Disturbed

by Kevin O'Brien

  She was glad for this space on the third floor, where Angela had no claim. The studio was Molly’s escape, a haven for old family knickknacks she couldn’t part with, photo albums, and her collection of elephants.

  When she was a kid, she’d heard elephants brought good luck, so Molly started collecting elephant figurines — in marble, jade, porcelain, mahogany, plastic, you name it. She’d given most of them to Goodwill two years ago, but kept about forty figurines — all of them now neatly arranged on a bookcase along one wall of her studio. No photos of her family were displayed. It just didn’t seem right. Her dad and her brother were dead, and she and her mother weren’t on the best of terms.

  Considering how her brother had died, Molly wondered if those elephants were really so lucky. A few of the elephants on that bookshelf had originally belonged to him. He’d collected them, too.

  Nearly every time Molly looked through her family albums, she ended up crying. So it seemed pretty masochistic to frame those pictures and put them on display. Jeff and his children were her family now.

  Though she sometimes felt like a houseguest they merely tolerated, Molly still really cared for Jeff’s kids. It was why she waited at the bus stop with Erin this morning. And it was why she worried about Chris getting through his school day when Ray Corson had just been murdered last night. It was why she tried to be cordial — albeit distantly cordial — to Jeff’s ex. After all, she was their mother.

  At the same time, she dreaded this Neighborhood Watch potluck with Angela and all her pals. Molly glanced at her wristwatch. It was less than an hour from now.

  Downstairs, the phone rang, and it startled her. Molly hurried down to the second floor and rushed into her bedroom. She snatched up the cordless from the nightstand. “Yes, hello?” she answered, a bit out of breath. She set the crowbar down on the bed.

  “Molly?” the woman whispered. It was the same voice from before. What she murmured next still sounded like gibberish: “It’s above the heart now. . ”

  “I can’t understand what you’re saying,” Molly cut in. “Could you talk louder, please? Who is this?”

  “I said. .” She still spoke in a whisper, but the words were very clear this time. “It’s about to start now.”

  “I don’t understand. What’s about to start? Who—”

  Molly heard a click on the other end of the line — and then nothing.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was stupid of her to think he might be grieving, too.

  Chris Dennehy seemed to go about his morning as if it were a normal day. Walking through the corridors between classes, he didn’t appear disturbed or troubled — only slightly aloof toward all his fellow students, who couldn’t stop staring at him. He didn’t make eye contact with anyone.

  He certainly hadn’t seemed to notice her.

  She felt invisible in the crowded second-floor hallway of James Monroe High School. Now and then, someone bumped into her and kept walking as if she weren’t even there.

  She was just like the others, watching Chris, waiting for him to snap or start crying — or show some kind of emotion, for God’s sake. His former guidance counselor had just been murdered last night. They’d been very close at one time, and everyone knew it.

  “Are you — like — totally freaked out, man?” she’d overheard a tall, lanky basketball player ask him in the stairwell an hour before. She’d strained to hear Chris’s answer. But there were too many other students stomping up and down the stairs, and too much noise. Chris had shrugged, muttered something to his classmate, and then he’d continued up the steps. He’d seemed pretty nonchalant about it.

  Now he walked down the corridor by himself, close to the lockers on the wall. Even though his brown hair was a mess, and his blue-striped shirt needed ironing, he still looked handsome. He was on his way from Ms. Kinsella’s trigonometry class to third-period study hall.

  She knew his class schedule. She knew he occasionally rode his bike to school — though most of the time, he carpooled with those bitches from his cul-de-sac, Courtney Hahn and Madison Garvey. He had swim practice from 3:30 until 5:30, and usually caught a ride home from a teammate or took a bus.

  Not counting three empty lots and the skeletal frames of two unfinished homes, the Dennehys’ was the second house down from the start of Willow Tree Court. She knew every inch of that cul-de-sac. From the forest that bordered the backyards, she’d spied on the Dennehys and their neighbors. They never bothered to lower their blinds or shut the drapes on that side. She had a direct look into their day-to-day private lives. She’d thought it might make her more compassionate toward them, but it didn’t change how she felt — not at all.

