The Consultant

by Sean Oliver

  Jared walked around the room flipping open the doors to the laptop carts, but most were empty, having already been distributed to the staff. The few he found didn’t have serial numbers that matched Trisha’s. If Calhoun didn’t want the laptop found, she could have shoved it somewhere else, out of sight. Maybe her desk.

  Deanna had never mentioned Calhoun when lamenting Trisha’s difficulties with staff. Oh, Calhoun was difficult by nature, though so far she hadn’t directed that negative energy in the specific targeting of Trisha and Deanna. But Jared was aware that Doris Calhoun was quietly becoming a larger figure in the lives of nearly all the teachers.

  Jared cruised around her desk, looking at the plain-sight items that gave a window into one of the more interesting people in the building. There wasn’t much, nothing really of a personal nature. Any picture frames that used to be on the desk were gone, and he thought he remembered some oddball trinkets, frog figurines and shit, ringing the perimeter of her seating area. It was pretty barren now, though.

  There were plenty of work-related papers, schedules and the like. The monthly school calendar was done and sitting in the printer tray, complete with color-coded boxes indicating days off, meetings, workshops, and school events. She was obsessively detail oriented and it looked pretty good, he admitted—so well organized. He withdrew the calendar from the inkjet printer sitting on the corner of her desk and looked for upcoming days off.

  There was another printout laying below the calendar in the printer tray. The Google Maps logo sat atop the page, and below that was a list of turn-by-turn directions. It was a noteworthy find in this day of GPS capabilities on everyone’s cell phone. Calhoun probably loved the meticulous prompts, complete with the distance of each step in the trip printed beside the direction, down to the tenth of a mile. Either that or she wouldn’t be using a cell phone for her trip.

  Jared felt the rolling waves start up his spine, branching out at his shoulders, across his back and up his neck. He closed his eyes, squeezed them shut. He tried to block whatever was coursing through his blood from hitting his head. He was fighting to keep his wits—a fight he’d been losing lately when that smoky feeling wafted through his body.

  He was staring down at the printout with the directions. They headed south—he was seeing the words Turnpike, then Delaware. He began to crumple the sheet in his hand, which was closing into a fist. Jared’s entire body was tensing to fight off the Smoke.

  But why was it coming now, in that moment? He was trying to find the trigger, which was usually talk of school or the wedding. Lately the feeling had been overtaking him more frequently, at times without noticeable provocation. This seemed one of those times. He needed to look for that laptop.

  The swell of numbness was cut short by the sound of keys in the hallway, right near the doorway. Sounded like a lot of keys jangling together, maybe Willie. Maybe not. He couldn’t be seen snooping around in there by him or anyone else.

  Jared moved to an open closet door to get out of sight. He edged his body inside. The shelves in the closet extended right out to the door frame; there was no room for his body fit into the closet entirely, so he pressed his back against the shelves and pulled the door to his chest, which forced it ajar a couple of inches.

  He sucked himself in, thinning his already narrow frame even more. He barely breathed. His chest tapped the door with each inhale. He listened—he could hear the room, but it was competing with the sounds of his own breath.

  The sound of the keys was now inside the library and moving across the room. Then they got plunked down onto something, a desk probably.

  Shit.

  It was probably Calhoun. She bounced around the building a lot, setting up equipment and delivering periodicals. She’d probably be on her way out on another errand before long. He could wait it out. Even if Calhoun stayed in the large library, there were lots of places in the room she might park herself that wouldn’t have a view of the closet. Jared could make a break for it if she sat with her back to him, or went behind a bookcase. Until then he’d just freeze, stay quiet and still.

  Crinkle. The damn directions were still in his hand.

  The sound of the paper caused all movement in the library to stop. He was made. He heard nothing out there any longer.

  He peeked out. He could only see a sliver of the library and it offered no clue as to where the visitor was. Jared wanted to lean closer to the crack to see more of the room. The door was right up against him and he knew that his moving even a centimeter would nudge the door.

  He kept his body still and tilted his head, bringing it down against his left shoulder. His eyes got closer to the crack; he still saw no one.

  The door then slammed into Jared’s face so hard someone might have thrown their entire body against it from the other side. It shut and pressed Jared’s back into the shelves. Flashes of tiny, white specs danced across his closed eyelids after the impact. He grimaced, but fought groaning. They didn’t necessarily know he was there. Maybe someone just shut the door. Hard.

  He remained frozen and kept silent. It was totally quiet other than his breathing, now a struggle, and the gritting of his teeth from the pain. He wouldn’t be able to see anything now. The crack in the door might’ve been narrow, but it allowed him to hear the room, and he probably could have worked his face into the crack and seen out.

  For a little while he didn’t hear any sounds of life in the library—no footsteps, no keys, no chairs. But then a voice, right on the other side of the closet door.

  “What do you have in your hand?” Calhoun asked.

  Jared remained still, his ribcage stinging from being pressed against a shelf edge. He said nothing.

  “What do you have in your hand?”

