see anyone.” Mr. Jaeger shook his head. “Just her sitting there.”
Bob sighed deeply and held her close. “Thank you very much, Mr. Jaeger,” he said. “I really appreciate this.”
“Glad to be of help,” Mr. Jaeger said. “Come on, Martha, we’d best be getting to bed.”
They said good night, and Bob closed the door firmly behind them. He passed a hand over his hair then, took off his coat, and asked wearily, “All right, honey, what happened?”
“The—the young man. He followed me again. I … Bob, please, Bob.”
“What young man? What young man are you talking about?”
“The one near the bus. You know, Bob. The teen-ager. The one who—”
He went to her and took her in his arms. “Darling,” he said gently, “there is no teen-ager near the bus.”
She pulled out of his arms and looked up at him. “But—but there is! He followed me. Bob, he did. He was behind me. I heard him. Bob, for God’s sake …”
“Listen to me, darling,” he said, “please listen to me. This—this follower of yours. He—he’s just an—an exaggeration. The darkness, and the shadows, they all combine to make you think someone is there when—”
She began sobbing suddenly. “Bob, please believe me. If you don’t believe me, I don’t know what I’ll do. There was someone. He followed me, Bob. I screamed, and he ran away.”
“Then why didn’t Mr. Jaeger see him, honey?”
“He ran away before Mr. Jaeger came.” She stared at him searchingly. “Bob, you don’t think I’m imagining all this!”
Their eyes met for an instant, and she saw tenderness on his face, but it was mixed with disbelief.
“Bob, there was a young man!”
He took her in his arms again and gently stroked her hair. “When I was a kid, honey, I was afraid to go down into the basement of our house. One day, my mother left me alone. I went up and down those cellar steps twenty-three times until I proved to myself there was nothing there to fear.”
“Bob …”
“Ella, I want you to do me a favor.”
“What? What is it, Bob?”
“Tell me you’ll try walking home alone for a few days. Just to—”
“No!” she flared. “How could I? Bob, I … I …”
“Just for a few days. I want you to see for yourself that there’s no one following you. After that, if you still insist … well, we’ll see then. Promise me that, will you, darling?”
“Bob,” she murmured, “please don’t make me. Please, Bob. Please.”
“I’ll tell the neighbors to leave you strictly alone, honey. They’ll let you work this out yourself. That’s the best way. They won’t come running if you scream, so you’ll know you’re on your own. What do you say, Ella, will you try it?”
She shook her head, as if trying to clear it. “Bob, you don’t understand. You just don’t understand.” She kept shaking her head, holding back the tears of frustration.
“Will you try it?”
She took a deep breath.
“Will you?” he repeated.
She looked up into his face and saw the grim resolution there. She knew that he would never understand, and the knowledge crushed her defiance and left her suddenly lonely.
“All right,” she said wearily. “All right, Bob.”
The follower was there again at the bus stop the next night.
She heard his footsteps as she began walking down the lonely, deserted stretch of pavement. When she entered the tree-flanked area, he was close behind her.
She quickened her steps, and she heard him walking faster too, closer.
For an instant, she wondered if he wasn’t a part of her imagination after all, wondered if Bob hadn’t been right, wondered if newspaper stories hadn’t simply—
And then the hand clamped down over her mouth, stifling any scream, any sound she might have made. The hand was rough and large, and the pressure on her mouth hurt. She felt herself being dragged into the bushes, her skirt catching and tearing on the twisted brambles. His hand sought the open throat of her blouse, fumbled there with awkward, inexpert, youthful eagerness.
She tried to scream then.
Her lips parted, but he hit her with his fist, and the scream became a muted, futile sob as he pulled her to the ground.
TO BREAK THE WALL
The door to Room 206 was locked when Richard Dadier reached it for his fifth period English class. He tried the knob several times, peered in through the glass panel, and motioned for Serubi to open the door. Serubi, sitting in the seat closest the door, shrugged his shoulders innocently and grinned. Richard felt again the mixed revulsion and fear he felt before every class.
Easy, he told himself. Easy does it.
He reached into his pocket and slipped the large key into the keyhole. Swinging the door open, he slapped it fast against the prongs that jutted out from the wall, and then walked briskly to his desk.
A falsetto voice somewhere in the back of the room rapidly squeaked, “Daddy-oh!” Richard busied himself with his Delaney book, not looking up at the class. He still remembered that first day, when he had told them his name.