  She didn’t care much that some of them would die soon.

  But Chris Dennehy was different — at least, she used to think he was. That was why she’d come to his high school to follow him around today. She wanted to see if he would shed any tears for Ray Corson.

  She trailed about twenty feet behind him in the hallway as he shuffled toward the study hall just around the corner.

  “Hey, Dennehy!” another student called to him.

  She stopped — and so did Chris, up ahead of her.

  A handsome, blond-haired jock swaggered toward him. He wore a varsity jacket and carried a backpack. She could see — as he approached — he was a bit shorter than Chris. “Dennehy,” he said, slapping him on the shoulder. “Wow, you must be so glad someone killed that slimy fuck. . ” Then with a cocky grin, he said something else — under his breath.

  Chris glared at him. Suddenly, he grabbed the blond-haired jock by the front of his shirt and slammed him into the row of lockers. There was a loud clatter, and a girl nearby screamed. Still holding onto the guy’s shirt collar, Chris had his fist under the jock’s chin. He kept him pinned against the lockers for another moment. Everyone around them froze — and it was suddenly quiet.

  She heard Chris growl at the young man: “Get the hell away from me.” Then he let go of the other guy, and turned away.

  “What’s your fucking problem?” the jock yelled. He was shaking. “Jesus, you’re crazy! Crazy fuck!”

  Chris kept walking.

  Her heart racing, she pushed her way through the crowd to catch up with him. She wanted to see his face.

  “Can’t you take a joke?” the jock was saying. “What’s wrong with you, man?”

  As he started to turn the corner, Chris looked back and scowled at the other guy.

  She stopped in her tracks. Chris looked so angry and agitated. But he had tears in his eyes, too.

  He turned and disappeared around the corner.

  She’d figured he would cry. That was what she’d wanted to see today.

  She stood there, invisible to the others, and wondered about him. She still wasn’t quite sure if — once the killing started — Chris Dennehy would die like the others.

  He certainly would suffer. That much she knew.

  “I really wish you’d let me in, Chris,” Mr. Munson said in his customary mellow tenor, which made him sound slightly stoned. “I’m sensing some hostility from you, and that’s okay. You own those feelings, Chris. They’re valid. But I’m your friend, and I’m here to help you. . ”

  Mr. Munson leaned back in his chair and scratched his gray-orange goatee. He was about forty with thinning, red hair, a pasty complexion, and a stud earring. He wore an ugly paisley tie and a denim shirt. Some sort of weird stone charm hung on a chain around his neck.

  Chris squirmed in the hardback chair facing Munson’s desk. The little office had a wide window in one wall, looking out to a corridor full of lockers. Munson kept a bunch of self-help books and pamphlets on the shelves behind his desk. There was also a really cheesy poster of a guy dressed as a clown, flying a kite by a lake at sunset. It said: To Thine Own Self Be True

  Mr. Munson had pulled Chris out of third-period study hall for this impromptu touchy-feely, new-age, psychobabble session. Chris could barely tolerate the guy, but he kept telling
himself that Munson meant well.

  Munson was Mr. Corson’s replacement. This was Mr. Corson’s old office. Chris remembered the cool Edward Hopper Nighthawks print — of those lonely-looking people at a café at night — that had been where the stupid-ass clown poster was now. He remembered pouring his heart out to Mr. Corson in this office and feeling better for it. He couldn’t open up in the same way to Munson.

  “I’m fine, Mr. Munson, really,” Chris said, slouching in the chair a little. He tried to keep from tapping his foot, but the restless, nervous tic was almost involuntary now. “I’m — I’m sad Mr. Corson is dead, of course. And it’s a real shock. I feel really bad for Mr. Corson’s family, too.” He shrugged, and glanced down at the tiled floor. “I don’t know what else to tell you.”

  “How are the other kids at school treating you today?”

  Chris kept looking at the floor. “Fine,” he lied. “Just fine. .”

  He realized what this session was all about. Somehow, word must have gotten to Munson that he’d shoved Scott Kinkaid against the lockers.

