She toyed with smashing the lightbulb. She would grind hot shards of glass into his eyes in the darkness she had brought on, just to be sure.
But other matters needed attending to.
And the air wasn’t moving above his nostrils.
Delia slipped her foot back into the shoe and wiped down the lampstand.
Should she check on the janitor? No need. His bonds were surely as secure as the last time she had checked and the time before that.
Her heart thrilled with love.
Maybe Kitty Buttweiler had been lost to her twenty years before, Kitty and her cute date slain in sacrifice to the Ice Ghoul.
But there lay now before Delia, if she played the game right, the sweet prospect of loving Brest and Trilby Donner in secret.
She had to resist the temptation to keep on killing, as strong as that temptation was. More precisely, she needed to fit each remaining death into a grand scheme that would divert suspicion to Gerber Waddell.
She turned away from the tall doors and the false walls behind them, the myriad entrances to the backways.
No.
She would leave by the band room door.
She would run in panic down the corridors to the gym.
Had blood splashed her gown? If so, that was all to the good. It would corroborate her story, make it more chilling, more convincing.
Behind her, as she left, all was still and silent.
“You’re squeezing my hand,” said Tweed.
Dex became aware how tense he was, from his shoulders to his fingers. He let go. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
He stroked the small of her back and gave a nervous laugh. “I’m just…” He set his punch glass on the refreshment table. “It’s just that it’s hard standing here doing nothing when some… some son of a bitch is—”
“I know, Dex.”
“And Jiminy Jones. He was so all of it, is the music-and his angry baton slashes when the trumpets rushed.”
“I liked Mr. Jones too.”
Dex hung his head.
All his life, he had been steeling himself for this night, ready to fend off attack despite his fear, eager for the moment when the bell that meant freedom sounded at last.
Now that bell had rung and he had felt the elation of survival. Then he had discovered, as had they all, that their survival was by no means assured. Attack could come at random, from any quarter. It was no longer a controlled quantity within a measurable slice of time.
Dex turned to Tweed. “I want to be brave. But it’s so hard. He could be anyone. He could be within reach of us right now.”
“I know.”
“I’m scared, Tweed. It’s one thing to… how can I defend us from this? I’m just some stupid kid who… no, wait, I’m a man, I can do this thing, I can do it.”
Then the tears came, and Tweed crushed her crinkly dress against his body. She hugged him fiercely, braver by far than he.
It wasn’t fair.
He would lose her for being a coward. She would pretend nurture now, but when they were out of the woods, she would drop him for some other guy.
He had felt brave earlier. He had prepped for braveness. He had even secretly lusted to go into teaching one day, instilling in the young a love of the greater vices perhaps.
Like Jonquil Brindisi.
What moved people to do what they did? The question had always fascinated him. Besides, it would give him a shot at being the designated slasher some day, taking out bullies like Stymie Glumm or Angelo Manglebaum.
He would never tell Tweed’s father that. Nor would he argue against the anti-slasher cause with him.
No. The law said Mr. Megrim was entitled to his opinion, as long as he limited himself to talk alone. In time, he would come to accept his son-in-law’s differing stance on the issue.
Dex’s tears began anew.
All of that was past.
“I’ve got to… to get it together.”
“Dex,” soothed Tweed in his ear, “let it fall apart for a while, okay? You’re in my arms. You’re safe here. Just let it fall apart. It’ll come together soon enough.”
Dex buried his sobs in her hair, the aroma of hair spray cloying but comforting.
As distraught as they all were, he didn’t want his classmates to see him crying.
They would remember afterwards, when this nightmare was over. It might ruin his rep. It might condemn him and Tweed and their chosen mate to a life of poverty and scorn on the outskirts of society. Prom bravery counted for much. Tonight might be judged differently, but he didn’t want to bank on that.
“I guess,” he said, calming, “I guess I just prefer… you know, everything in its place.”
“You do.” Tweed stroked his hair. “You’re that way. But tonight we’ve got to roll with the punches. It’s tougher than we thought it would be, that’s all.”
“It is.”
“Dex, just know that I love you and I’m with you, no matter what happens. Whoever’s doing this will be caught, and killed, and torn apart. Futzy and his staff will see to that. They’ve got to, they really do. Have faith in them.”
“I will,” he said, wiping the tears on his tuxedo sleeve.
But inside, Dex had no faith at all in Principal Buttweiler and his staff, who, from the look on their faces, had not the slightest clue about how to bring the rogue killer to justice.
Peach had never seen anyone look as stunned as Bowser McPhee.
To tell the truth, Peach couldn’t believe what was going on either.
The multiplying bodies were bad enough.
Some teacher had gone off his nut.
Eventually, she had no doubt, he would be found and futtered. A few more classmates would eat it and the school would gain some notoriety, but Peach was sure she would survive.
Death-her own, that is-was not within the realm of possibility.
Bowser was a bit more upset by the killings than she. But what really seemed to torque him out, and how could Peach blame him, was Fido’s reaction.
Fido had paled and woozed-and simply walked away from her and Bowser.
Right straight to the fat chicks over yonder, a pair of mustachioed slugs pup-tented in plug-ugly, wallpaper- inspired dresses whose green and magenta blooms splashed garishly everywhere.
In-fucking-credible!
“I can’t believe he did that,” Bowser repeated. “The simpering little bastard took a hike.”
“He wants to marry a couple of blimps!” The nerve of anyone rejecting her for two lard-lugging losers like Kyla Gorg and Patrice Menuci.
“He was my forever.” The poor boy was really broken up. “How’s he gonna get home? What’ll I tell my folks?”
Ms. Brindisi and Mr. Versailles were speaking at the mike like Academy Award presenters.
The sheriff’s body had been carried to the band risers, a tarp thrown over him and the music teacher.
Peach wished they had joined the other dead folks in front of the Ice Ghoul. Putting them on the risers
