The first class had been made up of sullen, silent ninth graders and a smattering of apple polishers who were, if anything, even more annoying than the silent ones. Next came the eleventh graders, a mix of sullen, shy, and smart-alecky ones in equal proportions. This class, the seniors, would be the worst of the day.
She looked out at the sea of faces as Richard Dashwood's comment came back to her- that Marcia and her friends were probably responsible for the razor blade on her bed. But she wondered now, because of the phantom's appearance, if that was true. The whole incident had turned into something horrifying, something she didn't understand and didn't dare think about if she wanted to make it through the day. "All right, girls, I'm Ms. Hawthorne, and we'll be studying American history this semester. Open your books to page 156."
"What about roll call?" Buffy Bullock asked coyly. The girls surrounding her giggled.
"Thank you, Buffy," Sara said with as much dignity as she could muster. She took roll call, then began the lesson, one eye on the clock.
Finally the hour ended. After dismissing the class, she waited at her desk for them to file out. She'd missed breakfast and was going to skip lunch as well, hoping that she could somehow get the amulet to Kelly during the hour. It wasn't so much that she believed the charm bad power as it was a strong need of her own to let the girl know she hadn't forgotten about her. Suddenly she bad an idea.
''Miss Hawthorne?"
She looked up to see Marcia Crowley standing before her desk. Her friends were arrayed behind her like back-up singers.
"What is it, Marcia?"
"We didn't see you at services yesterday." The girl was positively purring.
"No, Marcia, I was busy."
"Weren't you invited?" Buffy asked with an air of superiority.
"I'm not a member of your faith," Sara said cautiously.
The girls exchanged knowing glances; then Blaire Fugate spoke. "You're the only teacher who's an outsider, then."
''Just like Miss Tynan," Marybeth said, falsely solemn.
Sara rose and walked to the door, her flesh crawling with goosebumps. "I'll see you all tomorrow," she said in what she hoped was a calm tone. The girls filed out, their "Good-bye, Miss Hawthorne’s” all in Eddie Haskell tones.
Sara closed the door after them, returned to her desk and started putting together Kelly's schoolwork. She could pass the charm to the girl in the papers if she could find something thick enough to put it in.
Taking the amulet from her pocket, she examined it. "Damn." There was no way she could do it without a book. She turned in her chair and examined the bookshelf behind her, finally chose a biography of Thomas Jefferson. It was old and thick-perfect. She put the amulet in the middle and closed the book, pressing hard to try to squash it, but it was no use. "Damn." In one of the desk drawers, she found an Exacto knife. Suppressing a cringe at the sight of the sharp blade, she took it out.
She flipped the pages until she was in the last quarter of the book, surprised at what she was about to do. She'd never defaced a book in her life, but now she began carefully cutting an inch-wide circle through the pages, glancing up nervously every time she heard footsteps in the corridor. Finally it was done, and she wound the thong around the amulet and placed it in the hole. Then she glued the center edges of the cut leaves together, and the intact top and bottom pages over the hole to secure it.
Examining her work, she was pleased: unless the nuns looked very carefully, they'd never notice what she'd done. If they did find the charm, she was in trouble, but the way things stood now, she was willing to take the chance.
Sara added a report on Thomas Jefferson to the assignment sheet, then gathered everything together and took it downstairs and entered the infirmary.
The waiting room was deserted. ''Sister Regina?" she called. "Sister?"
The door to the back offices opened a moment later and Richard Dashwood stepped out. He smiled when he saw her. "Sara, I trust you're feeling well?"
"Doctor. I - I was looking for Sister Regina. To give her Kelly's assignments."
"Please call me Richard when we're alone, won't you? Regina is at lunch right now," he said, taking the book and papers from her. "I'll see that she gets them."
''I don't want to bother you with this. I can come back later." She put her hands out to take the items back, but he only smiled.
"Nonsense. Have you had lunch yet?"
"No."