  She wouldn’t leave, wouldn’t just drop this. She had him. He was pinned underfoot like an insect, and she would no doubt relish the power. But he still didn’t make a noise or offer any words.

  “I think I have caught an intruder,” Calhoun said. “I think you broke into my room and took something you are not supposed to have. I think you are trying to take something and do us great harm.” Jared could probably just end this by speaking. He could tell her about this mistake—his coming into the room to ask for printer ink maybe, not finding her, and looking in the closet. She’d slammed him in there like an animal before asking what he needed.

  But she knew he held that printout, and she knew he wasn’t there for ink.

  “It’s me, Jared,” he said through strained breaths. He waited.

  “And what do you want, Jared?”

  He thought about the ink, a bunch of other things. But that feeling he got when he held those directions told him he couldn’t bullshit his way out of something that had them both, had them all, thinking the same, acting the same. So he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

  “Should I call for help?” she asked. “Are you a threat?”

  “No.” He needed out. He could barely breathe and his head was throbbing. “Of course not.”

  The doorknob jiggled and the door crept open. Calhoun was standing several feet from it, looking at Jared. He slumped over, cradled his chest, and stepped out of the closet into the room.

  “Stay there,” Calhoun said. Jared stopped. She stepped toward him.

  “Tomorrow there is a very important session with Mr. Albrecht. You will be there, won’t you?”

  Jared was still slumped and didn’t quite have the air to bring himself upright.

  “Why are you asking me this?”

  “Because I have an inkling you might not want to be there. Several of us have that inkling, matter of fact. But we expect you will attend.”

  He came up and leaned back against the doorframe. He looked at Calhoun, into her eyes. They were locked and steady, fixed on his. She was serious as a heart attack, glaring through him.

  “And we expect a certain someone not to attend,” Calhoun said. “Will you handle that?”

  Did she want an answer? Was he
answerable to her? He’d been fighting that Smoke but it still took him at times. There were occasions he’d fallen into it and done what it demanded, went where it led. Many times he’d wrestled it back down into the deep center of himself, but there were times it was stronger.

  Still and all, was he really answerable to Doris Calhoun?

  “Doris,” he said, gaining his composure and stepping very close to her, leaning down to breathe on her face. “If I wanted to kill you right now, with these hands, I could. Any workshop that you feel is very important would cease to matter if I wrapped my hands around your throat at this moment.” He was holding them at chest level, open and spread.

  Calhoun swallowed hard and raised her chin in a sign of defiance, but Jared could see her hands shaking. She was scared but didn’t want that to be seen.

  “So leave me the fuck alone,” he said as he went to leave.

  He was stopped as she grabbed the long, curled sheet of paper in his hand as he passed. He didn’t release it, and the two of them stood there, each holding an end of her printed directions. Her eyes were still locked on his.

  “Will you handle it?” she repeated. Jared went to pull away, but she held on to the paper.

  “Get someone else to handle it.”

  “I will.”

  He released his end of the paper and left the room, rubbing his chest.

  THIRTY

  “I CAN TELL time just fine,” Deanna said. Mariana was on the other side of the counter in the main office, shaking her head.

  “Give her a break, Deanna,” Lorenzo said from his desk. “She’s doing her job. When you’re late, you have to get written up.” He shrugged sympathetically at her. Deanna bit her tongue and decided against any diatribe about Trisha and the building of weirdos. She tapped her fingers on the counter and waited for Mariana to finish the form that would have to be signed by her father, no doubt.

  Good. She could give him an earful then, starting with the lateness write-up, but continuing with Moore, the creepy guard, and the missing laptop.

  What about that laptop? George said he didn’t know anything about it when Deanna was talking with him on the intercom. She was too worked up before to address it.

  She watched Mariana continue to write her up for returning late from lunch.

  “Mariana,” Deanna began, “if I had something stolen from my room, what form would security use to write that up?”

  “Trying to set a record for the most paperwork in one day?”

  Deanna was in no mood. She turned to Lorenzo.

  “Okay, let’s see if you’re a douche bag today. What form would security use, Lorenzo?” He sighed.

  “A regular incident report, probably. But, listen, don’t talk to her like—”

  “And after it got written up, where would it go?” Deanna asked.

  Mariana finished the paper and slid it toward Deanna.

  “Here,” she said. “To answer your question, any official report would come here to me, then would be signed by the principal. Like this one will be after you sign here, acknowledging that you fucked up.” She glared at Deanna. “I might have considered throwing it out after you signed, but I’ll do the douche bag thing instead and turn it in.”

  Deanna knew it was best to grab the pen and sign. She’d seen the fiery Latina go at it before with parents, teachers, and even Fat George. She wasn’t going to push it.

  As Deanna signed, Mariana slid her hands across the counter, onto Deanna’s. Her writing slowed, her hand freezing when Mariana’s began gently caressing it.

  “We love you, Deanna,” Mariana said, just above a whisper. “We are going to miss you.” She locked onto Deanna’s eyes as she slid her hands away. Mariana then turned and went back to her desk. She worked and didn’t look back up to Deanna, who stood at the counter, unsure what to say or do. Lorenzo had gone back to work, as well. It was as if she no longer existed.

