Along Comes a Wolfe

by Angie Counios

  chapter 110

  A back stairwell leads us out to the middle of the Theatre Department. Props and sets line the hallways and music resounds from a room to our left. Around the corner, we come to a lounge where students sprawl out in bunches, working on homework or playing on their phones.

  I pull Charlie back around the corner before we’re noticed. “We barely know what he looks like.”

  “So? We know enough.”

  “Yeah, but he knows us better. Remember that he spent Saturday afternoon beating the crap out of us?” I don’t usually have the pleasure of making Charlie pause, but I did this time.

  “Fair enough. What’s your plan?”

  I don’t know if I have a plan. He’s never deferred to me and I’m a little surprised. “Well, he’s been so busy watching us and setting up his little performances that I think it’s our turn to watch him.”

  “Nice.”

  I take the corner again, keeping an eye open for anyone who might look like Connor. No sign of him. I do take note of a girl, looking like something between a hipster and a punk, lying on a couch reading a graphic novel, listening to tunes. University doesn’t seem that hard.

  I tap her on the shoulder, hoping I don’t startle her.

  She slowly slides off her headphones and looks at me, annoyed.

  “Where are the rehearsals for As You Like It being held?”

  “We’re way past rehearsals, dude.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She looks at us a bit more carefully. “Are you even in the Theatre Department?”

  Charlie takes over. “Are you?”

  She glares at him. “Hey—!”

  “Hey, yourself.” He nods at her book. “Superheroes? Seriously? Why not try something a little bit above your reading level?”

  I interject before someone starts swinging. “Can you just tell me where they’re practising?”

  She sighs and with the most dramatically laborious of efforts, raises her arm and points. “Down the hall, but be quiet. There’s a matinee on.” She pulls the book in front of her face again, blocking us from sight.

  Around the corner is another staircase. We descend a flight to find a locked door. We move back up to another level. And another locked door.

  Charlie shakes his head. “What is with this place? I’d hate to be stuck here in a fire.”

  We hear a door shut below. A young guy with spotlights in each hand runs up the stairs. “Hey, can you grab the door for me.”

  “It’s locked.”

  He looks at us like we’re idiots. “No, the one on the next floor.”

  “Uh, sure?” We race all the way to the top of the stairs and open the door for him to find ourselves on a walkway, high above the stage.

  “Thanks.”

  If he’d paid any attention, he’d notice Charlie and I have wandered in behind him. But he’s got a job to do and doesn’t even acknowledge our existence.

  Down below, the auditorium seats are packed with high school students, quiet but bored in the sparsely lit theatre. I’m sure some are watching the stage, but from what I can tell, I’m positive many are asleep. A beautiful set—a forest with sculpted trees—rises up to the arched proscenium, leaves and branches crisscrossing between them. Two men stand below, speaking to each other, and I’m not sure, but I think the one guy wants to lay down and die.

  I look at the guy we followed up here. “How do we get down there?” I point to the seats below.

  The guy looks at me. “Don’t you work here? Shit, you shouldn’t be up here.”

  Charlie steps in. “Relax. We just got turned around on the stairs.”

  The lighting guy ushers us out the way we came. “Out the door, down the stairs, through the hallway, cut across to the right and try the door.”

  Charlie just can’t let it be and nods and smiles. “Oh. So, easy, then?”

  The guy gives us a look as I push Charlie out the door.

  “Can’t just keep quiet sometimes, can you?”

  He looks at me confused. “What?”

  We follow the instructions but, of course, the door is locked. We move farther down and finally find one that’s open.

  We go in.

  chapter 111

  We come out on a second floor balcony. Light from the bright staircase outside floods in and I rush past Charlie to get the door closed before we attract attention. It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust in the dark. It’s quiet up here and we wander down to the first row and pull down the seats.

  The actor on stage says:

  How now, monsieur. What a life is this,

  That your poor friends must woo your company?

  What, you look merrily!

  The actor he’s speaking to walks out on stage and stands under a spotlight. I stare, blood pulsing loudly in my head. Is that him? All I have to go on is a couple of small, blurry photos, and from up here, it could be anyone. But there’s something about him that feels off, over-rehearsed, like he’s planned every move, every word, to the point that his very presence is stiff, almost empty.

  Connor, or at least, the guy I think is him, speaks:

  A fool, a fool! I met a fool in the forest,

  A motley fool. A miserable world!

  As I do live by food, I met a fool…

  I stare at him, trying to imagine him behind the mask, killing Bonnie or Maggie. Or Sheri. It’s all a blur of white noise and my head pounds with confusion. This is not the monster I imagined, the ugly evil that disemboweled dogs and murdered women. If this is him, he’s a dumb kid, clueless to reality. He’s not much different from his brother Robbie, except that his way of dealing with being trapped in a suburban hell with helicopter parents and the pressure to be perfect wasn’t to numb himself, but rather to experience the world by destroying it.

