by Shawn Inmon
Thomas reached for the lunchbox and smiled.
Three minutes later, he walked back into his classroom.
Anthony Massey sniggered, “Hope everything came out all right.”
Two hours later, Thomas walked into the cafeteria, grabbed a tray, and went through the food line. He didn’t bother to look at the menu. It didn’t matter. He was there for the floor show.
He took his tray to the back corner, where Carrie awaited. Thomas sat down across from her, a broad smile on his face.
“Thomas, I have never seen you smile like that. It’s a little frightening.”
He raised his eyebrows, but the smile remained. “So, what’s up?”
“What’s up, yourself? What have you done?”
Thomas reached inside his jacket and pulled out the folded piece of paper with the locker combinations. “Here you go. Thank you very much.”
Carrie's look rebuked him, but she said nothing. She got out her bologna sandwich and apple.
If I opened the refrigerator in her house, wonder if it would just be stacked with bologna sandwich makings and apples.
Michael Hollister came in through the double doors and headed to a vacant seat in the middle of the lunch room, newspaper tucked under one arm. It didn’t matter where he sat. Like Carrie, Michael had always eaten alone.
He unfolded the newspaper and opened it to the business section, then unzipped the lunch box. He removed a sandwich baggie, a bag of Fritos, and a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups candy bar. He opened the Fritos and ate a few, then slipped the sandwich out of the baggie and took one big bite.
Thomas leaned right, making sure of his field of vision.
A look of horror spread across Michael’s face. He spit the half-chewed bite out onto the table, then pulled the bread apart. When he saw what was inside, his hand flew to his mouth.
It was a futile gesture.
Michael projectile-vomited across the table, directly into Freddy Jimson's lap. Marti Taylor, sitting adjacent, sustained some collateral damage. As Michael’s head drooped, Freddy and Marti leaped out of their chairs.
Michael raised his head and vomited again. Freddy and Marti were fortunate they had taken such decisive action, because this time Michael christened both their vacant seats.
Every eye in the room was on Michael. The sound of conversation, silverware scraping plates, everything, faded to dead silence. The only sound was the soft swoosh of the industrial dishwashers in the back, cleaning trays.
Michael wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Even from some distance, Thomas could see the one word that he mouthed.
Weaver.
Michael stood shakily and scanned the room until he found Thomas. Michael fixed him with eyes that held a thing Thomas had heard and read about, but never seen in the flesh.
That is the face of murder. The real deal, as in first degree premeditated.
“What have you done?” whispered Carrie.
Chapter Thirty
AT 11:00 FRIDAY night, Thomas stood at the corner of Periwinkle and Hyacinth, staring up at the street signs.
She’s right, isn’t she? Who named these streets, anyway? An interior designer?
Just then, the headlights of Carrie’s Pinto turned the corner. Thomas picked up his bag and waved.
Carrie turned to him as soon as he closed the passenger door. “What in the heck did you do to Michael Hollister?”
Thomas squirmed. “Aren’t we going?”
“Not until you answer my question. What did you do?”
“Well, I told you what he did to Amy, right? This morning, I let Amy out in the front yard to do her business before school. When I let her in, though, I picked up one of the presents she left behind, put it in a bag, and took it to school. In first period, I went to his locker and spread the turd around on his sandwich."
“You didn’t!”
“You saw his reaction, right? What else do you think would cause that.”
Carrie couldn't stifle a giggle. “But, my God, Thomas. Did you see the look he gave you?”
Thomas shrugged. “Yeah. I admit, I was immediately a little sorry I had done it. Just for a moment. Now, I remember he's got a lot more than that coming.”
“He’s going to do something to you. He’s going to get even.”
“I don’t let Amy outside any more without watching her. What’s he going to do? I don’t think he’s going to kill me.”
Carrie put the Pinto in gear and pulled slowly back onto the street.
A few seconds after she turned the corner, a blue Karmann Ghia turned its lights on and followed, far enough behind that it wouldn’t be noticed.