"Join me, then. I won't take no for an answer," he added, his eyes warm and inviting. "Come along."
He led her out of the infirmary and around the corner to an oak door. She was amused to see that in a place purportedly lockless, he, like Mother Lucy, had a lock and used it.
"Forgive the mess," he said, ushering her inside. "Bachelor quarters, you know."
The only thing that remotely resembled a mess was a stack of papers on an open roll top desk. The rest of the living room was elegantly furnished in dark antique furniture, and there wasn't a speck of dust visible anywhere.
She followed him past a hall door, catching sight of a bathroom and bedroom beyond. Dashwood, at least, was not relegated to Spartan quarters.
They walked through a small dining area and into a surprisingly large kitchen with modern appliances. The doctor set the book and papers on the counter, then opened a gleaming black refrigerator and looked inside. ''What would you say to rare roast beef with cucumber and horseradish on black bread?"
Her stomach rumbled before she could reply, and he laughed. "I'll take that as a yes." He began placing the items on the counter. ''There are knives in the drawer and plates in the cupboard above."
"I'm sorry," she said, mortified as her stomach continued to speak. "I didn't have breakfast this morning." She handed him a knife, then took down red china plates and placed them on the counter.
"First day jitters? No appetite?"
"No, I just miscalculated," she said quickly. "I went jogging when I got up and didn't allow enough time to eat."
He worked quickly, slicing the beef paper-thin and piling it on the thick bread. ''Would you care for a glass of wine?"
"I would, but no. It makes me sleepy."
He smiled as he carried the plates to the small kitchen table. ''I believe you, after seeing the effect the truffles seemed to have on you. Sit down. I have sparkling water, apple juice, or iced tea."
"Tea, please."
''Coming right up."
Sara enjoyed the meal and the company. Richard entertained her with stories about the nuns, students' exploits, and nearly everything else. The only subject he avoided was himself.
"Would you like a piece of pie and some coffee?" he asked at last.
"I couldn't eat another bite, but I'd love some coffee."
Quickly, he started the coffeemaker, then turned to her. "It's mincemeat," he said.
''What?"
He laughed. "Mincemeat pie, the sisters' specialty. What did you think I meant?"
It was her turn to laugh. "I didn't know what you meant. Thanks, but no thanks. Another time." She almost told him she detested mincemeat, but decided that would be rude. He cut himself a piece and brought it to the table, then went back for the coffee. He poured for them, then forked a small bite of pie into his mouth. "Mmm. There's really nothing else like it in the world. Would you like to taste it?"
"Honestly, Richard, I just can't. I'm almost too full for the coffee."
"May I ask you a question?"
''Of course."
''I noticed your finger is bandaged and there are some cuts on your palm. What happened?"
"I fell when I was out jogging. It's nothing, but you know how it is when there's a cut on your finger-you seem to hit it on everything. So I put a Band-Aid on it." She forced a smile and asked lightly, "Any more questions? I have to get back my next class is in ten minutes."
"Just one." He finished the pie. "Did you sleep well last night?"
If only you knew. She smiled sweetly. ''Like a baby." She thought she saw a
look of surprise, quickly hidden, but it might have been her imagination.
Dashwood retrieved Kelly's schoolwork from the counter and accompanied Sara out the door, locking it behind him. They walked together as far as the infirmary; then Sara continued on upstairs to face the rest of her first day of school. She only hoped that the amulet would make it safely to Kelly, for the girl's sake and her own.
Fifty-one
John walked into Franklin's Pharmacy, an antibiotic prescription for Mark clutched in his hand. The store looked the same as it had when he was a kid, with a rainbow of antique apothecary jars in the windows, a counter full of penny candy, and an old-fashioned soda fountain.
Beano himself was behind the pharmacy counter at the rear of the shop. His dark hair was cut short, and he was as round as ever; his white coat had popped a button. When he looked up and saw John, he nodded hello as if they were nothing more than fleeting acquaintances. Beano had retreated more than any of them after Greg's death, and completely broke relations after Doug Buckman's death.
