TOWN STUNNED BY KIDNAPPING
Linda Latham, 17-year-old daughter of Lynn and Ronald Latham, was apparently abducted late Friday night while walking home from the house of a friend, Kerry Goodrich.
At approximately midnight, Linda’s parents grew concerned about her absence and telephoned the Goodrich residence, only to learn that their daughter had left more than an hour earlier. The walk, a distance of four blocks, should have taken the girl no longer than ten minutes.
Alarmed, her parents searched the area between the two homes. Finding Linda’s handbag near the curb approximately a block from the Goodrich house, they promptly called the police.
Though the area was canvassed by authorities, no information about the apparent kidnapping was obtained.
Linda Latham is the second teenage girl to disappear under suspicious circumstances in recent weeks. On July 26, Sandra Dunlap vanished from her home on Crestview Avenue, and her fate remains unknown to date.
Police point out that there is little similarity in the circumstances of the two disappearances. “The M.O.‘s are completely different,” according to police spokesman Captain Al Taylor. “It would be premature, at this point, to speculate that both crimes were the work of the same perpetrator. In spite of that, we do need to recognize that two teenagers have been abducted over a short period of time. There certainly iscause for concern. I would advise parents to keep a close watch on the activities of their adolescent children, particularly females. The youths, themselves, should exercise extreme caution until the perpetrator or perpetrators have been apprehended.”
Captain Taylor went on to suggest that teenage girls refrain from going out alone, that they carry whistles in case of an emergency, and that they report any encounters of a suspicious nature.
Authorities are conducting an all-out search for the two missing girls. Anyone with information about either disappearance is requested to contact the police immediately.
Nothing about Martha Radley, Larry realized. Didn’t the police see a connection there? Obviously not, or they’d be even more concerned.
One murder, two disappearances. That’s three down.
Larry removed the bottom page from his small stack of copies — the list of 1968 graduates from Buford High School. He found the names Dunlap, Sandra and Latham, Linda. The Radley girl wasn’t there, of course: she was only sixteen.
But she’d been in the Art Club, and Sandra and Linda had both been Bonnie’s classmates.
Bonnie knew all three.
God, she must’ve been devastated. And scared.
Something like that happens, and you’ve got to start wondering who will be next.
Maybe you.
He copied the story.
He continued searching. He copied three follow-up stories, none of which provided any new information. The girls were still gone. The police had no suspects.
Bonnie was next.
He found her picture and story on the front page of the Mulehead Evening Standard’sAugust 14 edition.
He stared at the screen with a horrible feeling of loss.
What did you expect? he told himself. You knew she was dead, you’ve got her body. This shouldn’t come as any great blow.
But it was as if part of his mind had held on to a wild hope that Bonnie’s story would have a happy ending, after all. Somehow.
The newspaper crushed that hope.
He moaned as he stared at the photo. He knew it well. It was her senior picture. He had it in his filing cabinet.
Reluctantly, he read the story.
BONNIE SAXON VANISHES
Bonnie Saxon, voted Buford High School’s “Spirit Queen” during the fall, 1967 homecoming festivities, disappeared during the night from the Usher Avenue home where she lived with her mother, Christine.
The 18-year-old girl was last seen by her mother when she returned home following a date Friday night with her boyfriend, Biff Tate. The next morning, Bonnie was gone. Her bedroom window was found to be broken, and blood was noted on her sheets.
This marks the third disappearance, since late July, of local teenage girls. On July 26, Sandra Dunlap, 18, vanished from her home. Like Bonnie, Sandra was apparently taken during the night from her bedroom. In both cases, there was evidence of forced entry, and blood was found on the bedsheets. The second disappearance occurred on August 10, when Linda Latham, 18, was the victim of an apparent kidnapping while she walked home after visiting a friend.
According to Police Chief Jud Ring, “It looks now as if we have a definite pattern, especially between the Dunlap and Saxon cases. It’s reasonable to conclude that all three girls were abducted by the same perpetrator. This is a very nasty situation. We still hope that the girls will be found alive, of course. But we just don’t know what has become of them. What we do know is this: there is every reason to believe that such crimes will continue if we fail to apprehend the person responsible for these outrages.
“Our department,” he went on, “is conducting a full-scale investigation of the matter. No avenue is being overlooked. I have every confidence that we’ll soon have the perpetrator in custody. Until then, however, it’s imperative that all our female citizens exercise the utmost caution in their daily affairs.”
Bonnie Saxon is a graduate of the Buford High School Class of 1968. In addition to being voted “Spirit Queen,” Bonnie was on the honor roll and was active in numerous school activities. She and her mother are members of the First Presbyterian Church, where Bonnie sang in the Youth Choir. This energetic and beautiful young woman is a familiar figure to a great many citizens of our town, and it is hoped that her widely recognized appearance may prove useful in locating her.
Anyone with information about the abduction or present whereabouts of Bonnie Saxon, Linda Latham, or Sandra Dunlap is urged to contact the authorities at once.
She was gone.
Dead.
Whoever wrote the story didn’t know it, but somebody had pounded a stake through her chest. Killed her.
