Hangman's Curse (5 page)

“Jim Boltz's locker,” he said.

“Thoroughly searched by myself and the health department,” Carrillo reminded them.

“But did anyone notice this?” Gessner pointed to a small scratch mark in the upper right corner of the door.

They examined it closely. Nate put on a pair of glasses for an even closer look.

“What about it?” Carrillo asked.

“A hanging man,” said Nate.

“Exactly,” said Gessner.

Carrillo had to take a second look. “Well, I'll be.”

“I checked the lockers of the other two victims, Tod Kramer and Doug Anderson. They have the same mark, a tiny hanging figure scratched in the paint. The connection with Abel Frye is obvious.”

“I checked the lockers of the other two victims, Tod Kramer and Doug Anderson. They have the same mark, a tiny hanging figure scratched in the paint. The connection with Abel Frye is obvious.”

“So,” said Nate, “whether it's a ghost or not, somebody's up to something.”

“Could be a sick prank,” said Carrillo. “Something done after the victims were hit.”

“Of course,” said Gessner. “But you'll notice the five-pointed shape, as if derived from a pentagram, a symbol used in witchcraft. These days, witchcraft and satanism among high school students are not uncommon, and from what I hear from the students, they could be happening here.”

“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 with 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

T
he 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.