Hangman's Curse Read online

  “Are you saying the victims were hexed? ”

  “I’m saying that a certain group could exist in this school that would wish them harm.”

  Carrillo smirked. “Eh, as long as they’re not packing guns I’m not too worried.”

  “I worry about what would make them want to harm others in the first place.” Gessner gestured at the strange symbol. “Kids usually get into witchcraft for the same reasons: the desire for power, the need for self-esteem and to be a part of something, the need to have some kind of control over their lives, especially when life treats them cruelly—” Then he added, “—when other kids treat them cruelly.”

  Carrillo cocked an eyebrow. “So you think these jocks were picking on somebody?”

  Gessner looked at them both, a sadness in his eyes. “Kids can be terribly cruel to each other. We don’t know the half of it. We don’t always see it. The kids don’t report it.” Then he added with a touch of anger in his eyes, “And all too often the teachers allow it—and some even encourage it.”

  “So now somebody’s trying to get even.”

  Gessner spread his empty hands. “From here on out, gentlemen, we have nothing but unknowns.”

  “So let’s just round up these witches and start asking some questions,” Carrillo said.

  “We don’t know who they are,” Gessner said.

  “Come on, you see the kids every day!”

  “Not all of them. That’s simply not possible.”

  Carrillo was careful to keep his voice down. “How about Ian Snyder? That kid put a straight pin through his tongue right in front of a teacher and then asked her what she’d do if he ever pulled a gun on her. He’s been suspended a couple of times.”

  “Do you honestly think he’d tell you anything?” Gessner asked.

  Carrillo didn’t have an answer for that. They all knew it was highly unlikely.

  “And for every Ian Snyder there are at least ten wallpaper kids.”

  “Uh, excuse me,” said Nate. “Wallpaper kids?”

  “The kids who just blend in. They never say anything, never call attention to themselves, never cause trouble, certainly never talk to their high school counselor, and that’s the problem. We don’t know what they might be feeling and thinking, or what they might be capable of. Having a school full of wallpaper kids can be more scary than having a few Ian Snyders around.”

  Carrillo had to chew on that for a long moment. “So we don’t know who these witches are.”

  “No,” Gessner answered. “After all, just what is a witch supposed to look like?”

  “Well, who have the jocks been picking on?”

  “We have to find out.”

  Carrillo was getting impatient. “Well, we sure don’t know a whole lot, do we?”

  “Only that three athletes are in the hospital under very strange circumstances and we need to know something.” Gessner looked at Nate. “And that’s where you come in, Mr. Springfield. We need you and your family to fill in all these blanks. We need you to be here and blend in, to see and hear things, to get a feel for what might be happening—from your unique perspective.”

  Nate took one more look at the sinister symbol on the locker, thought for a moment, then replied, “We can start tomorrow—if that’s okay with Officer Carrillo.”

  Carrillo asked, “Well, just what do you intend to do?”

  Nate smiled. “Blend in, I suppose. Just be ourselves. I’ll go on staff, my kids will enroll as students, my wife will do research in the background.”

  They started back toward Gessner’s office.

  “Okay,” said Carrillo, “I’ll go along with it as long as you understand you’re answering to me—and Ms. Wyrthen, the principal.”

  “Sounds fine to me.”

  “Ms. Wyrthen’s all right. She’s all business, but she’s got a good heart for the kids. You should get along all right.”

  Sarah, Elijah, and Elisha met Nate the moment he came out the front door.

  “We’re on the case,” he told them as they walked toward their car. “Got the site layout?”

  Elijah held up the site plan, now marked and modified with a red pen. “You were right. The building and grounds don’t line up with the plan the county has on file.”

  “The woods are closer than the plans show, and there are lots of hiding places,” Elisha pointed out.

  “The security’s pretty good, though,” said Sarah. “The doors and windows are sound, with good locks and good alarms.”

  “Anybody get a student roster?” Nate asked.

  “Got that from the office, along with all the class schedules. It’s a lot of material to go through.”

  “Well, let’s do the easy stuff first. And let’s get Mr. Maxwell going. There should be something to smell around here.”

  “So when do we have to enroll?” Elijah asked, actually cringing.

