Murder is My Racquet

by Otto Penzler

  Webber tried. He fixed on Roy Duchamps, unblinking. When the next serve came, he was all over it and then some. His return took off as if he’d launched it. He heard Duchamps chuckling as the ball sailed overhead and kept sailing well out of bounds.

  “Dang if that ain’t a home run,” Duchamps drawled.

  “Deuce,” called the ump.

  From there, Webber made a long, slow slide downhill. His timing was off, everything was. Known for his incredible gets, he now failed to reach easy obvious shots. When he did get his racquet on the ball, he either overhit or smashed the return into the net. His limbs felt leaden. Bats of doubt swooped in his mind, broad wings flapping.

  Duchamps took full advantage. He battled back stroke by stroke, game after humiliating game. Soon the score was tied, and then Roy claimed the lead. At some point, the crowd arced over into his camp, heaping their collective energy on the swamp rat. Eventually, even the umpire seemed to slide toward Roy’s side of the lopsided equation, handing him close calls and encouraging comments.

  Webber had all he could do to finish the match. When it was mercifully over, he forced himself to shake Duchamps’s damp, calloused hand and trade a brave grimace for the swamp rat’s twisted smile. “Good game,” Webber mumbled without feeling.

  “Was, wasn’t it?” Duchamps crowed.

  Webber spotted Earl Emerson in the departing crush and rode a burst of fury to catch up with him. His voice quaked with rage. “Goddamnit, Earl. You cost me the match. You broke my stride with that superstitious crap and made me lose.”

  “Hush, Bobby. Watch out. She’ll hear.” He tipped his head toward the edge of the straggling crowd, where the dark woman from the bench was lumbering toward the parking lot.

  The Beaumont campus had been carved from an old plantation in the French Quarter, hard by the Mississippi. The boys crossed a sprawling green flanked by iron-terraced guest quarters that had been converted to classroom space and the main house, which now held the chapel and administration offices. Earl refused to speak again until they reached the senior dorm, a two-story tomblike building of indeterminate origin, which was rumored to have served as a dungeon and torture chamber for recalcitrant slaves.

  Outside Webber’s room, Emerson peered up and down the dim corridor. Slipping inside, he double-locked the door. “Wish it was crap, Bobby. Honest.”

  Webber hopped on the bed with his hands behind his neck. “I’m listening, and it better be good.”

  Slumped on the desk chair, Earl shook his head miserably. “Can’t talk about it. I do, and I’m toast.”

  “You don’t and I’ll toast you, Emerson. Now shoot.”

  Desperation pinched Earl’s tone. “Smarter not to say anything. Honest. Never can tell who could be listening. What they might do.”

  “Maybe not. But you can imagine what I’ll do, dickhead. Now, talk!”

  Emerson sighed mightily. “All right. I’ll say what I can, but you got to promise not to tell anyone you got it from me.”

  “Shoot, Earl. I mean it. I’m running out of patience fast.”

  Earl raked through his spiky hay-toned hair. “That old witch calls herself Maman Mechant. Means nasty mother in French, and that’s just what she is. She does voodoo. Works these real nasty spells.”

  Webber snickered. “No problem. I’ve got a drawer full of kryptonite. Never leave home without some.”

  “Can’t blame you for figuring it’s bunk. But trust me, Bobby. Be a shame for you to learn it the hard way. Like me.” Emerson rubbed the wormy web of scars between his right thumb and forefinger.

  Webber sat and pitched forward. He had been dying for an opening to ask about Earl’s deformity. “Are you saying she had something to do with that?”

  “Caused it.”

  “Yeah? How?”

  Earl rubbed harder at the scabrous flap of skin. “Back in ninth grade, I was on the team. Not just a gofer like now. Had me a real good serve. Killer lob and a wicked net shot. Gave old Roy a run for his money a time or two. Came precious close to beating him, which Maman Mechant didn’t like one bit.”

  “What’s it to her?”

  “Way I hear it, she and Roy’s folks go way back, used to be neighbors over in Slidell. Lived right on the bayou and got from here to there on those flat-bottom boats called pirogues. One time, Roy’s daddy saved Maman’s youngest boy from drowning when he fell overboard trying to catch a fish, so she believes she owes Roy. If anyone threatens to get in his way, Maman fixes it so they don’t.”