  All morning long, Chris had felt people staring at him. In the corridors and classrooms, he heard people whispering about what had happened last December with Mr. Corson and him — and another classmate, Ian Scholl. If they weren’t whispering about it, they were Twittering and texting about it. They rehashed old jokes that had circulated around school after the incident in December. And they told new ones, making fun of Mr. Corson’s brutal murder last night. Madison Garvey’s wiseass comments in the car this morning had been just a sneak preview of the snickering remarks Chris overheard in the school hallways.

  Several of his classmates — even kids he barely knew — approached him this morning with comments and questions about Mr. Corson’s death:

  “Isn’t it weird what happened to Corson? God, what a trip. . ”

  “Have any TV news people talked with you yet? After all, you’re the reason he got fired. . ”

  Then there was Scott Kinkaid: “Wow, you must be so glad someone killed that slimy fuck. . ” He added, under his breath: “After he tried to get into your pants, you must figure the faggot had it coming. . ”

  That was when Chris lost it. Before he knew it, he grabbed Scott by the front of his shirt and threw him against the lockers. It was all he could do to keep from punching his face in.

  And that was why he’d ended up here in Munson’s office. He was certain of it.

  “I don’t know if you heard,” Chris muttered, unable to look Munson in the eye. “I kinda shoved Scott Kinkaid, because he said something creepy about Mr. Corson. But it was nothing.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Munson asked.

  “Not really,” Chris answered.

  “Is there someone else you can talk with?” He leaned forward in his chair. “Have you discussed with anyone how you feel about Mr. Corson’s death?”

  “My dad and I talked this morning,” Chris said. “It’s cool.”

  “And your mom?”

  “They don’t live together anymore,” he replied. “My dad remarried and my mother lives in Bellevue now.”

  “Oh, um, well, I see. . ” Munson nervously cleared his throat and started searching through some papers in a file folder on his desk. Obviously, the guy hadn’t done his homework. “Give me a minute here,” he said.

  Chris glanced over his shoulder. He caught a glimpse of a girl on the other side of the window to Munson’s office — or it could have been a teacher, he wasn’t sure. She’d ducked away so quickly he didn’t even get a look at her face, just her shoulder-length brown hair and her black coat. She must have run down the corridor.

  A stocky young man with thick glasses and brownish-blond hair stopped at the window. He was Chris’s best friend, Elvis Harnett. They’d known each other since sixth grade. A stack of books under one arm, Elvis peered into the office. He looked concerned. “Are you okay?” he mouthed to Chris.

  Chris glanced warily at Munson, still searching through his paperwork. He turned toward his friend and nodded furtively.

  Elvis half smiled, but then he suddenly looked away and retreated down the corridor.

  Chris swiveled around in his chair. Munson was staring at him. Eyes narrowed, he scratched his goatee again. “You had several sessions here with Mr. Corson, didn’t you?”

  Chris nodded.

  “Did Mr. Corson take any notes during these sessions?”

  Chris nodded again. “Yeah, he — he used to scribble stuff down.”

  Munson glanced at the papers in front of him. “That’s odd, there aren’t any notes here. These records are from your freshman year. There’s nothing from the last two years.” Shaking his head, Munson got to his feet and grabbed the file. “I need to go figure this out. Be right back. Stay put, okay? While you’re waiting, here. .” He reached for one of the books on his shelf and handed it to Chris. “Take a look at this. I think you’ll find it very useful.”

  Chris glanced at the book’s cover. It had bright purple lettering against an orange background. At the very top was the banner: “A breakthrough in getting yourself on the road to happiness and self-fulfillment!”—Dr. Tim, National Syndicated Radio Personality

  HELP YOURSELF!A Cathartic Cookbook of Easy Recipes for Overcoming What’s Holding You Back & Finding a Better You

  By Dr. Sonya Swinton Bestselling Author of You First!

  “She’s got a fantastic chapter in there about dealing with anger and grief,” Munson said, on his way out the door.

