Don't Cry Now (9 page)

“What's going on?” someone whispered.

“Who is that guy?” someone asked.

Bonnie walked briskly down the corridor, mindful of the sign that cautioned against running in the hall, to the exterior door. She pushed it open, running through the back field toward the trees where she'd seen the man.

Except he wasn't there.

Bonnie stopped, turned in a full circle, then turned again. Goddamn him, she thought, angry tears springing to her eyes. She wasn't going to let him do this. She wasn't going to allow him to start playing games with her head. “Nick!” she called out, the wind carrying her voice across the field, like a football tucked beneath a quarterback's arm. “Nick, where are you? I know you're here. I saw you.”

There was a shuffling noise. Bonnie turned, squinting into the sun as a man walked lazily toward her. Bonnie cupped her hands over her eyes, strained to make out the man's face.

“Something wrong?” the man asked.

Even before she saw his face, she knew it wasn't Nick. The voice was all wrong. It was kind and solicitous, two adjectives she could never apply to her brother.

Bonnie approached the dark-haired, middle-aged man who was wearing the gray uniform of the school custodian. “Did you see a man lurking around here?” She motioned vaguely toward the trees. “Tall, blondish, mirrored sunglasses,” she continued, positive about the sunglasses even though she really couldn't be sure. Nick had always favored mirrored sunglasses. That way, no one could see his eyes. The mirror of the soul, she thought. Except that he didn't have one.

The custodian shook his head. “Sorry, no. Didn't see anyone. But I can't say I like the sound of someone lurking about. I'll keep my eyes open. That's for sure.”

Bonnie took a last look around, then reluctantly headed back toward the school, aware of her students watching her from the classroom windows. Maybe she'd been mistaken. It might not have been Nick. What would he be doing out here anyway? No, it was probably her imagination. A shadow she'd shaped into a man, like a piece of clay. No one really there. Except that others in her class had seen him too. “Who is that guy?” she distinctly remembered someone asking.

“He left as soon as you ran out of here,” Haze greeted her upon her return to the classroom.

“Did you see where he went?” Bonnie asked.

“Toward the parking lot,” someone answered.

“Who was it?” several voices asked in unison.

Bonnie lifted her hands into the air. “Someone I thought I knew. Anyway, enough of that. Please turn to page seventy-two, and let's get started on this speech.”

 

At the end of the period, Haze ambled toward her, one hand in the side pocket of his black jeans, the other around a clipboard, from which a few loose pieces of blank paper protruded. He stopped only inches from her face, the omnipresent scent of marijuana covering him like a second skin. “Uh, Mrs. Wheeler,” he began, “I haven't had a chance to do that essay yet, and I need a little more time.”

“You've had more than enough time,” Bonnie reminded him.

“Well, the last week was kinda busy, what with the murder and everything,” he said.

Bonnie opened her mouth to speak, immediately closed it again. Was he really using the murder of his friend's mother as an excuse for not having his English assignment completed on time? And was she really surprised? “I'm not sure I follow.”

“I need more time.”

“You know the rules, Haze. You lose marks for every day your assignment is late.”

“Look, I really need to pass this course.”

“Then you really need to start doing some work.”

“Don't be such a tight-ass,” Haze mumbled out of the side of his mouth.

“Excuse me?”

“Sam's mother was a tight-ass,” Haze continued, eyes locking on hers. “Look what happened to her.”

For a moment, Bonnie was too stunned to speak. “What are you trying to say?”

“I really need to pass this course,” he repeated, and walked out of the room.

 

Bonnie sat in the staff room at the end of the long day, drinking her third cup of coffee and trying to relax. She wasn't cut out for all this intrigue. She liked things simple and straightforward. No beating around the bush, no second guessing. It was one of the reasons she'd always had trouble with poetry. “Why don't they just say what they mean?” she often found herself asking, the same question she was asking herself now. She thought of Josh Freeman and his refusal to confide in her, of her brother skulking in the bushes like some would-be child molester, of Haze with his guarded threats.

She should probably call the police, report his strange remarks, although she doubted that would accomplish anything. The police had made it obvious she was still their prime suspect. “What about the danger Joan talked about?” she repeatedly asked them. “The danger to myself and my child?” To that, they said nothing. Was there no one who could provide her with any satisfactory answers?

She checked her watch. It was after three. Where was Josh Freeman? Hadn't he agreed to speak to her again after school?

Well no, she had to admit. He hadn't agreed to any such thing. In fact, he'd been most reluctant to speak to her again, offering only a tepid “we'll see” when pressed.