“Mr. Dadier,” he had said, and he’d pronounced it carefully. One of the boys had yelled, “Daddy-oh,�
� and the class had roared approval. The name had stuck since then.
Quickly, he glanced around the room, flipping cards over as he took the attendance. Half were absent as usual. He was secretly glad. They were easier to handle in small groups.
He turned over the last card, and waited for them to quiet down. They never would, he knew, never.
Reaching down, he pulled a heavy book from his briefcase and rested it on the palm of his hand. Without warning, he slammed it onto the desk.
“Shut up!” he bellowed.
The class groaned into silence, startled by the outburst.
Now, he thought. Now, I’ll press it home. Surprise plus advantage plus seize your advantage. Just like waging war. All day long I wage war. Some fun.
“Assignment for tomorrow,” Richard said flatly.
A moan escaped from the group. Gregory Miller, a large boy of seventeen, dark-haired, with a lazy sneer and hard, bright eyes said, “You work too hard, Mr. Daddy-oh.”
The name twisted deep inside Richard, and he felt the tiny needles of apprehension start at the base of his spine.
“Quiet, Mueller,” Richard said, feeling pleasure at mispronouncing the boy’s name. “Assignment for tomorrow. In New Horizons …”
“In what?” Ganigan asked.
I should have known better, Richard reminded himself. We’ve only been using the book two months now. I can’t expect them to remember the title. No.
“In New Horizons,” he repeated impatiently, “the blue book, the one we’ve been using all term.” He paused, gaining control of himself. “In the blue book,” he continued softly, “read the first ten pages of Army Ants in the Jungle.”
“Here in class?” Hennesy asked.
“No. At home.”
“Christ,” Hennesy mumbled.
“It’s on page two seventy-five,” Richard said.
“What page?” Antoro called out.
“Two seventy-five.”
“What page?” Levy asked.
“Two seventy-five,” Richard said. “My God, what’s the matter with you?” He turned rapidly and wrote the figures on the board in a large hand, repeating the numerals slowly. “Two, seven-ty, five.” He heard a chuckle spread maliciously behind him, and he whirled quickly. Every boy in the class wore a deadpan.
“There will be a short test on the homework tomorrow,” he announced grimly.
“Another one?” Miller asked lazily.
“Yes, Mailler,” Richard said, “another one.” He glared at the boy heatedly, but Miller only grinned in return.
“And now,” Richard said, “the test I promised you yesterday.”
A hush fell over the class.
Quick, Richard thought. Press the advantage. Strike again and again. Don’t wait for them. Keep one step ahead always. Move fast and they won’t know what’s going on. Keep them too busy to get into mischief.
Richard began chalking the test on the board. He turned his head and barked over his shoulder, “All books away. Finley, hand out the paper.”
This is the way to do it, he realized. I’ve figured it out. The way to control these monsters is to give them a test every day of the week. Write their fingers off.
“Begin immediately,” Richard said in a businesslike voice. “Don’t forget your heading.”
“What’s that, that heading?” Busco asked.
“Name, official class, subject class, subject teacher,” Richard said wearily.
Seventy-two, he thought. I’ve said it seventy-two times since I started teaching here two months ago. Seventy-two times.
“Who’s our subject teacher?” Busco asked. His face expressed complete bewilderment.
“Mr. Daddy-oh,” Vota said quite plainly. Vota was big and rawboned, a muscular, rangy, seventeen-year-old. Stringy blond hair hung over his pimply forehead. There was something mannishly sinister about his eyes, something boyishly innocent about his smile. And he was Miller’s friend. Richard never forgot that for a moment.
“Mr. Dadier is the subject teacher,” Richard said to Busco. “And incidentally, Vito,” he glared at Vota, “anyone misspelling my name in the heading will lose ten points.”
“What!” Vota complained, outraged.
“You heard me, Vota,” Richard snapped.
“Well, how do you spell Daddy-oh?” Vota asked, the innocent smile curling his lips again.
“You figure it out, Vota. I don’t need the ten points.”
Richard bitterly pressed the chalk into the board. It snapped in two, and he picked up another piece from the runner. With the chalk squeaking wildly, he wrote out the rest of the test.
“No talking,” he ordered. He sat down behind the desk and eyed the class suspiciously.
A puzzled frown crossed Miller’s face. “I don’t understand the first question, teach’,” he called out.
Richard leaned back in his chair and looked at the board. “It’s very simple, Miltzer,” he said. “There are ten words on the board. Some are spelled correctly, and some are wrong. If they’re wrong, you correct them. If they’re right, spell them just the way they’re written.”