  “Fantastic,” Chris muttered, once he was alone in the office. He glanced up from the book in his hand to the empty chair that used to be Mr. Corson’s.

  “Psssst, hey, Chris. .”

  He turned to see Elvis poking his head in the doorway. “Is Mellow Man Munson guiding you on a personal-growth journey? Or are you in here because you kicked the crap out of Scott Kinkaid?”

  Chris rolled his eyes. “All I did was push him against some lockers.”

  “Well, depending on whose Twitter you’re reading,” Elvis said, hovering at the office threshold, “you either had a slight altercation with Scott or you beat him bloody and put him into a coma. Personally, I’d hoped the coma story was true. I’ve always hated that douche bag — ever since eighth grade, when he called me Goodyear Blimp in front of our entire homeroom class. Remember that?”

  Chris nodded. “Vividly.”

  “Hey, listen, I’m really sorry about Corson,” Elvis whispered, suddenly somber. They hadn’t had a chance to talk this morning. “How are you holding up?”

  Chris nodded again. “I’m okay.”

  “You’re not going to talk about this, are you?” Elvis whispered. “Even though it’s eating away at you inside.”

  “Probably not,” Chris murmured. “Listen, you should scram before Munson comes back. I’ll call you later.”

  Elvis sighed. “You better.” Then he headed down the corridor.

  Chris turned and faced the empty desk.

  Besides Mr. Corson, Elvis was just about the only person who could get him to open up and talk about things that truly upset him. And even then, it took Elvis a lot of prodding.

  “You’re so tight-lipped about everything,” Elvis had observed a while back. “You care too much about what people think. Always putting on your best face, no matter what — I think you get that shit from your mom.”

  Elvis’s own mother was a lost cause. With her drug and alcohol problems, her terrible taste in men, and her penchant for dressing like a slut, Mrs. Harnett would have been a terrific guest on The Jerry Springer Show. Chris rarely went over to the Harnetts’ place.

  While he’d dated Courtney Hahn, his image-conscious girlfriend had wanted very little to do with Elvis. “I’m sorry, but how can you let yourself even be seen with him?” she’d asked at one point toward the end, when they were breaking up. “I mean, he’s a nice guy and all, but he’s poor white trash. You’d think he’d try to lose a little weight or dress in something besid
es farmer clothes. And when’s he going to get those stupid glasses fixed?”

  One of Mrs. Harnett’s loser boyfriends had slapped Elvis for mouthing off to him, and he’d broken the hinge on his glasses. For the next three months, Elvis had silver electric tape bunched around the corner of his progressives.

  Elvis couldn’t help that he didn’t have money for new glasses or new clothes. He couldn’t help that he was overweight from being raised on junk food. He never even ate a vegetable until he had dinner at Chris’s house. Elvis slept over at least once a week. Chris felt the overnights gave his friend a taste of what a fairly functional, normal family was like.

  Just two weeks before his parents sat down with him for the talk, Chris had watched them at a block party at the Hahns’ house. They looked so happy, and it made him feel lucky — not only compared to Elvis’s situation, but also compared to his neighbors, Courtney and Madison. Madison’s parents had split up three years before; and as for Courtney, she admitted that her father could barely tolerate her mother. Chris could tell, too. Mrs. Hahn would act all lovey-dovey around him, and Mr. Hahn would hardly crack a smile. He’d get a sort of constipated, slightly annoyed look whenever she started to hang on him.

  But at that party, Chris watched his parents sitting together on the floor by the Hahns’ fireplace. His mom looked especially pretty that night. Snuggled next to his dad, she whispered in his ear. His father chuckled and kissed her on the cheek.

  Two weeks later, on a Friday last March, his mother called him at school on his cell, saying he shouldn’t make plans for the evening. She and his dad needed to talk with him about something. Chris wondered if maybe his mother had discovered the two adult DVDs he’d hidden in his desk drawer: Slutty Betty and Hot Meter Maids 2: Violation! He’d stashed them beneath a collection of old birthday cards, some of which were sent from his now-deceased grandmother. Had he no shame? His parents probably thought he was a major pervert.