  O worthy fool! One that hath been a courtier,

  And says, if ladies be but young and fair,

  They have the gift to know it: and in his brain,

  Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit

  After a voyage, he hath strange places cramm’d

  With observation, the which he vents

  In mangled forms. O that I were a fool!

  I am ambitious for a motley coat.

  Charlie watches intently, his back flagpole straight. I’m not sure I’ve seen him so hyper-focused before.

  It is my only suit:

  Provided that you weed your better judgments

  Of all opinion that grows rank in them

  That I am wise. I must have liberty

  Withal, as large a charter as the wind,

  To blow on whom I please; for so fools have—

  I can’t help but think he speaks as himself and not as Jaques.

  “What do you think?” I ask Charlie.

  He nods. “It’s him.”

  chapter 112

  He walks off the stage, pleased with his performance of the last scene, but he’s frustrated, because the fool playing Orlando has choked on his lines again. He’s not jealous that Orlando has more lines—everyone knows that Jacques is the better role—but every other actor’s mistakes trickle down to the delivery of his own.

  He doesn’t go too far; there’s only a brief scene and a half before he needs to return to the stage. He sits in a chair at the back where he can look out and see the audience. He likes the one-way mirror the theatre offers: while on stage, he can be seen but can’t see the people watching him, and when he is backstage, he can peer out at them without them knowing.

  He tries to focus on the present moment, remaining in this world, in this character, but he struggles, his mind shifting to the girl in the trunk. He’s kept her at home, safe from detection, alive—for now. He hasn’t quite decided what to do with her.

 
He took her on Sunday, at a matinee. After the excitement of the past few days, the movie had been boring—a stupid show about a guy fighting his drug addiction—and he left to wander.

  A doorway at the end of a hall had led to some stairs and he followed them up to the projector room. The space was long and wide with ten machines spooling film onto big platters. It was dark and noisy, and although he saw someone sitting at a desk hand-cranking a reel of film, they neither heard him nor looked up. Another set of stairs took him down to a staff room somewhere deep in the belly of the movie theatre. A young woman who seemed his type walked by and he felt compelled to follow her. Opportunity only knocks once—and he had fallen into the habit of carrying his supplies with him in his new messenger bag. He’d had to buy another after abandoning his old one in the basement of that house.

  He slipped his mask on.

  He found her in the bathroom and by now it was nearly routine. In fact, it had become too straightforward, and as he rushed her, he felt an immediate emptiness; the fight was more irksome than elation. Still, he must finish what he’d started—he couldn’t, after all, simply bow out and apologize for the mistake. Maybe there was something he could do to heighten the intensity again. As they said, the show must go on.

  So he’d punched her in the temple, hoping it would knock her out, and was grateful when she went limp beneath him. His bag held a roll of duct tape and he wrapped her arms and feet and taped over her mouth. After checking the hallway, he’d carried her out of the nearest exit and set her behind a dumpster. He’d walked casually around the building to retrieve his car. He’d finally gotten it back from impound where it had been towed after that stupid dopehead had—

  Thinking about it was a waste of energy.

  He brought the vehicle to the rear of the building, backing up so the open trunk would shield his actions from any possible witnesses. He moved quickly, tossing her inside, uncertain whether he was seen.

  The physical exertion of moving the still-breathing figure, and the possibility of being caught, fired his nerve endings. A new challenge was emerging. He shut the trunk and drove back to his residence.

  He no longer felt connected to the people who had raised him. At one time, they’d been Mom and Dad, and that idiot, Robbie, his brother—but ever since he had begun to focus his energy on his new work, those relationships had slipped away. He could never share with them the skills he had acquired, the audacity with which he performed, the agility he was able to display.

  Besides, they likely wouldn’t have cared.

  They only worried about keeping Robbie on the straight and narrow, longing for the day he would correct his course and make it through school so he could get a career just like theirs. He wasn’t certain when it had happened, but at some point, his parents had grown blasé about his existence, indifferent to his successes. He had proved to them his ability to achieve and they had become disinterested in his future.

  In the quiet times between acts, he’d ask himself why he was following this path. He loved the rush and the challenge, but perhaps there was a deeper meaning to his deeds. Was it a cry for help or a desperate attempt for the attention that he felt he deserved? When he gave it thought, the answer was always no. There was no corollary between his actions and his parents’ approval. He no longer sought their attention—in fact, he was resistant to the ramifications that such attention might elicit.

  Now he actually prefers the silence of the vacuum so that he might continue his performance, because what he seeks is perfection.

  As he watches the players on the stage, marking their exits and entrances, he decides that murder is an ideal, a refinement of action and reaction. He is above them all: the other actors, the director, the audience, the crew in the wings around him. His role—the greatest role—is to be the force that ruptures the heavens, and his performance would be the shining example for all to remember.

  He was perfection.

  chapter 113

  Connor is off the stage and I watch intently until he returns. I’ve never been a big fan of Shakespeare, but this wait solidifies my opinion. It isn’t until Charlie taps on my arm that my attention is drawn away. Two police officers are standing in the dark shadows along the outer aisle.