John put the prescription down on the counter and pushed it across to Franklin. He read it, then nodded. ''This will only take a minute." He turned and began working. ''Heard about the Parker boy," he said over his shoulder. ·
''News travels fast."
''Heard your boy got a chunk taken out of him."
"Just a nip. He's fine. Frank just prescribed the drugs as a precaution."
Beano nodded, but said nothing until he brought the container of pills back to the counter. "So, was it one of those damned hawks? Been hearing them a lot lately."
"From the description the boys gave, it's probably an owl." He paused. "You've been hearing them, too, huh?"
"Yeah." Beano scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I don't remember them being this noisy since we were kids."
"Around the time of Greg's death we heard them a lot, remember?"
Beano eyed him. "Yeah. I remember."
"What else do you remember?" John asked lightly.
"What do you mean?" Beano's tone was suspicious.
John told him Gus's eavesdropping story. ''What do you think, Beano? Did we go there?"
"Hell, no, we didn't go there. Thinking that way is what made Doug crazy enough to kill himself."
"Well, then, you and Gus almost agree on something."
Beano glowered at him from beneath his dark brows. ''Doug and I were like this," he said, crossing his fingers tightly. ''Until Greg died, just like this. Then he just kept going on about all that St. Gertrude shit, and I couldn't stand being around him." He leaned forward on his elbows. "Doug told me he saw one of those things, but I think he was full of shit."
''Why do you think that?"
''Remember my big brother, Brian?"
"Sure."
"He claimed the same thing, and you know how full of shit he was."
"When?"
"He claimed it was the year he left for college, '71, I guess. He said it to scare me."
"How come you never told us?"
"Because it was a load of bullshit. I wanted to go to St. Gertrude's to check out the girls, and if you guys knew about the birdies, you wouldn't have gone."
"But Beano, I remember you saying he said we shouldn't go."
"Yeah, well, I guess I was a kid back then, so I believed him a little." He grunted, his face reddening. "I didn't tell you about the bird because it sounded too stupid. Guess we missed our chance to see some pussy. If Brian wasn't dead already, I'd like to give him a piece of my mind. Christ, you know what that son-of-a-bitch said?"
"What's that, Beano?"
"He said it wasn't a bird."
"What was it?"
"Claimed it was a gargoyle. I can't believe he scared me with that bullshit now. He just wanted to keep all the pussy lookin' for himself."
"A gargoyle?" John asked, interested.
''Yep. Doug said the same thing. Those must be godawful ugly owls; that's all I can figure."
''They must be."
Beano put the pills in a bag, clearly done with the conversation. ''Tell your granddad his pills are ready. I called him a couple times, but he didn't answer."
''I'll take them to him. I'm going by his place right now to check on him. Haven't heard from him for a few days."
''He's probably off fishing somewhere."
"Probably." John paid for the pills and left for Gus's house.
Fifty-two
Last night, Kelly had been too nervous to sleep, and now she fought the almost overwhelming urge to take a nap. She had no intention of giving in to the desire because she wanted to be so exhausted by the time Sister Regina came to take away her light bulb that she wouldn't care it was gone.
Nothing had happened during the night, but the utter darkness had seemed filled with evil, and Kelly had trembled beneath the thin blanket, awaiting the sound of the crying ghost. It never came, and now she almost wished it had: it wouldn't have been as bad as the waiting.
Her stomach rumbled and she was very thirsty; lunch had been a cup of water and a stale bran muffin. She tried not to think about her hunger as she sat down at the table and began examining the schoolwork Sister Regina had delivered a few minutes earlier.
There was a copy of The Scarlet Letter to read with her English assignment, some pages of Latin, and way too much algebra. Then she found what she was looking for: Miss Hawthorne's history assignment. She read the sheet and noticed that the report on Thomas Jefferson had been hurriedly written at the bottom in a different color ink.