  “You’re enrolled now,” Nate said with a smile. “Mr. Gessner and I took care of it. You start tomorrow.”

  An ominous sign was posted outside the door to the hospital ward: QUARANTINE AREA: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Two mothers and one father were just coming out of the room. All three were in tears.

  Since the school district and the local police had authorized them, the Springfields were admitted, but only when accompanied by the physician in charge, and only after donning hospital masks and gowns. They walked in slowly, taking in the details and trying to understand the horror of what they were seeing. It was a clean and sterile hospital room, and yet they couldn’t shake the feeling that they’d entered a compartment in hell, a prison for tortured souls filled with garbled sounds, sickening smells, frightening visions.

  There were four beds in the room. Three were occupied.

  Dr. Stuart, a gentle, gray-haired man, spoke through his surgical mask as he stopped at the first bed. “This is Tod Kramer.”

  Tod was once a handsome, red-haired youth, but not now. He lay there motionless, his eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling, his skin like thin yellow parchment, his hands limp and withering. They could see his lips silently stuttering under the clear plastic oxygen mask.

  “He’s been here twelve days,” Dr. Stuart said.

  In the next bed lay a large-framed African-American youth. He was staring vacantly as well, but his eyes were moving slightly as if seeing frightening visions, and his fingers twitched and trembled. He was muttering nonstop, but there were no understandable words. There was an IV in his arm and there were feeding tubes in his nose, but he was breathing without an oxygen mask.

  “This is Doug Anderson. He’s been here seven days.”

  They turned and faced the bed opposite Doug’s. They’d already seen news photos and Jim Boltz’s senior picture, but they never could have anticipated the crazed creature they now saw before them. He was tied to the bed at both his wrists and ankles. He had needles in both arms and tubes up his nose. His eyes were wide with fright and constantly rolling as if watching demons flutter just above the bed. His head kept jerking and twitching, his fingers blindly groping, and he was whimpering in the language of madness: “. . . over in wainswen badooly gone thump . . . mater raining dig the fleenincrab . . .”

  Sarah looked from Jim to Doug to Tod. “It’s degenerative.”

  Dr. Stuart nodded grimly. “It worsens steadily from day to day. If we can’t reverse it, in ten days, Jim will be in the same condition as Tod.”

  “And Tod?”

  Dr. Stuart shook his head. “We may not be able to keep him alive. He needs oxygen now. Before long he’ll need a full respirator. After that . . .”

  Elisha leaned over the foot of Jim Boltz’s bed, listening intently, watching Jim’s face. “What’s he saying?”

  Dr. Stuart shook his head. “It’s gibberish. Aimless ravings. The boys aren’t communicative. We can’t talk to them; they can’t talk to us.”

  Elijah asked, “Has he ever mentioned the name Abel Frye?”

  Jim Boltz stiffened and gasped as if shocked wit
h electricity, so suddenly it made them all jump. The rambling gibberish stopped. Jim lay there, eyes locked on one spot above him, his jaw quivering. A weak, trembling sound crossed his lips. “. . . Abel . . . Frye . . .”

  Dr. Stuart hurried to the bedside. “He’s never done this before.”

  Nate hurried to the other side of the bed and took a small digital recorder from his carry bag. “If it’s okay with you?”

  Dr. Stuart nodded.

  Nate pressed the record button and held the recorder close to Jim’s mouth.

  The steady “beep” from the heart monitor beside the bed accelerated as Jim’s pulse raced. He no longer muttered but spoke, so softly they all bent close to hear him. “Abel Frye . . . Abel Frye . . .”

  Dr. Stuart waved a finger in front of Jim’s eyes. The eyes didn’t follow it but remained locked where they were, on some invisible, terrible image.

  “The angel . . . ,” said Jim, tugging at his restraints. “The angel . . . the angel and Abel Frye. No, no, don’t look at me . . .”

  “Jim?” the doctor prompted.

  “He’s coming . . . he’s coming . . .”

  “Who, Jim?”

  “The angel . . . the angel and Abel Frye.”

  “The angel?”

  Jim’s head relaxed. The heart monitor began to slow down. “Barsinolla baker team on the boromoommmm . . .”

