There would be no more bullshit in his life. He loved this woman. Why should he hide it? He wanted every godforsaken soul in the world to know that Futzy Buttweiler loved Adora Phipps.
He returned her hug. Then he spoke to the crowd massed before him.
There stood the Borgstroms, their eagerness to savage some deserving bastard, any deserving bastard, shining out even in darkness.
Beside the Borgstroms were Dexter Poindexter and Tweed Megrim, the night’s intended victims who had by some strange chance escaped their fate and were now willing, brave souls, to tempt it again.
And, for all Futzy knew to the contrary, beyond their narrow perimeter of flitting torches, sick dimwitted Gerber Waddell himself lent an ear, knife in hand, ready to rush them at any moment.
Futzy kept his voice low, both to draw close their conspiratorial circle and to shut out the janitor, if indeed he were listening in.
“We’re in the midst of a grave crisis, my friends,” he began.
“Hey, Futzy,” one of the newer teachers piped up. “Cut the crap, will you? There’s no time for it.”
That stung.
Futzy felt tempted to sting back.
Then he admitted to the merits of the remark, simplified, clarified, and began anew.
“I suggest,” he said, “that we stay in pairs, divvy up the school, and move out, one flashlight to a pair. Everyone is to be armed. Adora and I have gathered some cutlery.” He gestured to a pile of knives at his feet. “Take a couple. If you find the janitor, strike first and save your questions for later. Don’t be jittery and don’t go off half-cocked. Be fully cocked and ready for anything.”
“What about the students?” asked Claude.
It struck Futzy for the first time: Jonquil Brindisi, who usually cleaved to Claude at these affairs, was nowhere to be seen. He prayed she hadn’t come to a bad end. He would miss her spice and spirit.
Nurse Gaskin was absent as well, she who had witnessed the death of Bix Donner and been unable to stop it. Futzy hoped the poor woman wouldn’t be permanently scarred by that experience.
“The students,” said Futzy. “An excellent point, Claude. As you comb your portion of the school, gather them up, keep them close about you. And shout out to Gerber to give himself up. Offer him clemency, leniency, anything to lure him out of the backways. Our kids are smart. They’ll go along to save their necks. But Gerber, despite the cunning he seems to have displayed tonight, is still at heart a simple-minded feeb. He’ll buy into the big lie. Then we’ll savage him.”
It was tempting to speak up, but Futzy kept his remarks close to the chest. The Ice Ghoul seemed to strain forward to hear, struggling to split itself off from the darkness, rise to its full height, crane its bull neck, lumber forward, and kill them all.
A crazy notion came over the principal: He fancied that the janitor had squeezed up into the Ice Ghoul’s hollowed-out head, directional mikes in its ears, and heard his entire plan.
Futzy dismissed that as paranoia.
Directly before him, hand in hand, stood Dex and Tweed. Adora, finding them hunkered down in the band room, had persuaded them to come along to the gym.
She gave Futzy’s arm a squeeze.
It was time.
“Mr. and Mrs. Borgstrom, you two explore the butchery wing. Claude, I want you and… and Brest-Trilby, you stay here with Pill-to scour the science labs. Dexter and Tweed, you’ve got the stairwells.”
Futzy’s inner map of Corundum High flashed by as he doled out sector after sector. He didn’t want any place overlooked. To himself and Adora, he assigned the band room.
“Take time to do it right,” he said. “Don’t skimp, don’t shortchange. When you’re finished, bring yourselves and any kids you’ve rounded up to the auditorium. If you find Gerber Waddell, send runners there.
“And good luck to you all.”
Crowding forward, their flashlights crazily stabbing downward, they delved into the cutlery, as somber a group as Futzy had ever seen. He was reminded of the solemn clatter of communion trays passed hand to hand, tiny glasses of grape juice lifted out with a clink.
Adora squeezed his hand and brought it to her lips. “Good plan, darling.”
“We’ll get him,” he assured her.
“I love you, Futzy,” said Adora, her eyes beaming with pride.
“And I love you, dear lady.”
Futzy felt no cause for confidence.
Yet oddly enough he was confident.
He looked forward to tossing Trusk and Torment out of his life for good-they would be amazed at the new vigor in him as he threw their sorry asses off the front porch-and installing Adora Phipps there instead.
She would glow.
So would he.
And Kitty, at last, would be laid to rest.
But first—Futzy stooped and grabbed a shish kabob skewer to complement his snubnose—they had a rogue janitor to subdue.
Trilby sat in a folding chair behind the refreshments. Pill lay slumped on her lap, a thumb stuck deep in her mouth.
Stroking her daughter’s hair, Trilby made soothing sounds and gently rocked her.
Above them, among the rafters, floated the dim shape of a basketball hoop and backboard that had been cranked up and away. From the ill-lit expanse before them rose the Ice Ghoul, the lines of its frame harsh and cutting, its face obscured by shadow.
But Trilby was unafraid.
A madman had murdered her husband, spooked her little girl, and thrown her household into chaos. Yet she feared neither for her life nor for Pill’s.
They would survive and grow strong.
Before Brest left with Claude Versailles to check out the science labs, she had hugged Trilby and Pill. “Sit tight,” she had said. “We’ll be back soon.” But as she said it, she had worn her stone face, tight and drawn, her eyes clamped down upon her feelings. There was no telling how tonight’s mayhem had affected her, nor how it had affected their future.
Don’t think about it.
Pay attention to Pill.
Pill had witnessed a murder, under threat of discovery and slaughter herself. She had heard her father’s death announced before a frightened crowd of promgoers.
“There, there,” she said. “That’s my Pill.” Her hand stroked the angel-smooth hair above her daughter’s neck. Tonight’s terrors might cause Pill to develop too early her lust for blood.
Or she might never do so.
Trilby didn’t know which would be worse.
No, that wasn’t so.
If Pill were inadequately socialized, she would be treated as an odd duck, open to taunts and jeers and the most hurtful kind of bullying.
Worse, she might join the anti’s.
Pill had a fiercely independent streak. If she were permanently damaged over this-and the magnitude of tonight’s trauma threatened to make that a certainty-she might join the crazies who, as they claimed, used violence to end violence. Eventually, she would be taken out by government forces.
Stop, she thought. You’re hurtling into a terrible future. This will not come to pass!
“We’ll come through this okay, honey,” she said, her voice catching. “We just have… to be strong.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
Pill lay against her like an inert sack of pudding and bone, her eyes open but unfocused, slow blinks lidded upon them like an infant dull with sleep. Her thumb-sucking came and went but the thumb stayed firmed ensconced in her mouth.
