Hangman's Curse (12 page)

“Miss Miller,” Sarah began.

“Isn't there something in the law about unreasonable search and seizure? Are you some kind of cop? Let's see your badge.”

“No, we're—”

“Then why are you doing this? Is somebody spreading rumors about me or something?”

“No, it's—”

“And now look, everybody's staring at us! They're all thinking— I know what they're thinking, they're thinking this is a drug bust or something. Well, I don't have any drugs in my locker. I don't do drugs and I resent your thinking I do!”

“This isn't a drug bust. We're—”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“We're—”

“Does Ms. Wyrthen know about this? I mean, have you talked to her, Mr. Gessner?”

Sarah tried again. “If I—if I may speak—”

“We're not doing a thing until—”

“Shawna,” said Mr. Gessner, “take it easy. Let Mrs. Springfield explain.”

Shawna finally slowed to a stop. “So . . . okay,
explain.”

Sarah pointed to the little hanging man in the upper corner of the locker door. “Someone has scratched a hex on your locker. Now, ordinarily, we could probably say, ‘So what?' and just call it some weirdo pulling off a little vandalism, but there are four boys in the hospital right now, and you know who they are, and every one of them has the same strange illness, and every one of them had the same mark etched on his locker. Now, we don't know what this illness is or what's causing it, but we do know we don't want the same thing happening to you.”

“A hex?” Shawna studied the little symbol closely. Then, suddenly, she smirked. “Abel Frye! Give me a break!”

Sarah prompted her, “So you know something about Abel Frye?”

“Sure, the school ghost, the kid who hanged himself. Everybody's talking about it. But I know who did this. Crystal Sparks. It has to be.”

Sarah considered the name. “Crystal Sparks. The girl who painted the picture of Abel Frye?”

Shawna nodded. “She's a witch. She hangs around with that other weirdo, that Ian Snyder. We're always giving them a hard time so they're just trying to get back at us, like they're going to sic their ghost on us.” She laughed and said with dripping sarcasm, “Like, oh wow, I'm really scared.”

Sarah tried not to appear as fascinated as she was. “So, there's something between you and these—you call them witches?”

“It's no big deal. They're losers, just, just weirdos. Everybody picks on 'em.”

“Yourself included?”

Shawna hesitated, shrugged, and finally admitted flippantly, “Yeah.”

“So I guess you've made some enemies.”

Shawna looked at the little symbol again. “And I don't appreciate them marking up my locker.”

“Well, they may have done more than that,” said Sarah. “If it's all right with you, we'd better make sure they haven't planted something in your belongings.”

“Planted something?” At last,
maybe
Shawna took them seriously. “All right. Go ahead. But if I were you, I'd check
Crystal Sparks'
locker, too!”

“Don't worry, we will. And now, with your permission?”

Shawna opened the locker for them, and stood by with her lower lip sticking out and her arms crossed while Sarah closely examined Shawna's textbooks, a handbag, a jacket, and a cloth bag containing makeup, a hairbrush, a mirror, and a small artist's kit of pastel pencils. Sarah found nothing unusual. She quickly brought in Max, who sniffed the locker and turned away, unimpressed.

“Satisfied?” Shawna asked.

“You wouldn't consider staying away from school for a few days, would you?” Sarah asked.

“No way! I have a perfect attendance record and it's going to stay that way!”

Tom Gessner gave it a try. “Shawna, it's only for your protection.”

“Hey,” Shawna said, “
I
don't have a problem. If you think there's a problem, then you fix it.”

With that, she turned her back on them and headed for her homeroom.

At lunch period, Elisha was on her way to the lunchroom when she spotted something that didn't look right: Norman Bloom with his back against the wall, fenced in by three big guys who didn't look like they were his friends. As a matter of fact, when Norman tried to leave the discussion, a big walking triangle of a guy shoved him back against the wall and held his hand against Norman's throat. The hallway was busy with lunch-period traffic. Kids were passing by, talking, eating, laughing. Some noticed what was happening, but no one stopped to intervene.

Elisha had no idea what she was going to do—even as she quickened her step.