Chapter Thirty-One
ONCE THEY WERE inside the church, Carrie said, “Come on, Thomas, I hate surprises. What’s in the bag?”
I love that she calls me Thomas, instead of Tommy. In so many ways, she is the only person that really knows me.
“We may be too old to be hanging out with a bunch of teenagers at Prom, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have a little party of our own.”
Thomas set the bag down on one of the pews. He pulled out a small, battery-powered cassette player, turned it on, then hit Play. Bread's Make it With You started to play.
He reached back in the bag, pulled out half a dozen small candles and a pack of matches. He sat the candles around them, one on each of the pews, and lit them. Dim light glowed from them, casting shadows like ghosts dancing in a cemetery.
Next, he pulled out a small comforter that Anne normally kept draped over the back of the couch. He laid it out flat on the floor. Finally, he pulled two cans of coke out with a ceremonial flourish, opened them both, and offered Carrie one.
“I know it’s not much, but this was the best I could do with—“
Carrie reached her hand out and touched Thomas’s lips. “Hush.” She kissed him. The world kept turning, but for the two of them, it stopped for several long moments.
When the kiss finally broke, Thomas said, “Whoa. You’ve never kissed me like that before.”
“I’ve never felt like this before.”
When they finally left, an hour before the sun came up, they were not followed.
Chapter Thirty-Two
LATE SUNDAY MORNING, Thomas stood in the front yard, watching Amy as she wandered around, re-investigating the smells she had already sampled a thousand times. He looked up and down the quiet street.
Feels like we pushed our luck a little bit last night, staying out so late, but it was oh, so worth it. Feels like I can still feel her lips, though.
In homeroom Monday morning, Michael Hollister was again not in his normal seat.
Carrie caught Thomas’s eye, glanced at the empty seat, then back at Thomas. His attempt at a devil-may-care smile came out a sheepish grin.
Michael Hollister was absent from school for the rest of the week. Rumors spread throughout the school: he had contracted one or more terrible diseases and was in the hospital dying, or that he had been so humiliated that he had moved out of state, or that the whole thing had been filmed for an episode of Candid Camera. That one was a favorite of the kids, all hoping to be on TV except for Freddy Jimson and Marti Taylor, who hoped to God there was nothing to the Candid Camera rumor. By the end of the week, the story was stale. The whole thing had begun to settle into Middle Falls High lore.
At the end of lunch on Friday, as Carrie stood to leave, she finally said the words Thomas had been waiting to hear. “Ten o’clock?”
I think Mom’s working the late shift tonight. Easy. Thomas nodded, the grin spreading into a smile on his face. He watched her walk away into the mass of students.
Is she slumping less? I think she is. She’s either happy and having a harder time being miserable, or her self-control is slipping. Either way, I like it.
As it turned out, Anne was not working the late shift, but awaited Thomas and Zack at home. Dinner was already on the table. As they sat down, Anne slipped a thick slab of meatloaf onto his plate. “I�
��ve got a surprise for you boys.”
Thomas and Zack looked at each other. Parental surprises were so seldom a good thing.
“Don’t look so petrified! I just want to take my two handsome men on a little date. When I was driving home from work this afternoon, I saw that Logan’s Run was playing at The Pickwick. Remember? We saw the commercials for it, and you both said you wanted to see it? This is your lucky night. My treat, including popcorn.”
“Umm…what time is it playing?” Thomas asked.
“Why? Got a hot date? Other than your old mom, that is?" Yes, Mom, as a matter of fact. "The marquee said that the movie starts at eight, so we should probably get there about 7:45. It’s supposed to be pretty popular, and we don’t want to end up sitting all the way up front.”
So two hours, starting at eight. Won't be over until ten. I'm going to be late to my date with Carrie. We did think it through, and we have a plan if I can't make it, but I'd rather make it than go out with Mom and Zack.
Anne’s face fell. “I thought you would be excited to see it.”
Thomas forced a smile. “Oh, I am, Mom. Just thinking of some homework I have to do this weekend. Can’t wait to see the movie.”