  Dr. Stuart straightened, frustration visible all over his face.

  Nate let the recorder run on, recording a minute or two of Jim’s mutterings. As far as anyone could tell, Jim said nothing else intelligible.

  They huddled in the middle of the room, speaking in low tones.

  “Who is Abel Frye?” asked Dr. Stuart.

  “The school ghost,” said Nate.

  He looked at them with the shocked and unbelieving expression one might expect. “A ghost and an angel?”

  “Well,” said Sarah, “it isn’t much, but it’s a start.”

  Dr. Stuart looked at the Springfields and then nodded with grim understanding. “Please hurry. Time is of the essence, if we hope to save their lives.”

  3

  the legend of

  abel frye

  The bell rang, the classroom doors burst open, and the hallways of Baker High School filled for another five-minute rush between classes. Nine hundred kids, all shapes, all sizes, scampered, lumbered, strode, marched, or just plain walked with books in arms, packs on backs, clothing in a zillion different colors, and everything in the world to say to each other before the bell rang again.

  In the main hall, a janitor in gray coveralls stayed close to the wall to keep from being trampled, and as he worked, he watched, studying their faces, their expressions. He counted quickly, wondering how many young people would pass by that one spot in five minutes. When he held still and kept his eyes aimed straight across the hall, he could almost sense that he was moving.

  The only other body not moving was Officer Carrillo. He was standing just outside the school office with the steadiness of a courthouse pillar and the authoritative air of a traffic light, his arms folded across his chest, his beady eyes following the flow. As far as anyone knew, he’d never pulled his gun or used his night stick, but he still carried them—and you just couldn’t help being impressed.

  The five minutes shrank to three and the number of migrating bodies dwindled. Two new faces passed by, a boy and a girl. They looked so much alike they had to be brother and sister, maybe even twins. The boy had a calculus text under his arm and the girl was carrying the script from The Crucible. Bright kids.

  Two minutes and it was almost quiet.

  One minute, and the last kids left in the halls were looking worried and walking as fast as they could without running.

  The bell rang. Up and down the halls, the last echoes of footsteps faded, the big classroom doors closed with a metallic clunk.

  And now the halls were empty.

  Carrillo looked left and right, then sauntered across the hall to where the janitor stood. “Hey, Springfield. Those two new kids . . . they yours?”

  Nate Springfield didn’t look up, but proceeded to reline a trash can as he replied, “I cannot tell a lie. Yes, they are. I’ve started work here as a janitor, and they’ve enrolled as students— but we aren’t going to call attention to this, are we?”

  “Sorry.”

  Two new faces passed by, a boy and a girl. They looked so much alike they had to be brother and sister, maybe even twins.

  The door to the office swung open with the low, heavy note of its big hinges, and they heard a quick, staccato sound like a judge’s gavel coming toward them—pock, pock, pock—high heels on tile.

  “Here comes Ms. Wyrthen,” said Carrillo.

  Ms. Wyrthen, the high school principal, dressed in gray and looking grim, came at them like a queen in a hurry. “The halls should remain clear until lunch period. We’re ready when you are.”

  Nate crossed to the front door and pushed it open so a smiling, panting golden retriever could come in, pulling along a well-dressed businesswoman at the other end of his leash. Nate introduced the woman. “Ms. Wyrthen, I’d like to introduce my wife, Sarah.”

  Ms. Wyrthen’s eyebrows went up as she extended her hand. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

  Nate lovingly roughed up the dog’s ears. “And this is Mr. Maxwell. We call him Max.”

  Ms. Wyrthen smiled and gave a slight nod. “Mr. Loman is waiting for us.”

  Ms. Wyrthen, Nate, Sarah, Mr. Maxwell, and Officer Carrillo started down the hall, Ms. Wyrthen’s heels pock-pocking and Mr. Maxwell’s nails click-clicking on the floor.

  Nate was just about to say something, but Ms. Wyrthen said it first. “Officer Carrillo, it may look a little obvious, four of us all walking together, especially with the dog . . .”

  He took the hint—not happily—and turned away after other business.

  Sarah handed Mr. Maxwell’s leash to Nate. “And if you could show me the way to the library . . .”