Bonnie looked around the room, the sun throwing an afternoon spotlight on the aggressively ugly blue-and-beige curtains bunched at either end of the long window. Anthony Higuera, a teacher of Spanish, sat marking papers in the far corner; Robert Chaplin, a teacher of chemistry, was reading the morning paper and shaking his head. Josh Freeman was nowhere to be seen.

He was an interesting man, Bonnie decided, an enigma, pleasant but aloof, although something in his eyes told her he hadn't always been that way. He'd kept mostly to
himself since coming to Weston Secondary, as if he was afraid to let anyone get too close. She remembered hearing that his wife had died in some kind of horrible accident, but as far as she knew, he'd never discussed this, or any other aspect of his personal life, with anyone. How much of his personal life, she wondered, had he shared with Joan?

Maybe he was waiting for her in his classroom, Bonnie realized, jumping up from her chair so abruptly she almost knocked it over. It was certainly worth a shot, she decided, departing the staff room and heading down the corridor toward the staircase at the back of the school. Even if he wasn't waiting for her, maybe she'd be able to head him off….

“Oh, Mrs. Wheeler,” a voice called, and Bonnie turned to see one of the secretaries, a plump young woman dressed all in red, running after her. A tomato with legs, Bonnie thought, as the woman approached, hand over her heart to still her breathing. “I'm glad I caught you.”

“Is something wrong?”

“There was a phone call from your daughter's day care. They want you to call back as soon as possible. They….”

Bonnie didn't give the startled young woman a chance to finish her sentence. She bolted for the office and the first available phone.

“Problem?” Ron Mosher, asked, stepping out of his office and into the general waiting area.

“Claire Appleby, please,” Bonnie said into the receiver, acknowledging her principal's concern with a slight lifting of her shoulders. “It's Bonnie Wheeler calling.”

“Mrs. Wheeler,” Claire Appleby's voice said a second later. “Thank you for calling back so quickly.”

“What's wrong? Is Amanda all right?”

“She's fine now. I don't want you to be alarmed.”

“What do you mean, she's fine
now
?”

“There was an incident.”

“An incident?”

“I want to stress that your daughter is unharmed….”

If the woman said anything further, Bonnie didn't hear her. She'd already dropped the receiver and was racing down the corridor toward her car.

T
he school that housed Amanda's day care center was a two-story redbrick building with lots of windows, located on School Street, normally a two-minute drive from Weston Secondary. Bonnie got there in under sixty seconds.

She pulled her car into the long driveway, slamming it into a parking space at the side of the school, then ran along the small alleyway, nicknamed Alphabet Lane, to the day care center, located at the back of the school, next to the playground.

Bonnie immediately spotted her daughter through the window and pushed open the glass door with considerably more force than necessary, almost falling into the large room. Amanda looked up from her miniature table, where she sat playing with a stack of colorful building blocks. “Mommy!” the child shouted, the word reverberating with pleasure.

Amanda was wearing an unfamiliar pair of blue overalls and a red jersey, her blond hair pulled away from her round face and secured by a pair of red barrettes. Hadn't she dressed Amanda in a green cotton jumpsuit this morning? Whose clothes was her daughter wearing?

One of the day care workers, a young woman with curly dark hair and a canary-yellow dress, was sitting on a small chair beside Amanda. Bonnie fought with her memory for the woman's name, remembered it just as
Amanda came leaping toward her. “What happened, Sue?” Bonnie asked the woman, scooping Amanda into her arms, her eyes quickly scanning the child's face and body for any signs of bruises, her hands fingering the strange apparel.

“Bad person threw something at me,” Amanda said.

“What do you mean? Who threw something at you? What did they throw?”

“Let me get Mrs. Appleby,” the day care worker offered. “She said to notify her as soon as you got here.”

“Are you all right?” Bonnie asked her daughter, her trembling hand gently tracing the delicate lines of the child's face, her heart pounding wildly against her chest. She had to calm down, she told herself. She had to stay calm, at least until she found out exactly what happened.

Somebody had thrown something at her daughter. Someone had tried to harm her innocent little baby. No, that was impossible. It had to have been some kind of an accident. Why would anyone want to hurt a three-year-old child?

You're in danger
, Joan had warned.
You and Amanda
.

“No,” she whispered, stiffening. It couldn't be.

“What, Mommy?”

“Mrs. Wheeler,” Claire Appleby said, startling Bonnie, who hadn't seen or heard her come in. “I'm so sorry this has happened.” Claire Appleby was a tall, middle-aged woman with a flat chest and wide hips. She wore a simple powder blue shirtwaist dress that unfortunately emphasized both.