Anne narrowed her eyes. “Okay, then. Let’s eat up and do the dishes, then we can go. If we hurry, we can drive through the A&W and get us all root beer floats.”
Mmmm. Meatloaf and root beer floats. I wonder what fine wine would pair with that?
I feel like a shitty son, though. She's trying so hard, being a much better parent than I ever was an adult on any level, and I bet Zack doesn't want it any more than I do. I don’t need to be a jerk. “Sounds great, Mom.”
“This is cool, Mom," echoed Zack. "We’ll have fun.”
Anne glanced at each son. Neither flinched. “Good. It’s settled. Pass the ketchup.”
Thanks to the previews, cartoon, and Anne's insistence on watching the credits, the lobby clock glowed 10:15 as they walked into the cool spring air. By the time they had driven home and Thomas could make an excuse to go to bed, it was nearly eleven, and his stomach was in knots. For the last half hour of the movie, all Thomas could think about was that Carrie was probably waiting at the meeting spot. The plan was that if he didn't show up, she should leave after a few minutes and go to the church. It was close enough that Thomas could easily bicycle over.
Just as he was getting ready to crawl out the window, Thomas heard footsteps. He froze, a perfectly guilty tableau, one foot up on a stool and the window half open.
“In a hurry?”
Thomas exhaled. Zack. Just Zack.
“When mom asked you if you had a hot date tonight at dinner, I about choked. Who would have ever guessed the day would come that you had a date on a Friday night and I didn’t? You know that if Mom comes back for any reason, we’re both busted. You for sneaking out, and me for not telling her.”
Thomas didn’t say anything. Just looked at Zack, waiting.
“Aw, what the hell. Get out of here. If we get caught, we get caught. I’ll put on one of your stupid records and she’ll think we’re both back here.”
Would it embarrass him if I jumped down and gave him a hug? Probably.
“Thanks, Zack. You’re the best.”
“Truer words have never been spoken, weirdo.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
CARRIE WAITED IN the church, humming How Great Thou Art. She hadn’t bothered to bring a book, so she walked slowly up the aisle, thinking of Thomas, tracing her hand from one pew to the next.
When she heard the door open, she turned with a smile.
Standing in the door was Michael Hollister.
“Hello, Carrie. No Tommy tonight?”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Temporal Relocation Assignment Department, Earth Division
MARGENTA WALKED THE aisle between the endless desks, pausing at each, tapping a finger. After a look at the worker’s spinning column, she passed to the next. She came to an empty desk with an opaque column that was turning almost imperceptibly.
Her eyes locked on Veruna, sitting across the aisle. “Emillion took a personal day,” she said.
Margenta’s look expressed her opinion of personal days. “She’s due for one, I suppose. Off to Arcadiam for the day, perhaps?” Margenta’s eyes, normally hard as marbles, softened. “Few things are more pleasurable than getting a moon tan on the night beaches of Arcadiam.
"Don't think so." Veruna returned her eyes to her work.
Margenta’s eyes narrowed. “Wait a moment. She didn’t go to Earth, did she?”
Veruna gave a reluctant nod.
Margenta adjusted her half-rim glasses, then passed a hand over the column in front of her. It spun faster. The opacity sharpened into clarity. She stopped the spin, then sent it moving counterclockwise. She moved it forward, then back, forward then back.
She removed her glasses, rubbed the bridge of her nose. “This is too much. She’s gone too far this time. It will take a lot of effort to get this straightened out. I’ll bring her up before Council.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
THOMAS WEAVER BRAKED his bike to a gravel-spraying stop in the church parking lot, then listened. After a few moments, the chorus of crickets and frogs resumed.
He swung off the bike, laid it down, and walked around the church. Carrie’s car was hidden in the shadows. Thomas smiled, flew up the stairs, and pushed open the door.
“Carrie? Sorry I’m late. When I got home…”
No one was there. Thomas paused, listening. There was no candle, just moonlight filtering through the stained glass windows. No sign of life.
“Carrie?” No answer.