  Ms. Wyrthen pointed. “Up those stairs, second floor, to the right. Mrs. Aimsley is expecting you.”

  Sarah gave Nate a special smile, then headed for the stairs.

  Now it was just Nate, Mr. Maxwell, and Ms. Wyrthen.

  Ms. Wyrthen spoke softly. “Thank you for being here, Mr. Springfield. I hope you understand that our arrangement with you is tenuous at best, and time is in very short supply. Some of the parents are getting frightened and want to close the school down; others are getting angry and want the school kept open—they don’t want us to forfeit our bid for the state football championship. The school board is up in arms. They voted to spend precious district funds on the metal detectors and a security officer, but now the school still isn’t safe and they’re looking foolish. I’m willing to try anything to protect our kids, but now the parents are pressuring me from opposite extremes and the school board is telling me they don’t want to give this problem too much attention.”

  Nate was genuinely troubled. “I promise we’ll do all we can, as quickly as we can, and if we find out our services aren’t needed, we’ll be out of here before our shadows can catch up.”

  She sighed and wagged her head. “This is supposed to be a safe school environment. There are no guns here, no knives, no dangerous weapons of any kind. We have a full-time security officer, the first in the school district. We’re the first school in the district to install a metal detector. We’ve prided ourselves on our ability to maintain order and discipline.” She looked at him. “But trouble still gets through the doors.”

  They rounded a corner and met a bespectacled, balding fellow wearing gray coveralls similar to Nate’s and a sizable key ring on his belt. His kind, smiling face was certainly a pleasant contrast to Ms. Wyrthen’s. “Well, hello there, Mr. Springfield. How are the wastebaskets?”

  “Finished up the main hall,” said Nate, “but that one near the lunchroom is going to need a couple extra bags.”

  Mr. Loman laughed. “Okay, well done!”
Then he scratched Mr. Maxwell’s ears. “So this is Mr. Maxwell!” Mr. Maxwell leaned into Mr. Loman’s scratches, a happy, dazed look on his face. “How about it, Maxie? You want to be a janitor, too?”

  Ms. Wyrthen was getting impatient. “Mr. Springfield would like his dog to smell the three victims’ lockers.”

  “Let’s go,” said Mr. Loman, leading the way, his key ring jangling with each step. “Of course, you know, the police already had their dog in here sniffing for drugs. They didn’t find anything.”

  “Well, still I’d like to bring Max up to speed,” said Nate. “We might need his services later on.”

  Mr. Loman led them to a row of lockers not far from the gym and paused by locker number 392. “This is Tod Kramer’s locker.”

  Nate examined the locker door. The mysterious symbol of a hanging man was etched in the upper right corner, just as Gessner reported. Nate called no attention to the symbol, but tapped the locker to show Max which one to sniff. Max sniffed, but didn’t react.

  “Well, we took everything out of it,” Mr. Loman explained, glancing at a tattered notebook for the combination and spinning the dial. “All the contents of the lockers in question are being stored in Officer Carrillo’s office.”

  He turned the latch and opened the door.

  Max stuck his head in the locker and sniffed the corners and everywhere his head would reach. He seemed bored.

  Nate was satisfied. “Okay, let’s move on.”

  They headed down the hall. Two more lockers to go.

  Second lunch period. The lunchroom was full of students with sack lunches, vending-machine snacks, soft drinks, salads, and sweets. Music was playing over a sound system. Lockers up and down the halls were banging. Kids were talking loudly to each other so they could hear each other over all the kids talking loudly to each other.

  At first glance, they were one big, noisy crowd, but at second glance, this crowd had its subgroups, its tribes. At the center row of tables, the athletic ones were bragging and jabbing about sports, any sports, who was good and who was better; a few rows over, the math and science geeks hunched and huddled over their equations and pocket computers; on the far side, the artistic types talked about drama, The Crucible, a video project; against a row of lockers, a bunch of rowdy males performed their daily ritual of leaning against the cold metal and looking down their noses for weaker kids to pick on; and on a bench along the wall, a clump of dark-clothed, bizarre-looking outcasts glowered and formed a group by being different from everyone except each other.