Larry knew he should go on, but he didn’t have the heart.
He checked his wristwatch. Three o’clock. It was early to quit. If he stopped now, he would need to come back tomorrow.
He didn’t care.
He made a copy of the story and shut off the machine.
Twenty-four
When the bell rang, the students began to file out of the classroom. Lane slowly gathered her books from the rack under her seat so it wouldn’t be obvious to the others that she was remaining.
No point letting the whole world know she was staying to help. Some of the kids would think she was brown-nosing. Not that I care what they think, she told herself. Still, it seemed wise to keep a low profile.
Jessica stopped in the doorway and looked back at her.
Lane slid her stacked books toward her chest as if preparing to stand.
“You’re leaving?” Mr. Kramer asked.
“No, uh-uh. Not if you have something for me.”
Nodding, he smiled. “I have a job, if you don’t mind a little manual labor.”
“No, that’d be fine.” She glanced toward the door. Jessica, frowning, turned and walked away.
“Come on up here,” Kramer said. He reached into his briefcase but kept his eyes on Lane as she approached.
She hoped she looked all right. Jim had certainly thought so. During the lunch period, he’d snuck his hand under the loose bottom of her blouse several times before she finally lost her temper. “If you don’t like it,” he’d said, “you shouldn’t wear that kind of thing.”
The white pullover blouse had a cowl neck, short sleeves, and a hem that reached just to her waist. It wasn’t meant to be tucked in. Neither, however, was it meant as an open invitation for Jim to explore the bare areas just out of sight above her belt.
That morning, when Lane chose to wear the blouse and her short denim skirt, she hadn’t been thinking about Jim’s reaction. Her mind had been on Mr. Kramer. She’d wanted to look good for hi
m. And maybe just a little sexy.
If Kramer appreciated her outfit, he gave no sign.
He turned his attention to his briefcase as she stepped around the back of the table. He pulled out a file folder, turned toward her and opened it. Inside was a stack of eight-by-ten pictures.
“Whitman?” she asked, peering at the upside-down face of the top portrait.
“Very good.”
“I used to play ‘Authors’ a lot when I was a kid.”
“How would you like to hang these up? Give the kids something worthwhile to gaze at while they’re daydreaming.”
“Great,” Lane said. “Where do you want them?”
He pointed out a strip of corkboard high on the front wall between the chalkboard and the ceiling. “Think you can manage that? You’d have to stand on the stool, I’m afraid.”
“No problem,” Lane said.
“Fine. Just fine. I’d give you papers to correct, but all I’ve got are essays. I really have to do those myself.”
“Oh, this’ll be okay.”
He took a clear plastic box of thumbtacks from his desk drawer and gave it to her along with the folder of pictures.
“Any special order you want them in?” Lane asked.
“Doesn’t matter.” He brought the stool from the corner of the room.
It was as high as Lane’s waist, with metal legs and a disk of wood for a seat. Each room seemed to have just such a stool. Teachers often perched on them, but Mr. Kramer never used his, preferring to sit on the front table when he addressed the class.
He carried it to the far end of the chalkboard. “Maybe I’d better hold something.”
Lane handed the pictures and tacks to him. He stood beside her, watching, frowning slightly.
“Don’t worry, I’m not planning to fall.”
“I’m sure you know what Burns said about the best-laid plans and schemes.”
“Promise you’ll catch me if they ‘gang a-gley’?”
“I’ll give it my best.”
She stepped onto a rung, planted her other knee on the seat, and braced herself against the chalkboard as she got to her feet.
“You okay up there?”
“Yeah, I think so.” She looked down at him and managed to smile. Her position didfeel precarious. There was little room for her feet and nothing to hold onto. But the corkboard was just in front of her face, so she wouldn’t have to stretch for it.
“Try one, see how it goes.” He passed the Whitman picture to her. Lane took it in her left hand. She reached her right arm across the front of her body, and Mr. Kramer dropped two tacks into her palm.
She raised the picture and pressed it flat against the corkboard. Holding it in place with one hand, she shoved a tack into its upper right corner.
And knew what her blouse was doing. She knew that she’d made a mistake when she selected it. But she’d thought she would be correcting papers, not climbing onto a stool and leaning forward with both arms extended and Mr. Kramer below her.
The hem was brushing the skin of her back at least an inch above the top of her skirt. Lane couldn’t see the front. She didn’t have to. She could well imagine the way it must be hanging away from her body. If Mr. Kramer happened to be looking in the right direction, he could probably see all the way up to her bra.
The knowledge gave her a hot, crawly feeling.
She pushed the other tack into place, lowered her arms and looked down at the teacher.
He nodded. “So far, so good,” he said, smiling. He gave her a photograph of Mark Twain.
“I can probably manage,” Lane said, “if you want to go ahead and correct the papers. Just give me the box of tacks and set the pictures on the chalk tray.”
“Sure you don’t want me here as a spotter?”
“I think I’ll be okay.”
He handed the tacks to Lane, then removed the short stack of pictures from the folder and propped them up on the chalk tray. He didn’t leave.
The hell with it, Lane thought. No big deal.