“Mmmmm,” Miller said thoughtfully, his eyes glowing. “How do you spell the second word?”
Richard leaned back again, looked at the second word and began, “D-I-S …” He caught himself and faced Miller squarely. “Just the way you want to. You’re taking the test, not me.”
Miller grinned widely. “Oh. I didn’t know that, teach’.”
“You’ll know when you see your mark, Miller.”
Richard cursed himself for having pronounced the boy’s name correctly. He made himself comfortable at the desk and looked out over the class.
Di Pasco will cheat, he thought. He will cheat and I won’t catch him. He’s uncanny that way. God, how I wish I could catch him. How does he? On his cuff? Where? He probably has it stuffed in his ear. Should I search him? No, what’s the use? He’d cheat his own mother. An inborn crook. A louse.
Louse, Richard mused. Even I call them that now. All louses. I must tell Helen that I’ve succumbed. Or should I wait until after the baby is born? Perhaps it would be best not to disillusion her yet. Perhaps I should let her think I’m still trying to reach them, still trying. What was it Solly Klein had said?
“This is the garbage can of the educational system.”
He had stood in the teachers’ lunchroom, near the bulletin board, pointing his stubby forefinger at Richard.
“And it’s our job to sit on the lid and make sure none of this garbage spills over into the street.”
Richard had smiled then. He was new, and he still thought he could teach them something, still felt he could mold the clay.
Lou Savoldi, an electrical wiring teacher, had smiled too and said, “Solly’s a great philosopher.”
“Yeah, yeah, philosopher.” Solly smiled. “All I know is I’ve been teaching machine shop here for twelve years now, and only once did I find anything valuable in the garbage.” He had nodded his head emphatically then. “Nobody knowingly throws anything valuable in with the garbage.”
Then why should I bother? Richard wondered now. Why should I teach? Why should I get ulcers?
“Keep your eyes on your own paper, Busco,” he cautioned.
Everyone is a cheat, a potential thief. Solly was right. We have to keep them off the streets. They should really hire a policeman. It would be funny, he thought, if it weren’t so damned serious. How long can you handle garbage without beginning to stink yourself? Already, I stink.
“All right, Busco, bring your paper up. I’m subtracting five points from it,” Richard suddenly said.
“Why? What the hell did I do?”
“Bring me your paper.”
Busco reluctantly slouched to the front of the room and tossed his paper onto the desk. He stood with his thumbs looped in the tops of his dungarees as Richard marked a large –5 on the paper in bright red.
“What’s that for?” Busco asked.
“For
having loose eyes.”
Busco snatched the paper from the desk and examined it with disgust. He wrinkled his face into a grimace and slowly started back to his seat.
As he passed Miller, Miller looked to the front of the room. His eyes met Richard’s, and he sneered, “Chicken!”
“What?” Richard asked.
Miller looked surprised. “You talking to me, teach’?”
“Yes, Miller. What did you just say?”
“I didn’t say nothing, teach’.” Miller smiled.
“Bring me your paper, Miller.”
“What for?”
“Bring it up!”
“What for, I said.”
“I heard what you said, Miller. And I said bring me your paper. Now. Right this minute.”
“I don’t see why,” Miller persisted, the smile beginning to vanish from his face.
“Because I say so, that’s why.”
Miller’s answer came slowly, pointedly. “And supposing I don’t feel like?” A frown was twisting his forehead.
The other boys in the room were suddenly interested. Heads that were bent over papers snapped upright. Richard felt every eye in the class focus on him.
They were rooting for Miller, of course. They wanted Miller to win. They wanted Miller to defy him. He couldn’t let that happen.
He walked crisply up the aisle and stood beside Miller. The boy looked up provokingly.
“Get up,” Richard said, trying to control the modulation of his voice.
My voice is shaking, he told himself. I can feel it shaking. He knows it, too. He’s mocking me with those little, hard eyes of his. I must control my voice. This is really funny. My voice is shaking.
“Get up, Miller.”
“I don’t see, Mr. Daddy-oh, just why I should,” Miller answered. He pronounced the name with great care.
“Get up, Miller. Get up and say my name correctly.”
“Don’t you know your own name, Mr. Daddy-oh?”
Richard’s hand snapped out and grasped Miller by the collar of his shirt. He pulled him to his feet, almost tearing the collar. Miller stood a scant two inches shorter than Richard, squirming to release himself.