  “Do you honestly expect me to believe that old woman hurt your hand with some spell?”

  “I’m telling you what is. This one day, I had Roy near beat. All sudden like, it started raining something fierce, so the ump said we should pack it up and finish the next morning.

  “That night, I went down to dinner. It was still pretty nasty out, so I went to get myself a nice hot mess of gumbo from the crock. I was holding the bowl in one hand and spooning with the other when out of nowhere I get this monster cramp in my gut. Next thing I know I’m flat on the floor and my right hand is burning like crazy, screaming pain. Doc checked me out head to toe, found nothing wrong except the burn. But that was more than enough. Thing wouldn’t heal for the longest time, and then it scarred over all weird and knobby, like you see. That was it for me and tennis. Can barely hold a racquet with this ugly mitt.” Emerson’s chest heaved. “Used to fancy I’d maybe be a tennis star someday. Pretty rich, huh?”

  Webber cradled his own right hand protectively. “That sucks, Earl. But what makes you think the old woman had anything to do with it?”

  “Maman told me so, that’s what. I’m walking after class a couple of weeks after the accident, and she comes up right out of nowhere. No one goes after my boy, she tells me. You stay away from Roy, or I’ll tie you up way worse than the belly cramps next time. Worse than you can imagine, boy. You hear?”

  Webber sniffed. “So she found out you had a cramp and she decided to spook you. Doesn’t prove a thing, Earl. How gullible can you be?”

  “Hear me out, Bobby. I heard tell there were other kids she’d hurt. Back in first grade, there was this boy named Freddy Fenold. Dorky kid with a temper, he was. Anyway, he got into a fight with Duchamps over something or the other. Next day, Freddy trips in a gopher hole and breaks his back. Spent six months in the hospital, strapped to a frame. Poor kid’s still all twisted up, I’m told. Can’t hardly walk.”

  “Sounds like a rotten accident, Earl. Nothing more.”

  “Maybe so, but after that was Stevie Krulwich, who accused Roy of cheating on a spelling test and got a ruptured appendix for his trouble. Then came Pete Cady a couple of years later.”

  “The deaf kid?”

  “Wasn’t always,” Earl said gravely. “Pete couldn’t abide Roy for some reason, picked on him something awful. This one afternoon, he goes into town to buy himself some gum. On the way back, he kicks at a lump of dirt at the side of the road. Turns out to be a live grenade. Nobody knows how it got there, but Maman let Pete know he had her to thank. Of course, Pete couldn’t hear anymore after that grenade blew up in his face, but he could read her lips, clear as day.”

  Webber hunched behind hard-crossed arms. “It’s nothing but talk, Earl, rumors. Every school has stories like those. I bet that old lady is harmless.”

  “There’ve been others, Bobby, plenty more. Kids just don’t get sick like that, one after another, sick and hurt.”

  Webber sniffed. “That’s it? That’s your whole stupid story?”

  Emerson caught his lip behind a fence of chipped, yellowed teeth. “I said way too much already.”

  “You said plenty of nothing. You’ve got some major nerve costing me a match over that.” Webber rose to leave. He crossed the floor in three long strides before he realized this was his room after all. “Get the hell out of here,” he ordered. “Being around you is giving me worse than a cramp.”

  The chair squealed as Earl got to his feet. “That’s fine, Bobby. Yo
u go on and be mad as you please. Just be careful is all I’m asking. Craig Sichel wouldn’t listen. And now…” Earl’s voice sank to a mournful plaint as he headed out the door. “If only he’d taken it serious, like I begged him to.”

  “What are you talking about, Earl? Who’s Craig Sichel? What happened to him? Get back here and tell me!”

  The door thwacked shut, and Emerson’s flat footsteps slapped away down the hall. Webber thought to follow and wring the story out of Earl’s chicken neck, but he had a better idea. If you wanted to know the facts about anything around here, there was only one place to go.

  Darwin Fassberg, a wiry, weasel-faced boy, lived one floor up at the end of the hall. His room was triple the size of Webber’s and boasted a pond view, kitchenette, and private bath. Normally, the prime space was assigned to a resident dorm counselor or faculty member, but Fassberg was a very special case.