She went ahead and lifted Mark Twain up to the cork-board.
“Get him right there next to Walt. Maybe overlap the edges a little. You could use the same tack for both.”
He isn’t paying attention to me, anyway, she told herself.
Yeah? Don’t bet on it.
If he’s like most guys, he’s probably staring straight up my blouse. Or crouching for a peek at my panties.
She tucked the plastic box under her chin to free her right hand, and pried out the tack at the corner of the Whitman picture.
By now, she thought, Jim would have a hand sliding up my leg.
Mr. Kramer’s not Jim, thank God.
Besides, I’m a student. He wouldn’t dare touch me, even if he wanted to.
She overlapped the edges of the pictures and pushed in the tack. It held Mark Twain in place while she took the box from under her chin, crouched down, and lifted a portrait of Charles Dickens off the chalk tray. As she straightened up, she looked around at Mr. Kramer. He nodded with approval.
“Looks as if everything’s under control,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Just give a whistle if you need me,” he told her, and headed for his desk.
He sat down. He bent over a stack of papers and picked up a red pen.
Thank goodness, Lane thought.
She felt strange, though — not just relieved that he no longer stood below her, but a little disappointed, a little abandoned.
Guess he wasn’t all that impressed, she thought.
She rammed a tack through the corners of Dickens and Twain.
I didn’t wanthim looking up my clothes!
Maybe he didn’t even take advantage of the opportunity.
She climbed down from the stool, adjusted its position, and saw Mr. Kramer turn to watch her mount it. “Careful,” he said. She smiled and nodded.
And a terrible thought struck her.
What if he thinks I dressed like this to turn him on?
Fire spread over Lane’s skin.
He must think I’m a slut.
As she tacked up a picture of Tennyson, beads of sweat slid down her sides.
I did want to look nice for him, she told herself. But I had no idea...
She wished to God she had worn jeans and a long-tailed blouse. A blouse she could have tucked in tight.
I would’ve, she thought. So help me, I would’ve if I’d had any idea...
I’m not a slut.
What if he thinks I did it for grades?
A lot of kids were known to flirt with their teachers in hopes of getting higher marks. Some probably even offered sex. Though Lane didn’t know of anyone who’d done that, she supposed it sometimes happened.
I’m already getting an A from him, Lane told herself. He can’t think I dressed like this for a better grade.
For that matter, why should he even suspect I wore this stuff for him? He probably just thinks I’m just trying to look good for a boyfriend.
Lane began to feel better as the sickening heat of embarrassment subsided.
Sure, she thought. He can’t suspect I dressed for him. He’s no mind reader.
She continued to put the pictures up, balancing on the stool, bending over for new ones, reaching out, tacking them to the corkboard, frequently climbing down and moving the stool closer to Mr. Kramer’s desk.
Often, she glanced at him. Usually, he was busy reading the essays. A few times, however, she found him looking over his shoulder at her. When that happened, he never tried to turn away and pretend he wasn’t watching. He never acted guilty. He usually just smiled or nodded, and made a comment: “You’re doing a good job,” or “Glad it’s you and not me up there,” or “Don’t push yourself if you start getting tired.”
Lane finally began to suspect that he didn’t care about the way she was dressed.
I might as well be wearing coveralls, she thought.
She wondered if he might be gay.
Give it a break, she told herself. What do you want? He’s a teacher.
She stepped down to the floor once again and moved the stool a couple of feet nearer to his desk. Swiveling his chair around, he scanned the high row of pictures. “Terrific,” he said. “They add a nice touch to the room, don’t you think?”
“Be nicer if they weren’t all deadguys.”
“Well, unfortunately, the literary community doesn’t hold much stock in living writers. You can’t be a ‘major author’ till you’re dead.”
Lane thought he was wrong about that. Though she felt reluctant to question his views, he usually seemed to enjoy discussions with his students. Besides, if she stopped talking, he would return to the essays.
“Dad says that’s a myth,” she told him, and climbed onto the stool. She lifted a picture of Hemingway from the chalk tray and raised it to the corkboard. “Most of these guys were enormously successful and famous in their own time.” She punched a tack through its corner. “Only a few weren’t recognized till after they died. Like Poe, for instance.”
Bending down for a picture of Steinbeck, she looked over her shoulder. Mr. Kramer was smiling, nodding his head.
“And Poe was allscrewed up,” she added.
Mr. Kramer laughed. “I suppose he had to be, to write the way he did.”
“I don’t know.” She straightened up and pressed the picture into place. “Dad writes worse stuff than Poe, and he seems fairly normal. I’ve met scads of horror writers — going to conventions and stuff.” She pressed in the tack, then turned carefully atop the stool to look down at Mr. Kramer. “Some are even really good friends of Dad’s, guys I’ve known forever. Almost none of them are weird. In fact, they seem more normal and well-adjusted than most people I’ve known.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“I know. You’d think they’d be raving lunatics, wouldn’t you?”
“Or at least slightly weird.”
“You know what isweird? Nearly all of them I know have this incredible sense of humor. They’re always cracking me up.”
The Stake Page 21