“What exactly is it that's happened?” Bonnie caught sight of something sticky coating a few of the hairs behind her daughter's left ear.

“Perhaps Sue could take Amanda outside,” Claire Appleby suggested gently.

Amanda tightened her grip around Bonnie's neck, threatening to cut off her supply of air. Like a boa constrictor, Bonnie thought uneasily, gently loosening the child's arms. “It's okay, sweetie,” she told her daughter,
lowering her to the floor. “I'll only be a few minutes. Then we'll go get an ice cream.”

“Strawberry?”

“If that's what you want.”

“A bad person threw blood all over me.”

“What?”

“Sue,” Claire Appleby said, her hand lifting nervously to her blond hair, “please take Amanda into the playground.”

“I want to go on the swings,” Amanda directed.

“I'll race you,” Sue said.

The playground was equipped with an enormous jungle gym, three slides of assorted shapes and sizes, a giant sandbox, and several sets of swings. Bonnie watched Sue as she harnessed her daughter inside one of the smaller swings, aware she was holding her breath, feeling it painful and tight against her chest. She wanted to demand answers to the hundreds of questions that were pummeling against the sides of her brain, but she was unable to find her voice. Tears were already falling the length of her face, disappearing down her neck and under the collar of her white blouse. Don't cry now, she admonished herself silently. Now is not the time for tears.

“It's not as bad as it sounds,” Claire Appleby was quick to assure her.

“What exactly happened here?” Bonnie whispered, each word like a knife chipping at her throat.

“You know that we keep a very watchful eye on the children—”

“I know that. That's why I don't understand….”

“I'm so sorry, Mrs. Wheeler. I can see how upset you are. I know this has been a terrible time for you. I've been following the papers—”

“Please tell me exactly what happened,” Bonnie urged.

“The children were outside in the playground,” Claire Appleby began immediately. “Sue and Darlene were with them. Apparently, Amanda wandered over to the alleyway. She told Sue later that someone called her name.”

“Someone called her?”

“That's what she said.”

“Did she say who it was?”

“She didn't know. Apparently, whoever it was was wearing a hood or something, and as soon as Amanda got close enough, he just emptied this pail over her head.”

“A pail filled with…blood?” Bonnie asked, her voice incredulous.

“We
think
it was blood,” Claire Appleby said quietly. “We're not sure. It was dark and red and at first we thought it might be paint, but…” Her voice drifted off.

“But…?”

“It wasn't paint. Sue said she almost fainted when she saw Amanda because she assumed she'd fallen and cracked open her head. We didn't realize she hadn't actually hurt herself until we'd washed most of it off. It was all over her face and clothes. We have her clothes for you in a plastic bag,” Claire Appleby added.

“Wait a minute,” Bonnie instructed, needing to get the facts straight in her mind. “You're telling me that there was a strange person in the alleyway wearing a hood and carrying a pail of blood, and nobody noticed him?”

“I'm afraid that's right,” Claire Appleby admitted.

Bonnie felt her legs go weak, thought they might go out from under her, reached for something to grab on to. There was nothing. She stumbled, fell toward one of the tiny tables.

“Why don't you sit down?” Claire Appleby helped her into one of the tiny chairs, attempting to sit down beside her, her ample backside refusing to wedge itself into the small seat. “Amanda's all right,” the woman said, as she had said earlier. “She was just frightened.”

Bonnie looked helplessly around the room, casually absorbing the many imaginative mobiles that hung from the ceiling, the large paper letters of the alphabet that ran along the walls, the bright posters of wild animals, the boxes of toys, the series of bold fingerpaint sketches tacked to the far wall. “How long ago did this happen?”

Claire Appleby checked her watch. “Not long ago. Twenty minutes, maybe. Half an hour, tops. We cleaned her off and called you.”

“Did you call the police?”

Claire Appleby hesitated. “We decided to contact you first. Naturally, we'll be filing a report.”

“I think we should call the police,” Bonnie stated, staring out the window at her daughter, who was laughing and shrieking with glee as she sailed high into the air, the ugly incident earthbound and forgotten.

 

“Do you have any idea who might have done this?” Captain Mahoney was asking. Behind him stood his friend, Detective Haver of the Weston police force. Since this latest incident had happened in Weston, and not Newton, Captain Mahoney had explained, it was technically out of his jurisdiction.

