The Academy (Moving In Series Book 6) (12 page)

Phil was the only student Charlie liked to talk to in this class. Phil was a little eccentric, his clothes were always dirty and his hair was never washed. It was because Phil’s mom had tried to kill him when he was a toddler, right before she killed herself. Some of the other seniors gave Phil a hard time. Harassed him about his hygiene, called him ‘Filthy Phil’.

“Charlie,” Mr. White said, “everything okay?”

“Ah, yeah,” Charlie said, facing his teacher. “Sorry. I was just wondering where Phil was.”

“Phil had a difficult morning,” Mr. White said. Some of the other kids in the class snickered, and Mr. White gave them a harsh look. They went silent.

“What happened?” Charlie asked. He had come in late and then spent the rest of the morning hanging out in the shop class with Mr. Osterman. The remainder of his time had been spent with Annie, and she hadn’t passed any rumors or stories along.

“Phil evidently got in a fight with Ian Potter,” Mark Ayotte said.

“What?” Charlie said, surprised. “Phil never fights.”

“No,” Mr. White said harshly, “that’s not the truth, Mark.”

“What happened?” Charlie asked, looking to Mr. White.

“Ian Potter punched Phil in the back of the head while he was walking to Deer Stag,” Mr. White said. “And when he fell down, Ian poured shampoo over him.”

Dan Little chuckled, among others.

“Other seniors joined in,” Mr. White continued, a deep anger in his voice silenced the class. “No one said any names, but it is being investigated further.”

Charlie looked at Dan and saw the smug expression on the blonde boy’s face. Dan and Ian were best friends, and Charlie knew, without a doubt, that Dan had been one to dump shampoo out, too.

Anger flooded into Charlie, and he stood up, fists clenched as he stared down at Dan. Dan’s blue eyes widened.

“Charlie,” Mr. White said, stepping towards him.

A sharp clack cut off the rest of Mr. White’s sentence.

Charlie turned to face the door, as did Mr. White and the rest of the class.

Phil Roth stood in the doorway. His hair was matted with shampoo, his blue dress shirt stained with the same. In his long-fingered hands, he held a .45 caliber pistol. The weapon was steady, the dark metal gleaming obscenely in the fluorescent light. Phil stared at Dan Little and pulled the trigger.

The sound was louder than anything Charlie had ever heard. Flames shot from the end of the weapon. Someone screamed, and then another person shrieked.

Something heavy and powerful punched Charlie in the chest, spun him backward while a second blow hit him in the lower back. He felt his knees loosen, and Charlie fell, striking his head on a desk before he slid down to rest his face on Dan’s bloody chest. Charlie winced, his lungs were in a vice, and he struggled to take each breath.

Dan trembled beneath him and Charlie watched, horrified and fascinated as blood seeped out of Dan’s Metallica t-shirt. With each inhalation, bubbles formed and popped in the other boy’s blood.

Several more shots were fired, followed by a delicate sound, as if someone was ringing a brass bell.

Shell casings,
Charlie thought faintly.
They’re hitting the floor.

He turned his head slowly and saw Phil.

The young man hadn’t moved from his position in the doorway. While Charlie watched, Phil switched magazines on the semi-automatic pistol. He dropped the empty one and slammed the fresh magazine into position. Phil chambered a round, brought the weapon up and began to shoot again.

He’s finishing us off,
Charlie realized. He tried to move, but he couldn’t. He could barely breathe.

Phil fired a few more rounds, looked down at Charlie and smiled sadly.

“I’m sorry, Charles,” Phil said, his voice muffled by the ringing in Charlie’s ears. “I really am. I pulled the trigger too quickly. Lost control of the weapon. If it’s any consolation, you’ll be dead in a minute or two. You’re bleeding out.”

What sort of consolation is that?
Charlie thought, trying to get his mouth to form the question. But it refused.

“It’s okay, though,” Phil said. “I’ll be dead before you.”

Phil turned the weapon around, put the mouth of it up into the fleshy underside of his chin, and pulled the trigger. The young man collapsed as his brains and bits of skull splattered up and struck the ceiling.

Faintly, Charlie heard screams and a fire alarm adding to the noise. He watched Phil’s blood drip down from the wall and the ceiling. A chunk of skull hung on tenaciously for a moment, and then it fell.