Hoping to find a personal note hidden in the book, she flipped through it and found the last part stuck together. She could tell that something was hidden in it. Casually she stretched, looking around at the camera she knew was hidden behind a portrait of a naked female saint being eaten alive by rats. She knew it was a stationary mount, and after making sure it wouldn't be able to see what she had on the desk if she was careful, she turned casually back to the desk.
She looked through the rest of the assignments, then sighed aloud-she figured they could hear her if they could see her and picked up a pencil. She opened the Jefferson book and pretended to read, all the while using her fingernail to poke a hole in the pulpy paper. After a moment, she exposed the hole and saw the amulet. Elated because Miss Hawthorne had obviously visited Minerva. she curled her fingers around the necklace, drew it out and dropped it in her pocket. She'd put it around her neck when she couldn't be seen, after the light was taken away from her.
Fifty-three
John pulled up in front of Gus's house feeling slightly embarrassed. The old man would tease him mercilessly for worrying about him, but there was no hiding it from him, no saying he was just in the neighborhood. Gus would know- he always did.
He climbed out of the cruiser and checked the mailbox by the driveway, mildly alarmed to find an electric bill, a couple letters, one perfumed, and some ads inside. Gus's mail was delivered in the morning and the old man was usually prompt about retrieving it: he loved those perfumed notes from his lady pen pals. Don't jump to conclusions. He probably did go fishing today.
He took the mail, then started up the path, pausing to snag a rolled-up sales flyer, then climbed the porch steps and knocked on the door. "Gus? Gus? You home?"
The drapes were drawn, but that wasn't unusual. Gus didn't like to answer his door, and if Jehovah's Witnesses had been prowling around, he became militant about it. He could hear the television playing inside as he knocked again, but that didn't mean much, either; Gus usually left it on whether he was in or out. After knocking and calling out once more, he went back down the steps and around the house to the small garage. It was padlocked shut, but he cupped his hands and peered inside. Gus's Oldsmobile was parked within.
John's stomach twisted; then he reminded himself that, like as not, Gus had gone fishing or shopping or whatever, with a friend who had done the driving. Still, as he walked back to the front door and pulled his keys from his pocket, he couldn't shake his nervousness. He found
the right key, then pulled open the screen door and tried knocking one last time. No answer. You should have called him Saturday when he didn't show up for lunch.
The lock turned and John pushed open the door. Cool, fetid air wafted out. ''Dear God," he choked, recognizing the smell. ''Oh, dear God."
He took his gun from its holster, then forced himself to step inside the darkened house. "Gus?" The smell of blood and death choked him as his eyes went to the only bright spot in the living room- the television set. General Hospital was on, but parts of the screen were obscured by dark spatters and drips, and gobbets of something thicker. On the floor in front of the set he could make out a lumpy puddle of dried gore.
Lifeless fingers were just visible on the arm of the easy chair facing the television, and he dreaded what was to come. It was almost a relief as he made his way along the wall of the living room and into the hallway beyond to check the rest of the house for intruders before he faced the chair.
There was no sign that anyone had been in any other rooms, and finally, he was satisfied that he was alone. He walked slowly back into the living room, his legs rubbery, his heart jittering as he forced himself to go straight to the easy chair.
The top of Gus's head was gone, the jagged edges of his skull jutting up like a broken eggshell. Flies crawled sluggishly on what remained inside.
"God," he moaned and raced to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before his lunch came up. That hadn't happened since the body in the trunk when he was a rookie. He rinsed out his mouth and pulled himself together, then returned to the living room, trying not to think of the corpse in the chair as his grandfather, but as a homicide under investigation.
Obviously, a shotgun had done the damage. Probably a cutoff, definitely from behind at close range. The body would have been thrown forward- there were stains on the rug confirming that. But the killer had put the body in an upright position, one hand resting on the armrest, the other in its lap, loosely holding the TV remote. Whoever did this had a perverse sense of humor.
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