“Come on, Bloom,” one of the big guys was saying, “I'm hungry.”

“I don't have money for all of you,” Norman replied.

The Triangle put some weight against Norman's throat, and Elisha could tell it hurt. “That's too bad, isn't it? Come
prepared,
Bloom, come
prepared!”

“Helloooo!” Elisha singsonged, almost skipping up to them. “Norman! I've gotta talk to you!” She said to the others, “Could you excuse us a second?”

Maybe it was her beauty, maybe just the fact that she was a girl, maybe their amazement that a guy like Norman Bloom would even know a girl who looked like her. Whatever the reason, The Triangle let go and he and his buddies backed off. “Sure thing, babe,” said one as they all looked her over. Another made a suggestion he should have been ashamed of.

Elisha took Norman by the arm. “Where've you been? I got a call from London today.” She led him away quickly, babbling in his ear. “You're never going to guess what she said, Norman! She wants to help with the project, as soon as she gets back. All you have to do is finish framing it up so she can pick out a color.”

They got around a corner and Norman asked, “What are you talking about?”

“I don't know, I'm making it up.” She stopped and he stopped with her. “What was that all about?”

“What was what all about?”

“John Lassiter, Craig Forbes, and Brock Hanley. They're . . . they're just big muscle guys unsure of their manhood.”

“
Duh!
That little meeting back there.”

He wouldn't look at her. “They needed some lunch money. It was nothing.”

“Nothing? The guy had his hand to your throat!”

His eyes wandered about the hallway. He seemed embarrassed, irritated. “I could have handled it.”

“Who were they?”

He went to the side of the hallway to get out of the traffic and she followed. “John Lassiter, Craig Forbes, and Brock Hanley. They're . . . they're just big muscle guys unsure of their manhood.”

“Friends of yours?”

He knew her question was only half serious. “No.”

“So what were you doing—” She wasn't sure if she should ask. “Norman, were you paying them off?”

That made him mad. “That's none of your business.”

“Uh-uh-uh. If somebody's hurting a friend of mine, it's my business.”

His eyes were getting wet. She could tell he was in pain and trying not to show it. He looked directly at her and said emphatically, “I do what I have to do to survive. That's how the world works.” Then he added, “That's how this school works.”

“I don't understand.”

“Do I have to spell it out for you?” He looked away, trying to get control. “I'm—I don't have the physical strength or ability to fend these guys off. And they know it. Everybody knows it.”

She couldn't believe what she was hearing. “Norman, there are laws. I mean, they can't just . . .
attack
you. Why don't you tell somebody?”

He laughed bitterly. “Tell who? A teacher? My parents? You think they don't know this stuff is going on?”

“They can't—How could they
allow
it?”

“Oh, kids will be kids, didn't you know that? Everybody gets picked on, it's no big deal, it's just part of growing up. Be a man! No pain! Just buck up and try harder, just ignore them.”

“But . . . but that guy
assaulted
you! That's against the law!”

“Tell that to Marquardt!”

“Who's that?”

“The coach. My gym teacher.” He pointed toward the scene they'd just left. “Brock Hanley—the guy who had me by the throat?—he's a teaching assistant in fourth period. That's
my
gym class.” His pain was giving way to anger. “Marquardt picks the oversized jerks to run things and then looks the other way.”

Elisha had to gather herself a moment. “Norman . . . this muscle stuff, this jock stuff . . . let me tell you something. Some of these big athletic guys think they're so cool when they push the brainy guys around, but really, who ends up better off? After the jocks are all hobbling on bad knees and old sports injuries, the nerds and geeks are relaxing in their plush offices in their big techno companies, making lots of money and getting into golf and racquetball. I mean, Bill Gates is crying all the way to the bank, and with your brains, you'll be doing the same thing. You can count on it. Are you listening to me?”

That seemed to cheer him a little. He managed a smile. “You have a way with words, Elisha.”

“Well, we're going to do something about this,” she responded, fire in her eyes.