  Darwin was a bona fide genius whose chosen field of intellectual endeavor was the care and acquisition of wealth. Early on, he’d shown prodigious aptitude for investing, parlaying his allowance, birthday, and bar mitzvah gifts into a portfolio rumored to be worth a megabuck or more. While other parents bragged about little Johnny’s A in arithmetic, Fassberg’s folks proudly reported that their Darwin, at the tender age of eight, had talked them into buying one thousand shares of Cisco, which, after splits, had swelled to a tidy $12 million.

  Naturally, numerous schools had vied for Fassberg’s attendance. Beaumont Academy snagged him with a full scholarship, a self-guided curriculum, and the novel promise that he would be the first student in academy history to hold a voting seat on the board of directors. In assuming that post, Fassberg’s first official act had been to engineer the modification of the school’s charter, allowing him to declare his dorm room a fully autonomous sovereign state. Next, he helped reinvest Beaumont’s endowment fund, increasing it by 58 percent in a year.

  Webber read the long list of rules and prohibitions on Fassberg’s door. As prescribed, he tapped his initials on the wall-mounted keypad, pressed his thumb to the fingerprint scanner, and then waited. Several minutes later, a buzzer sounded, which meant he was free to enter.

  Then, not free exactly.

  Fassberg perched on a throne-sized leather chair beside a gunmetal strongbox. Clustered behind him were gilt-framed portraits of his heroes: Bill Gates, Donald Trump, the sultan of Brunei, and the James brothers. He wore a T-shirt embroidered with his guiding principle: A buck for anything and anything for a buck.

  “Hey, Darwin. Got a minute? I need to ask you something.”

  “You have entered Darwinia, Mr. Webber. Before we proceed, you’re required to pay the border tax. For a short midweek stay, that will be fifty Fassbergmas.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Coin of the realm. If you happen to be financially embarrassed at the moment, our bank can arrange a loan for 22 percent, compounded daily.”

  “I’ve got a Visa card.”

  “Sorry, we do not accept credit or debit cards. But we can take U.S. currency. Of course, there is a commission and handling charge.” Rising, he tapped some calculations into the laptop computer on his desk. “Unfortunately, the dollar is way down against the Fassbergma. At the current exchange rate, that will be twenty-two dollars and fifty cents.”

  Webber emptied his pockets on the chrome and glass coffee table. Fassberg eyed the money with adoration. “Now then, what is the nature of your inquiry?”

  Webber perched on one of the low, stern wooden guest chairs. “I heard a rumor about kids here getting hurt by voodoo spells, Darwin. Some creepy old woman who hangs around the tennis courts supposedly does them. You know about this?”

  “Certainly. It’s common knowledge.”

  “But it’s not true, just nonsense. Right?”

  Fassberg shrugged. “For as long as I’ve been here, the woman known as Maman Mechant has taken credit for a series of serious mishaps involving Beaumont students. Of course, no one can say as a certainty whether her spells are causative or simply coincidental.”

  “What do you think? You’re the genius.”

  Fassberg stroked his pointy chin. “Quite honestly, I try not to think about her at all. But then, given that I’m not a tennis player or any threat whatsoever to Roy Duchamps, I don’t need to worry about it, thank the Lord.”

  “You’re scared of her? I didn’t think you were scared of anything but inflation and margin calls.”

  “Scared is an overstatement, Mr. Webber. I’m simply suggesting that it can’t hurt to be vigilant. Presume the worst and take sensible precautions. I rarely counsel defensive behavior, but in this case, I see it as the only rational tactic.”

  Webber had expected cool reassurance, nothing like this. “I don’t get it. Why didn’t anyone warn me about that old witch before I came here?”

  “That’s obvious, isn’t it? The last thing Beaumont Academy needs is for a thing like that to get out. As you can imagine, it would not exactly elevate the school’s desirability or standing. The administration keeps waiting and hoping for the old lady to die or for Roy Duchamps to graduate, which he will, one way or the other, at the end of the year.”

  “But why can’t they just get rid of her, bar her from the campus?”

  “That’s obvious, too. Banishing her would be tantamount to acknowledging her powers, admitting that she has caused all the misery and death.”

  “Somebody died?”

  Fassberg shuddered. “Appalling incident. Happened about a year ago. A junior named Craig Sichel was one point away from taking Duchamps’s crown. Suddenly, he clutched his chest and keeled over, foaming at the mouth. He turned this awful shade of gray, twitching and heaving. I’ll never forget the sight. It’s positively emblazoned in my memory. Almost as tragic and shocking as when they broke up Microsoft.”

