Murder Is My Racquet (17 page)

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 over 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?”

“Yes, sir. I won’t let you down, sir. You’ll see.”

“Yes I will, Caden. I see everything. Now get to it!”

Roy Duchamps served the first game, fast and clean, scoring
two aces followed by a neat crosscourt rally return and a dazzling line shot. Next up, Webber botched the first two points with double faults, but a look at Hardeman’s face convinced him to change his tactics. He directed his next serve at Duchamps’s monster forehand. Roy countered with a wicked smash to Caden’s flabby backhand, but somehow Alex shot back a perfect zinger out of Beck’s desperate reach.

Hardeman scratched his close-cropped head. “Not bad, Caden,” he said grudgingly. “Let’s see more like that. Maybe inspire your partner to move his lazy butt, too.”

To Webber’s horror, Caden rose to the challenge. He played better than he ever had, better than was reasonable by far. Whenever Webber missed a shot, there was Alex, dashing out of nowhere to back him up. Caden’s first-serve percentage was nearly perfect, and he covered the court like a plague. On the other side Duchamps and Beck traded angry asides and looks of sour disbelief as they slogged toward a certain defeat.

Webber and Caden were winning, which was no good at all. Webber’s desperation grew as he spotted the voodoo lady ambling toward the bleachers. Heavily, she sat down the row from Earl Emerson and drew her knitting from the canvas bag. As she started working the needles, a glossy white string snaked up into the row of blood-red stitches. Webber’s hand flew to his mouth as he remembered dropping his dental floss into the trashcan in the dormitory bathroom.

No strings
.

Suddenly a hot spike of pain shot through Webber’s temple. Reeling, he watched Beck’s net shot spin past him as he stood paralyzed by the ferocious hurt and fear. Hardeman hollered something, but Webber couldn’t hear past the howling
agony in his ears. He could not see past the hellish ache. His head was on fire, stomach lurching up to put it out.

He awoke to a blur of muted voices and fuzzy lights. Everything swirled in dim, hazy currents, including the kindly, bespectacled face that loomed over him.

“There you are, Bobby. Nice to have you back. I’m Dr. Seplowitz. Are you feeling better now? Can you sit up?”

Webber’s mouth was a swamp, and he felt as if someone had bubble-wrapped his brain. Slowly, he sat and waited for the walls to stop shimmying. “What happened? Where am I?”

“You’re in the school infirmary, son. Have been since early this afternoon. As to what happened, I honestly can’t say for sure. Let me help you up to your feet now. Slowly, good. Hold out your finger, and then bring it to your nose. That’s good. Now I want you to close your eyes and balance on one foot.”

Webber went along with the prodding and poking until the doctor finished his exam.

“What’s wrong with me, Doctor? Am I going to be all right?”

“Absolutely. Nothing to worry about.”

“I don’t have a brain tumor?”

“Of course not. My guess is you got too much sun. Or maybe not enough to drink. You passed out. It happens. Think of it as the body’s way of demanding you get a rest.”

Webber touched his head gingerly, recalling the scorching pain. “I feel okay now.”

“Glad to hear it. I’m going to sign you out. You go on and have yourself a nice dinner and a good night’s sleep. I bet you’ll be good as new in the morning. Soon as I reach your folks, I’m going to tell them that exactly.”

“Don’t call my parents, please. They’re big worriers. My mom, especially. They’ll get all upset for nothing.”

The doctor smiled. “You’re a considerate young man, Bobby. I admire that. Tell you what: If you promise to come back and check in with me next week, I suppose that call won’t be necessary.”

“Thanks, Dr. Seplowitz.” Webber hesitated, but he decided he could trust the man. “Can I ask you a stupid question?”

“There are no stupid questions, son. Only stupid answers.”

“Do you believe in spells, Doc? Voodoo and stuff like that?”

“No, I certainly don’t. I’m a man of science, Bobby, trained to believe what can be tested and proven.”

“But what about all those kids getting hurt by evil spells? Killed even. Doesn’t that prove anything?”

Seplowitz set an avuncular hand on Webber’s shoulder. “That’s only talk, son. Words. You’re too smart to fall for such hogwash.”

“You don’t believe it’s true?”

“No, I do not. And neither should you. Boys who spread such rumors are just playing with you, trying to get your goat. You just go about your business and forget that foolishness.”

“But what about Pete Cady and Craig Sichel and all the others?”

“Bad things happen, Bobby. That’s a fact of life some folks can’t accept. They find it easier to blame someone or something. Like that voodoo silliness.”