Charlie felt his heart stutter, and he fought for breath.

I’m dying,
Charlie realized. With a tremendous amount of effort, he turned his head away and locked his eyes on the first item to catch his attention. It was his copy of
The Maltese Falcon
. The book lay on its back.

Oh damn,
Charlie thought.
I won’t even find out how it ends.

Charlie closed his eyes. Each breath cost him a tremendous amount of effort, and he didn’t want to even try anymore. He could feel himself grow weaker. An image of Annie appeared. She smiled at him, happy to see him. Eager to be with him.

I love you, Annie,
Charlie thought, and his last breath was a sigh.

Chapter 32: A Strange Situation

Brian stared at his brother. He watched as Charlie walked alongside a young woman and Nathaniel Weiss, then disappeared as they went behind a building.

His heart beat mutinously in his chest and Brian fought the urge to get up and run onto the Academy grounds. He managed to retain control over his emotions, but his hands trembled as he pulled his phone out and called Jenny.

She didn’t answer. He left her a message, asking her to call him back, and ended the call. Brian stood up, stuffed his phone back into his pocket and turned around. He headed towards Broad Street. Mitchell and Leann lived on Mystic Street, off of Broad. Brian’s thoughts were confused, hazy. He was able to focus on Mitchell’s house, and little else.

His brain cleared when he found himself knocking on the front door.

Leann answered it. Her red hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she had a smile on her face. “Hey, Brian.”

The smile faded as she saw his expression. “Jesus Christ, Brian, what’s wrong?”

“I need to speak with Mitchell,” Brian whispered. “Is he home?”

“Yes, of course, come on in,” she said, stepping aside and holding the door open for him. Brian walked in clumsily, and Leanne took hold of his arm with a strong, firm grip. She led him to a chair, eased him down into it and hurried out of the room, calling for Mitchell.

Brian’s cousin came into the room in an old t-shirt and a pair of paint-splattered shorts. He had on sandals, and he looked at Brian with concern. Mitchell sat down across from Brian and Leann was back, a moment later, with a tall glass of water.

“Drink this,” she said, handing it to Brian.

He accepted it with a nod, drank it down quickly, and handed it back to Leann.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

She patted him on the arm and left the room.

“Brian,” Mitchell said, “what’s wrong?”

“I was in the park,” Brian said, looking at Mitchell. “I was watching the school, trying to see if any of the dead were wandering around.”

“Were they?” Mitchell asked.

Brian nodded. “I saw Gregory Weston and Nathaniel Weiss. Then I saw two more with Weiss. I don’t know who the girl was, but the teenage boy who was with him, it was Charlie.”

Mitchell shook his head, confused. “Charlie who?”

Before Brian could answer, Mitchell’s eyes widened, and he stiffened in his chair.

“No,” Mitchell hissed. “No, oh God, Brian, no.”

Brian nodded.

“How can your brother be there?” Mitchell asked. “We buried him. There was a church funeral. A priest said the mass. He shouldn’t be there.”

“I know,” Brian said. “It might be because he was killed in the school. It’s all I can think of.”

Mitchell was quiet for a moment. “Is there any way you can help him?”

“Not that I know of,” Brian said. “Someone might be able to, but I don’t have any skill in it.”

“Do you think he remembers it?” Mitchell asked hesitantly.

Brian shrugged. “He might. He might not. I don’t know. Everyone is different. He could remember every damned bit of his death, or he could have no idea he’s even dead.”

Mitchell looked at him for a minute before he asked gently, “Do you want me to call Jenny for you?”

Brian shook his head. “Thanks. I already left a message for her.”

“Okay,” Mitchell said, rubbing his chin nervously. “Does this mean you won’t be able to stop Weiss?”

“What?” Brian asked. “No. Hell no. I’ll figure it out. And, speaking of figuring things out, I think I learned why Weiss wanted Gregory Weston out.”

“Why?” Mitchell asked, leaning forward.

“Weston will wreak havoc by walking free,” Brian said. “When I spoke with Ernest in the cemetery, he told me his father was an egomaniac. He loves the idea of control, and by controlling Weston, he has another tool for destruction at his command.”

“That’s terrible news,” Mitchell said dejectedly, sitting back.

Brian nodded.

