She laughed. “If he were, I’d shake his hand.”
“He’s probably a maniac. Maybe he’s a black sheep wasting his entire family, and he’s sitting upstairs right now at the kitchen table eating a sandwich.” His voice fell to a whisper. “Maybe he’s stopped chewing on account of now he can hear our voices and realizes we’re not dead.”
“You don’t get it, do you? What we have here is one of the anti-slasher crowd who’s decided to make a point: Kill the school’s designated slasher. Crash the prom. Then, when no couple is slaughtered, reveal the deed and deal another blow to a savage system of sacrifice. What we’ve got to do is support him. We need to go to the prom, hang out through the time allotted for the killing and the search, and reveal ourselves once nobody’s killed and our guy stands up and gives his speech.”
She’s joking, he thought.
Then it occurred to him that she was serious.
“Are you crazy?” he asked. “Even if you’re right, we’d become martyrs along with the killer.”
“I don’t think so. We’d be national heroes. There might be a trial. But we’d be too hot to convict, and we’re certainly not accomplices to his crime. Then there’d be speaking and signing tours—”
“Signing what?”
“Our book of course. I’m Winnie Hauser, by the way.” A hand shot out. His rose and he let Winnie shake it. “The barbarity of prom night would be over and there’d’ve been created a link between housed and homeless that maybe just might get people’s attention.”
“You are crazy.”
“There’d be food and warmth, showers and a fresh change of clothes every day dependably. The anti’s would see to it. We would be their poster children. And when the power shifted, we’d be in an ideal spot to make sure things were done right.”
He considered.
Then he shook his head, the dummy lobebag tapping stupidly at his neck. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to take this dead guy’s cash, a closetful of clothes, and as much food as I can cram into his car, and head south, to Fort Lauderdale maybe. Give up your stupid dreams, that’s my advice, before you get killed.”
She tacked upon him. “If I’m wrong about our savior, they’ll think Notorious. And while… hey wait…”
Shit. She’d noticed.
“Come over here. Into the light.”
He didn’t move.
Winnie grabbed his arm. Yanking him toward the bulb, she turned his head and stared at his right ear.
He avoided her eyes, knowing what she saw.
Not the smooth stub of normal folks, but the imperfect tuck, like the knot atop an orange, of a dodger.
“You’re a promjumper,” she said. Contempt there. His silence confirmed it. “You grew up among them, attended their schools, enjoyed every advantage… and then you ran!”
“Spare me the litany,” he said, pulling away. “I chickened out, okay? I paid and paid plenty.”
Pursuit, capture, and two savage lobectomies raced through his memory.
Winnie approached him.
Softer: “What’s your name?”
“Brayton. Kittridge.”
“Well, Brayton Kittridge,” her hands were warm on his neck, “this is your chance, don’t you see, to make things right again. You come with me, confront the demons of the prom, and you can redeem the past. But if you shy away, I promise you, when they track us down and torture us and we find ourselves strapped in on Notorious, I’m gonna fix you with such a glare of hatred as we burn, that it’ll put their physical torments to shame.
“And I can do it, too!”
Poor feisty woman. Winnie thought she could read him and fix him-fix ordinary folks too, no doubt-as easily as she might mend a broken toy.
But he had been there.
Unlike Winnie, who had been brought up among the proudly rejected and knew nothing of the ones who rejected her, he understood their vile little hearts, the beast she expected to confront and best in one night.
Without him, she would do something dangerous, maybe even try to attend the dance unchaperoned.
“I… I guess you’re right,” he said, noting the attractive combination of strength and naivete in Winnie’s eyes. “We’ll give it a try. Oh but what about these?” He fingered his right stub and her pale-green friendship lobe, liking the way hers felt.
“I’m betting there’s a supply of Tuffskin somewhere in the house, give you some heft and cover my coloring,” she said. “It’s not ideal. But what with the subdued lighting at the dance, and given that we’ll try to avoid others until the moment of revelation, it just might work. Come on, Brayton, let’s look for it.”
“Call me Bray,” he said.
She huffed and grabbed his hand and yanked him stairward. He followed, admiring her thigh-swish and ankle-turn as they climbed the steps.
In the kitchen, the air cleared of death stench. But there were whiffs of gore that didn’t vanish even when he closed the cellar door, and a quick search of the house brought them face to face with the teacher’s wives.
“I think,” said Bray, staring down at the fresh corpses, “we ought to consider revising our opinion of our savior.”
“Poor things,” said Winnie. “But sometimes pawns must be sacrificed for the greater good. He had to kill the teacher. Maybe these two put up a struggle.”
“Does it look like they struggled? Phew, it’s amazing how quickly dead folks start to stink. Besides which, why didn’t he just truss them up? Why didn’t he lock that guy down there in a closet or something, roped many times over as tight as a mummy so he had no way to escape?”
“Beats me.” She picked up a packet from the end table. Its contents started to spill out the open end, but Winnie caught them in time. “Instructions for the designated slasher.”
“I think the wacko family member theory is starting to make a lot of sense. Either it’s totally coincidental our couch guy was murdered tonight, or his being chosen as slasher finally drove, I don’t know, maybe his son over the edge.”
Ignoring him, Winnie leafed through the documents.
“I bet the killer’s hundreds of miles away by now.”
Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle.
“He won’t be anywhere near the prom.”
Winnie glared at him. “Either way,” she said, “no couple will be sacrificed tonight. So either we’ll back what our savior has to say; or, if he doesn’t show, we’ll step forward to put our best spin on the student slaughter that wasn’t.”
End of discussion.
“While you’ve been standing there flapping your lips,” she went on, “I discovered some things: The dead guy’s name is Fronemeyer. An art teacher. Ah. Here’s a map of the town. They’ve even circled the school for us, thoughtful of them. Corundum High.”
No surprise. The deputies’s shoulder patches had had “Corundum, Kansas” sewn into them.
“Here are the intended victims’ names. Tweed Megrim and… Dexter Poindexter. Jeepers, what a name. And where they’ll be sitting during the stalking phase. Now, while I find the Tuffskin, you use the phone book-there can’t be too many Fronemeyers-and the map to figure out where we are in relation to the high school. Also, call the parents of these two kids and tell them their targeted darlings are safe.”
That seemed pointless. “I don’t think we—”
“Just do it,” Winnie said. “The more committed anti-slasher folks we can count on coming out of this, the better. If I have to plant terror in the hearts of hundreds of complacent mommies and daddies, so be it.”
She headed off.
It was a relief to regain the kitchen, away from the sight of neck slashes and the spills of blood that idled down the slain wives’ bodies.
In a cabinet above the wall phone, Bray found the white pages. Thin. One Fronemeyer. Moonglow Street, so short its name ran its length, no more than four miles from school.