  Webber nipped his cuticle hard and tasted blood. “He could have had a heart condition or something. Kids do.”

  “Certainly he could have, but signs point to the cause of death as highly unnatural. The autopsy report was circulated at a board meeting. Sichel’s heart ruptured, exploded like a tossed tomato, unheard of in a strapping, healthy kid like Craig. Furthermore, he had been through a comprehensive physical only two weeks before, including an EKG and thoracic ultrasound. His heart was fine until that voodoo woman worked her grotesque spell.”

  Picturing Sichel’s exploding heart, Webber went woozy. “What should I do?”

  “If you want my honest opinion, the only fail-safe response would be to leave school. Back in New York you would not be forced to compete against Roy Duchamps. Maman Mechant would have no incentive to harm you.”

  “I can’t do that, Fassberg. My parents are the best. They’ve sacrificed so much for me. If I left now, they’d lose all that tuition money.”

  “Better than losing their son. Is it not?”

  Webber shook his head with terrified resolve. “There has to be some other way.”

  Fassberg frowned. “Nothing nearly as foolproof, to be sure. But as a minimum precaution, you must make absolutely sure she doesn’t get her hands on any strings or anything stringlike that belongs to you. Apparently, she requires a person’s strings to work her spells. Weaves them into her knitting and then—”

  Webber remembered Emerson grabbing for the shoelace. Who knows what hideous agony had been averted. “Sure. I can do that.”

  Fassberg looked doubtful. “That old woman is very devious, Mr. Webber. You must never underestimate the power of such evil determination.”

  “I won’t, Darwin. Thanks for your time.”

  Fassberg pressed the button beside his high-backed chair, releasing the electronic door lock. “I hope you enjoyed your visit to Darwinia. Travel safely, and remember: No strings.”

  No strings.

  Those words looped incessantly through Webber’s mind. He picked at his dinner and found it impossible to study for the pop quiz Mr. Larson gave every Thursday in chemistry. He spent hours going ove
r and over everything in his room, locking anything that resembled a string in his closet.

  Sleep hurled him into a cauldron of hideous imaginings. He dreamed he was trapped in a giant web, massive living strings enfolding him, squeezing out his breath. Escaping that, he was thrust into a dense, suffocating forest, unable to move without razor thorns raking at his flesh, drawing bloody strings along his limbs. Several times, he wrenched awake with his heart stampeding and his sheets drenched with nervous sweat.

  In the morning he felt wretched and dull. He brushed and flossed and showered in a fog. He nearly fell asleep in class and drew a total blank on the chemistry quiz. Lunch revived him somewhat, but he anticipated the afternoon’s practice with cold metal dread. He and Alex Caden were scheduled to play doubles against Roy Duchamps and Brian Beck. Normally, he would relish the challenge, but there was nothing normal about any of this.

  He thought of pleading sick, which was hardly a lie, but Hardeman did not accept excuses short of death or dismemberment. The coach was not what anyone would call easygoing. If a player disappointed him, he’d rip out the kid’s ego and stomp it to dust. Falling into that man’s disfavor terrified Webber almost as much as Maman Mechant and her evil spells.

  In the boy’s room, Webber caught a glimpse of himself and scowled. Dusky circles rimmed his eyes and his skin had the sickly cast of wet cement. He turned the tap on full and splashed his cheeks with cold water. The shock jarred a few of his brain cells, stirring a useful idea. All he had to do was lose. Unless he threatened Duchamps’s crown, the old woman would have no reason to target him for an injury or worse. Staying in second place at Beaumont would not be the end of him. Webber could still go on to play in college and work his way into national competition from there.

  Beck, Duchamps, and Caden were warming up on court one when Webber arrived. A few spectators were scattered in the bleachers, but fortunately, there was no sign of Maman Mechant. Coach Hardeman finished up a sophomore practice, and then strode over to their court.

  Cords bulged in the coach’s neck as Hardeman unleashed his mighty temper at Alex Caden. “I got my eye on you, you lazy little slug. You show me something, or I’ll show you the door. Win this practice, or you can kiss your scholarship goodbye. There is no free lunch here. You read me?”