“What are you going to do now?”

“I need to see what to do about Charlie,” Brian said, “I’m not leaving my brother there.”

Mitchell nodded, and Brian knew his cousin understood. Mitchell had been there for Brian when Charlie had been murdered. He had been there when Brian’s father had drunk himself to death, and his mother had gone away for nearly a year to the State mental hospital. Mitchell’s parents had taken Brian in and cared for him.

Brian looked at his cousin, forced a smile and made himself stand up.

“Are you leaving?” Mitchell asked, surprised.

“Yeah,” Brian replied. “I need to get back to the hotel. I have to do some research before I try to tackle Weiss.”

“Brian,” Mitchell said, getting to his feet. “Why don’t you have dinner with us tonight? I can give you a ride to the hotel after.”

Leann appeared in the doorway and for the first time, Brian realized he could smell a meatloaf. Leann was wiping her hands on a dish towel as she smiled at him.

“You can’t leave,” she said.

“No?” Brian asked, wanting nothing more than to be in the hotel and alone with his grief.

“No,” Leann said, shaking her head. “I will take it as a personal insult if you don’t have dinner with us. And then I’ll call Jenny and tell her how you refused to eat.”

A small smile crept onto Brian’s face. “She’ll kill me.”

Leann nodded.

“This is blackmail,” Brian said, relaxing slightly.

“Call it an incentive program,” Leann said, grinning. “Listen, I’ve got some iced tea steeping. It should be ready soon. Go sit in the sun room.”

Brian nodded, and he let Mitchell guide him out of the living room. Mitchell put an arm around Brian’s shoulders and said, “You’ll figure it out, Brian. I know you will.”

Brian couldn’t answer. His brother’s murder was fresh in his thoughts again, the world suddenly blurred by the tears in his eyes.

Chapter 33: A Curious Darkness

Bruce and Maureen Ricard walked along the same route they had followed for twenty-seven years. Their nightly stroll carried them down past the Rose Garden, along Franklin Street, and over to Washington. They would pass directly by Northfield Free Academy where they each had taught for over thirty years.

Their time at the school had been enjoyable, for the most part. The shooting which had taken place in 1989, still haunted them both. The murderous rampage had sickened them both.

Bruce even had Charlie Roy the class before. Every time he thought about the event, which was usually once a week, he wished he hadn’t given Charlie a difficult time. The boy hadn’t turned in his homework, Bruce distinctly remembered it had been on the New Deal, and Bruce had insisted it be handed in the next day.

Nothing out of the ordinary
, Bruce thought, turning his attention to the Academy as they passed by it. But the day had turned out to be anything but ordinary.

Bruce had led the charge into Adrienne Hall. A few other teachers and a pair of seniors had followed him. Halfway up the stairs they had heard a single shot, and Bruce had known it was the shooter.

Coward had killed himself,
Bruce thought, frowning.

“Bruce,” Maureen said softly.

He turned his attention away from the school and looked at her. “Yes?”

“Stop it,” she said.

Bruce nodded.

They followed the sidewalk as it turned to the right, cutting across the last section of the Academy’s property. The cement path ran behind Deer Stag House, and it marked the apex of their nightly walk. From then on, they would loop back towards the house.

The two of them had heard about the destruction of the toilets, and rumors about strange events happening afterwards. A quick glance at the back of Deer Stag revealed yellow caution tape which was strung up, cordoning off the building. Bruce shook his head turned to speak to Maureen and realized she had come to a stop.

His wife stood perfectly still, her attention fixed firmly on the house.

“Everything okay?” Bruce asked.

Maureen didn’t answer. Instead, she reached up, adjusted a stray lock of her gray hair and smiled absently.

“Maureen?”

She ignored him. The smile was replaced by a frown and he heard her whisper, “Are you sure?”

A panic flashed through Bruce’s thoughts.
Is she having a stroke? Is she sick?

Before he could answer his own question, Maureen bent down and picked up a discarded beer bottle that someone had thrown into an azalea bush. When Maureen straightened up, she was holding the brown glass firmly by the long neck. Only traces of the label remained, the bottle obscenely large in her small hand.

“Maureen,” Bruce said, his anxiety increasing. “Are you okay?”

She turned to face him. Her expression was one of outrage.