Bonnie shook her head. Why was he asking her that? How would she possibly have any idea who could have done such a horrible thing? “Should we take her to the hospital?” Bonnie asked. “Should she have an AIDS test?”

“Why don't we wait and have the blood analyzed first?” Captain Mahoney suggested, his voice kind. “The odds are it's not human blood.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are a lot of farms in the area, Mrs. Wheeler,” Detective Haver reminded her. He was a stout man of medium height, his skin the color of dark chocolate. “There are some farms over in Easton where they even slaughter their own cattle.”

“Easton?” Bonnie repeated, numbly.

“Your father lives in Easton, doesn't he?” Captain Mahoney remarked casually.

Too casually, Bonnie thought, starting to tremble, recalling the sight of her brother lurking in the trees behind the school earlier in the day. “Have you spoken to him?” Bonnie asked.

“Briefly.”

“And to my brother?”

“We spoke to him as well.”

“And? Did he have anything interesting to say?”

“Why don't you ask your brother?”

Bonnie swallowed, looked at her daughter, who was now dangling upside down from one of the high bars of the jungle gym, the day care worker hovering anxiously nearby, her arms a safety net. “My brother and I aren't exactly on the best of terms, Captain,” Bonnie told him.

“May I ask why not?”

“You saw Joan's scrapbook,” Bonnie reminded him. “I would think the answer is self-evident.”

“Do you think he had something to do with Joan Wheeler's death?”

“Do you?”

“Your brother has an alibi for the time Mrs. Wheeler was murdered,” the captain told her.

“He does?”

“You sound surprised.”

“Nothing about my brother surprises me.”

“Now you sound disappointed.”

“I guess I better keep my mouth shut,” Bonnie said, watching Captain Mahoney smile. He wants to like me, Bonnie thought. He wants to believe I had nothing to do with Joan's death.

“Any reason to think he might have been involved in what happened here this afternoon?”

“Why would Nick want to hurt my daughter? He's never even met her,” Bonnie said, more to herself than to the officers. And yet, he'd been only a few blocks away this morning. Was he the danger Joan had been trying to warn her against?

What was keeping her from giving this information to the police? Could she still be trying to protect her younger brother?

You're a good girl
, she heard her mother whisper. Bonnie shook the voice aside with a toss of her head.

“Do you think that what happened to Amanda could just be some silly teenage prank?” Bonnie asked hopefully, pushing logic roughly aside.

Captain Mahoney loosened his red-and-black-striped tie, pulled the collar of his white shirt away from his prominent Adam's apple. “I suppose someone might have read about you in the paper and decided to have a little sick fun,” Captain Mahoney said, obviously thinking out loud. “There's a lot of wackos around, even in a supposedly safe haven like Weston.”

Bonnie nodded. There was no denying the truth of his words. Nowhere was really safe anymore, even a “safe haven” like Weston, where they'd moved when she became pregnant. Boston probably wasn't the best place to raise a family, she and Rod had decided reluctantly, selecting Weston because, despite its proximity to the city, it felt more like the country. Each house rested on one and a half acres of land, and there was an abundance of trees and ponds and good clean air. The ideal place to raise a family. Just fifteen minutes away from downtown. Around the corner from their friends Diana and Greg. Far enough away from Newton and Joan. Even farther away from Easton and what was left of her family.

Except that Diana and Greg had divorced soon after Amanda was born, and Diana now spent most of her time in the city. And it appeared that nothing could be too far away from either her relatives or Rod's ex-wife. The past is always closer than you think, Bonnie thought.

“I'm sorry, did you ask me something?” Bonnie realized she hadn't been paying attention.

“I asked whether you're a popular teacher,” he repeated.

“Popular?”

“Do your students like you, Mrs. Wheeler?”

“I think so,” she stammered. “I
like
to think so,” she immediately qualified, thinking of Haze, picturing him as he advanced toward her, stopping only inches from her face. Could he have been responsible for the attack on her
daughter? Could he have had something to do with Joan's death? Could he be the danger Joan had been referring to? “There's one boy,” she said. “Harold Gleason. Haze, everyone calls him. He's in my junior year English class. He's been giving me a bit of trouble, and he knew Joan. He's a friend of Sam, my stepson,” she added, the word feeling clumsy on her tongue. She told the captain exactly what Haze had said to her this morning, watching as he took note of this latest information, his face frustratingly void of all expression.

“Do you know where Harold Gleason lives?” he asked.

Bonnie closed her eyes, trying to picture the address written on the boy's student index card. “Eighteen Marsh Lane,” she said finally, her breath catching in her lungs. “Easton.”