  “Are they here for him?” I whisper.

  Charlie doesn’t answer.

  “Charlie…?”

  “I don’t know, Shepherd.”

  Their presence feels like confirmation that we’re on the same page as the law, and that’s as great a thrill as it is terrifying.

  I’m on the edge of my seat, scanning the audience, wondering if there are more cops. I look for anyone out of place among the teenagers, presuming there might be others not in uniform. But except for the officers at the door, no one seems out of place. In fact, judging by their casual stance, it feels like we’re the only ones holding our breath.

  They make their way to an illuminated side exit and lean against the wall without urgency, but my eyes dart over to Connor as he returns to the stage. The two women who are playing Rosalind and Celia follow him. I wonder if his character, Jaques, is hitting on Rosalind. Although I know it’s only a show, he’s so messed up that the thought of him touching another human being, even innocently, is repulsive. It’s like he’s disinterested in everything, a dark shadow among the otherwise bright, funny characters, and again, I teeter in uncertainty over who I am looking at, Jaques or Connor. Is he the player or the man?

  He moves across the stage, stepping into the spotlight near the front.

  I have neither the scholar’s melancholy, which is

  emulation; nor the musician’s, which is fantastical,;

  nor the courtier’s, which is proud; nor the

  soldier’s, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer’s,

  which is politic; nor the lady’s, which is nice; nor

  the lover’s, which is all these—

  His gaze shifts, his view moving to the police officers. He goes rigid and stops reciting.

  Charlie and I sit straight up in our seats.

  chapter 114

  They are here.

  He’d always thought that one day they would catch up to him, and all the work, all the training, all the practice would come down to this one live, unpredictable moment. He feels a steady wave of energy. He is neither nervous nor afraid. All his practice has made him perfect, as the saying goes. On this stage, here and now, he will fulfill the role he has always been born to play.

  It’s time.

  The final performance is about to begin.

  chapter 115

  We watch as Rosalind and Celia look at each other, confused and concerned.

  An awkward cough rises from the audience.

  A voice from the wings whispers, “But it is a melancholy…”

  Someone giggles.

  The hushed voice repeats the line, louder this time, “But it is a melancholy of mine own…”

  Raven-haired Rosalind puts her hand on Connor’s back. “Jaques, is it a melancholy of your own?”

  He jerks, looking at her, swallowing, then a smile, a shift in his face, a change in demeanor. Finally he speaks again.

  But it is a melancholy of mine own,

  compounded of many simples, extracted

  from many objects…

  The tension in the auditorium dissipates slightly.

  …and, indeed, the sundry contemplation

  of my travels; in which my often rumination

  wraps me in a most humorous sadness.

  Rosalind smiles. A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad.

  She turns her back and Connor reaches into his costume. I feel what’s about to happen before I witness it. Slowly, he pulls a plastic bag out of his costume, drawing it tight in his fist. He takes a step toward Rosalind.

  I look down
at the cops. They don’t make a move.

  “Stop him!” I yell.

  The officers turn to look at me and the entire auditorium joins them. It’s then that I realize for whatever reason they’re here, it isn’t to arrest Connor.

  Charlie grabs me. “It’s up to us, Shepherd!” and I’m shaken out of my stupor. “It’s time to move. Now!”

  And I’m up, racing toward the exit.

  chapter 116

  Charlie hits the stairs first, but I pass him on the way down. I break right as he heads for the auditorium doors.

  “Get backstage. We’ll cut him off!” Charlie yells as he races away.

  I sprint down the hallway, balls to the wall, full throttle. Holy shit! I’m chasing after a serial killer. On purpose. I don’t even have a plan. What the hell?

  Whatever fear had seized me earlier today is now gone. Whatever monster mask Connor wore in my imagination has disappeared. He is flesh and bone and not much older than me. If I catch him, I can make him bleed.

  I turn right, then left, and shoot past the hipster/punk girl reading her comic as someone yells at me to slow down. I zip past doors and props and rooms filled with actors dressed in costumes. I turn left again and race through a door into a blackened hallway and the dark wings at the edge of the stage. An actor in period costume glares and shushes me.

  On stage, it’s soundless mayhem. The actors stare, stunned. Connor’s nowhere in sight. I shift, looking for Charlie or the cops, and I can’t see any of them anywhere.

  A guy with a headset shouts, “What the hell else am I supposed to do? End the show?!”

  I want to feel sorry for him but I don’t have time. “Where’s Connor?”

  “I have no idea, but when you find him, let me know because I’m pretty sure I’m going to kill him. I can’t handle this crap!” He yanks the headset off, rubbing his already messy hair.

  I run backstage, feeling the strategy of the court coming to me as I work to anticipate what will come next. I shoot back out into the hallway, checking every door. It’s like a drill, using my legs to bolt, stop, start, and my hands to shake every handle on every door I pass. I’ll have to thank Coach Davies for all the hard work he’s put me through.