When Crystal Sparks arrived in Tom Gessner's office for a little conference, Sarah had to control a snicker, not at Crystal, but at the first thought to go through Sarah's head:
Don't be afrrraid, I only vant a biiiite of your throat!
There wasn't much chance Crystal Sparks could be mistaken for anyone else. She looked like a vampire fresh from her coffin: slinky, dressed in black, with pale complexion, long black hair, and black eye shadow. Sarah felt pity for her. Her weirdness did not fit well; it was just too
intentional
.

“Hi, Crystal,” said Tom Gessner. “This is Sarah Springfield. She's a forensic consultant. She's here working on the, uh, well, the Abel Frye situation.”

Crystal did not say hello or offer her hand. She only sat down in the chair across from Gessner's desk and stared glumly at them.

Gessner reached toward the shelf and pulled down Crystal's contest-winning painting of Abel Frye. “It's a great painting you did, Crystal. Thanks to you, everybody in school has a very good idea what Abel Frye looks like.”

“Thank you,” she said. Her first words since she came in.

“I'm curious. This painting is so detailed, so graphic. How did you know what Abel Frye looks like? Did you make this up or is this—”

“He told me what he looks like.”

“He speaks to you?” Sarah asked.

Crystal nodded.

“How does he do that exactly?”

“In private. In secret. That's all I can tell you.”

Gessner looked at Sarah, her cue to go ahead.

“Crystal,” Sarah began, “we're here to find out why some students have been getting sick, and since this all seems to have something to do with Abel Frye, and since you seem to know a lot about him, we were wondering if you could answer a few questions for us.”

“It has to happen,” she said abruptly.

“What has to happen, Crystal?”

“Justice. Abel Frye died because of injustice, and he knows when the same injustice is done to someone else. Injustice stirs him up, and he strikes. It has to happen.”

Sarah nodded. “From what I've seen, he's had reason to strike. There are some kids being treated unfairly at this school.”

Crystal didn't say anything. She just nodded slightly.

Sarah had to think a moment before she asked, “We spoke with Shawna Miller this morning.” She could see Crystal tense up. “I got the impression that she and her friends have been pretty rough on you. Is that true?”

“We're definitely not friends.”

“Do you think Abel Frye would be interested in dealing justice to Shawna Miller?”

“Only Abel Frye would know that.”

Tom Gessner said, “We found a hanging-man symbol on Shawna's locker this morning. Could you help us understand what that means?”

Crystal returned their gaze with a steely gaze of her own and replied, “It means that certain decisions have been made and certain forces have been put in motion.”

Sarah said, “I'm not sure what you mean.”

“It means,” Crystal said slowly and cryptically, “that certain persons should be a lot more careful
whom
they torment.”

“Certain persons like Shawna Miller?”

Crystal did not respond.

Tom Gessner leaned forward. “Crystal, if there's something between you and Shawna, there are better ways to work things out. You don't have to threaten anybody.”

She showed a hint of a smile, as if amused. “It's not my doing. Abel Frye decides.”

“But you have a say in it, don't you?”

She only shrugged and replied, “Some things have to happen.”

“Just like a search of your locker,” Gessner said a little whimsically. Her eyebrows went up. He only returned her own quote to her, “Some things have to happen.”

Ian Snyder, in tank top and sweatpants, pulled the rowing bar to his chest, let it return, pulled it, let it return. He had a strong, steady rhythm going. He was making good time on the machine's digital clock.

Elijah stood beside the rowing machine, coaching him along. “Nice and steady now. Keep your legs into it. Chest up, shoulders first, shoulders first. Easy now, you're not racing anybody. This is for you, nobody else.”

Baker High School had a nice workout room equipped with weight machines, treadmills, barbells, a rowing machine, the works. Ian Snyder had never been in this room before, at least voluntarily, and Elijah could understand why. Rooms like this could easily become the exclusive territory of the jocks, the athletes, the physically oriented, a place where guys worked their bodies, tried to outdo each other, and carried out seek-and-destroy missions against the physically inferior. The skinny kids, the chubby kids, the just plain nonathletes weren't barred from the place, but most of them quickly learned that any personal program of physical fitness wasn't worth the humiliation.