  She looked past them to her father’s open door. She wanted to tell him about the laptop and find out about the missing form. It was obviously Moore who never turned it in, or Mariana and Lorenzo who never gave it to her father. Who had it in for Trisha more? It was yet even more messed up behavior occurring in the building.

  Deanna charged around the counter and toward George’s door. She stomped past Mariana and Lorenzo’s desks, neither of whom raised their heads to acknowledge her. She kept going.

  She went into her father’s office, her mouth open and ready to fire. She stopped short when she saw the room was empty. He’d likely be back before long. She’d gone that far already—she would sit and wait. The substitute that Mariana threw into her room when Deanna was late from lunch could just stay in there a little longer. This was more important than ten minutes of adding decimals, so she dropped into a guest seat across from George’s desk.

  She scanned the room from her chair—photos with George and students in graduation caps and gowns, books on administration, books on success and proposed magic dances to entice it, and stacks and stacks of paperwork. Neat piles of folders and forms created a mini skyline on top of the cabinet just behind her father’s desk. The center pile had something shoved in the middle of the tower of folders, though, causing a disjointed break in the sharp edge of the structure.

  It looked like a laptop.

  Deanna leaned forward and looked out the door to Mariana and Lorenzo, still working. She got up and walked toward George’s desk, closing his office door on the way. She went behind the desk and slid the closed laptop out of the pile.

  There were laptops all over the building, in every room. The thing likely caught her eye because she’d been thinking about Trisha’s laptop, the incident with the security guard, and their place in the whole disappearance.

  Abduction, not disappearance. She was sure of it.

  Deanna felt the butterflies begin to flutter as she opened the laptop—the laptop that would probably prove to be just one of many in the building. It would be proven not to be a pawn in any crime, but just a tool for school. Sure, Trisha had one, but so did Deanna, and the dozens of other teachers in the building. The office had a few. Fat George had one.

  It powered on and hummed its opening chime. The logo appeared in the center of the screen.

  Why was it shoved in the middle of the folders? Can’t type on it in there.

  The screen went black after the initial boot up, then a login window appeared, a cursor flashing in the password field.

  Hundreds of laptops—dozens in the library, dozens filling carts throughout building. Hell, Jared had to have fifty of these in his classroom alone. How does a single, solitary laptop make its way into the principal’s office and get shoved under paperwork?

  All of the thoughts that blew around Deanna’s head were so distracting it took her a good few seconds to see the username sitting in the corresponding field. The letters mcallistertri filled the username field, which sat above a checked box marked Remember Me.

  THIRTY-ONE

  “JUST PAGED HIM,” Mariana said to Detective O’Malley, who waited in a visitor seat in the main office. “Give him a minute.”

  O’Malley gave her a thumbs up and stood. He wandered past the bulletin board of school announcements. There were district job postings, newspaper clippings, and a couple of birth announcements with baby photos. Beside the board were the teachers’ mailbox cubbies with a last name below each compartment. O’Malley took a legal pad out of his bag and, as discretely as possible, began to write each last name.

  “I can print you a list,” Mariana said from behind the counter. Nothing got by her in the office.

  “They don’t always match up,” O’Malley said. “People come and go. Rosters are behind sometimes.”

  “Not mine.”

  He turned from the mailboxes and looked at her.

  “I’m sure. No disrespect meant.” He smiled at her. She managed the slightest of smirks, and got back to sorting some papers on her desk while he got back to the mailboxes. He was putting check marks
beside the names he remembered meeting and interviewing. He’d more formally cross-reference that with his notes later, but he had a pretty good memory and this saved some time. He’d only gotten sixteen names into the list when he heard a door open behind the counter.

  “Detective?” George said from the doorway. “Come on in.”

  O’Malley reached down onto the chair, grabbed his shoulder bag, and made his way to George’s office. They shook hands and the detective took a seat as George closed the office door.

  “How are things progressing?” George asked.

  “Not exactly lightning speed.”

  “How can we help?”

  “I need to see some more teachers and I want to re-interview some I already spoke with.”

  “Okay, sure. Anything wrong?”

  “Other than the missing girl?” He half smiled at George.

  “Anything wrong here?”

  “On any given day, Trisha McAllister was either here or at home. Her world was small. And not much was going on at home from what we hear. No men. No women, for that matter.” He looked at George.

  “Understood. Where would you like to start?”

  “Since I’m here,” O’Malley said as he gestured to George and flipped a page on his legal pad. “I had a teacher come to me with some concerns that Trisha may have been subject to some workplace bullying. You get wind of any of that?”

  “No. I spoke with her not long before she went missing and asked her how things were going since her transfer. She didn’t tell me anything like that.”

  “Do you think she would have?” He watched George think about that. “You know…with the ramifications of reporting that kind of thing.”

  “I actually do think she would have. She and my daughter are friends. She’d be comfortable with me, I would think.”

  “You sense any bullying in the building? You’d be able to tell, don’t you think?”

  “I probably would. Trisha was real quiet, though.”