Thomas walked down the aisle, peering into each row of pews. When he reached the altar, he turned around. I am not going in those back rooms. I think that's where they keep religious stuff. I have no business there. He sat down in a pew to think.
Carrie’s car is outside. The door was open. No Carrie. What the hell?
He heard a sound coming from outside, walked back to the front and stepped into the cool night air. “Carrie?”
An orange Ford Courier turned into the parking lot, aiming its high beams at Thomas, halting a few feet from the steps. Thomas shielded his eyes from the glare. After a moment, the lights clicked off and the engine cut. A tall, lean, clean-shaven man emerged, dressed in a Levi's jacket and trucker’s hat. He did not look happy.
“Who are you?” the man asked.
I'm someone trespassing in a church after hours, of course. And who the hell are you? Whoever you are, none of this can be good. “I’m Tommy. Tommy Weaver.”
The man nodded and shut the pickup door. “Tommy Weaver," he repeated, as if the name were a bite of stale toast. "Okay, Tommy Weaver, what are you doing here? This is private property. What were you doing inside our church?” He nodded at the open door.
Who the hell is this guy? I think I've got a right to know why the hell he wants to know.
Sure, 'Tommy,' do that. Teenage kids in the 1970s always knew all their legal rights. They always smarted off to angry truck-driving men.
The sword of the 1970s cuts both ways. If I lip off to this guy, he might just kick my ass and bundle me in for a citizen's arrest for trespassing. Like I need more people asking me tough questions.
Back on your game, 'Tommy.' “I was supposed to meet a friend here.”
Hard eyes narrowed. “A friend? This 'friend' wouldn’t be my daughter, by any chance?”
Holy shit. It’s Carrie’s dad. Thomas took a deep breath, then nodded. “Probably.” The man's eyes hardened. Shit. He thinks I'm being a smartass. “Are you Mr. Copeland?”
“Yeah, I'm Gerald Copeland. Carrie told me she was coming here because it made her feel close to her mother. Looks like she was feeling close to a boy, instead.”
He does not sound happy about that. Can't blame him. Thomas shook his head. “No, she’s always come here. It’s only been–”
“Don’t bullshit me, boy. You’r
e in deep enough already. My daughter's not home, and she's evidently not here either. I think I'm about ready for some truth, starting with you.”
He’s right, I guess. This isn’t the time for BS. But, the truth is always so complicated.
“Mr. Copeland, I’m not sure what’s going on. I was going to meet Carrie here tonight, but I was late. When I got here, her car was here, the church was open, but she’s nowhere in sight.”
Copeland’s head jerked back. “Her car’s here? Where?”
Thomas pointed to the side of the church. “She parks over there. In case someone drove by, they wouldn’t see her car.”
“Someone? Like me?”
“Yeah, but not just you. Anyone who went to church here. We weren’t doing anything wrong. We were just talking.”
Copeland scowled. "Pretty sure I already told you not to bullshit me, boy. I know damn well why teenagers sneak off to dark places in the middle of the night.”
Sure. But how many middle-aged teenagers do you know?
One of these days, if I'm not careful, I'm going to blurt something like that out.
Copeland walked over to Carrie’s Pinto and laid a hand on the hood. “It’s cold. What time was she supposed to meet you here? To not do anything wrong?”
“Ten o’clock.”
Copeland looked at his watch. “11:25.” He returned to the spot where Thomas could not escape the scene without getting past him. “You’re here, her car is here, but she’s not. I'm thinking you would know something about why that is.”
"Honest, Mr. Copeland, I have no idea. I was late because my mom took me to a movie and we were late getting home. I came here, the church door was open, and she wasn't here. If she didn't get home, I'm worried about her."
"Boy, I'll just bet you are. I think there’s something you’re not telling me. I don't know if it has to do with drugs, or fooling around, or drinkin', or all of the above, but I'm sure as hell gonna find out. You best get home. If I find Carrie tonight, I'm going to be having a talk with your folks. If I don't, the police will do that. Is your family in the phone book?”
