Lost Girls

chapter 20

There's an orange line down the middle of the Georgian Lakes High School parking lot that separates the pickup trucks from the rest of the cars. A sign at the entrance clearly tells you which way to go: TRUCKS to the left and PARKING to the right. It can't be a space concern, as the lot stretches far beyond where the vehicles end, all the way to a wire fence that divides the pavement from the cemetery beyond. Maybe it's a kind of mechanical social club, the trucks preferring the exclusive company of their own kind and the cars just having to get along with each other in the automotive melting pot. And they're all here: the peppy Japanese sidled up to the overfed Americans and, standing alone among them, the silent Germans, conserving their energy. To the left the pickups sit solemnly together, backs to the crowd. Bumpers and rear windows pasted with their founding principles: REGISTER MY FIREARMS? NO FUCKING WAY! and ASS, GAS, OR GRASS--NOBODY RIDES FOR FREE. But whatever the rationale for the rule I obey it along with everyone else and park the Lincoln at the end of the line of cars, an overbearing guest that everyone pretends not to notice.

It's a long walk to the steel doors at the backside of the school's main building, past the whittled benches of the smoking area and the cluster of yellow portables, each slightly lopsided on shifting cement blocks. Beyond them the playing-field goalposts raise their arms to the sky as though praying for rescue. The shouts and whistles of athletic practice. A flutter of papery carbon drifting down from the incinerator's smokestack.

This is all as I expected, but once inside I'm suddenly disoriented. I thought I'd feel grown up, an oversize man high above the gaggle of children, the hallway drinking fountains passing at my knees. But instead everything feels enlarged, stark and looming under the fluorescent lights. Especially all the dark-eyed kids standing at their lockers on either side of me, staring out at passersby like penitentiary inmates. Many boys and some of the platform-shoed girls as tall as me, some taller. They say nothing as I go by, but there's still a confusion of noise: resumed conversations and scoffing laughter over my shoulder, a muffle of late-eighties AC/DC played too loud over the PA between classes. Yet all of them notice me, their faces set to show how unimpressed they are that an unidentified adult is passing through their school.

Or not just any adult. Bartholomew Crane. Mr. Tripp's lawyer, the guy whose picture was in last week's Phoenix. Maybe it's not adolescent rudeness that makes them stare; maybe they know who I am. And who else would I be? Nobody around here wears shoes like this or a shiny satin tie of handpainted orchids. Even the gawky grade nines have figured it out, young enough to point at my face without concern that I may have seen them do it. And aren't those the doughnut-shop girls standing up ahead, there in the corner next to the trophy case? It's hard to tell, their individual faces too close together. I probably couldn't recognize them anyway, not having gotten a good look the first time. But I decide it must be them. And though I can't hear anything above the electric guitar solo now shattering down on us all from the ceiling speakers, I know they're talking about me.

I turn the corner farthest from where they stand and slide along the wall. Push aside a couple of guys in Dungeons & Dragons Tshirts on my way into the principal's office. But when I look back through the window the doughnut-shop girls are gone, washed away in the rough stream of passing kids.

''Can I help you?'' the secretary behind the counter is asking me, maybe for the third time.

''I have an appointment with Principal Warren.''

''Oh, yes.''

It's not until after the secretary has flicked a switch on the panel beside her and spoken--''Mr. Crane here to see you''--that I realize she never asked for my name.

''Would you like to take a seat?'' she asks me, and I would, but before I can make a move Principal Warren is shuffling out at me from her office, her legs constrained by a long wool skirt coiled tight around her hips.

''Mr. Crane,'' she says with a trace of exasperation, as though she'd been looking for me all over the place.

''Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,'' I say, extending my hand. But instead of shaking it she slides her fingers across my palm as though wiping something off her hand onto mine.

''My office?''

''Fine.''

I follow the moving pillar of her skirt into a small cement room decorated by yellowed certificates set in crooked frames. On her desk, a family photograph posed before a gas fireplace--wife nested in an armchair and behind her two boys in braces with a chunky husband gathering them up by the shoulders--that somehow looks as though it were generated by a computer. Principal Warren herself is now standing above me next to her desk, looking down at me with the same expression as in the family photo: impatient, suspicious, but also vaguely distressed, as though she'd eaten something too spicy at lunch.

''The Board's lawyer tells me I'm not compelled to answer your questions,'' she says with a voice that comes out in the discrete blasts of machine-gun fire. Rat-a-tat-tat-tat. ''But I want to be fair.''

''I understand.''

''Because it's important to make clear that this whole thing--well, it's pretty much torn this school apart.''

''I can appreciate that.''

''But we've made every effort to ease the pain. Unprecedented counseling resources have been made available. I have done all I can do, given the circumstances. And yet I also have to tell you that I'm aware--on an unofficial level--that there are certain individuals--certain parties--that have taken the view that I'm partially to blame for what happened. And this concerns me, as you can appreciate. From a legal as well as the more obvious personal perspective.''

''Blame you? How?''

''That I failed to remove Mr. Tripp from his duties prior to the event. That I could have prevented things.''

She blinks once, slow as a drawn curtain between scenes, and when she goes on it's in a more openly agitated tone.

''Which is a claim that I regard--it's ridiculous. I mean, it's well and good in hindsight to say somebody should have kept him away from--but prior to the fact, you know, it's very difficult--there're proper procedures. There're policies. You can't just fire teachers because you notice certain personality--certain oddities.''

She stops now, breathless, still standing inches from my knees. What I took to be suspicion now a barely restrained desperation on her face. And it's this look that makes it clear: she thinks she's in trouble. She might not get that 2.4 percent raise as per the collective agreement that also allows for certain exceptions in cases of extreme incompetence. So she agreed to talk to me because if she gets called as a witness in the trial she wants to show how nobody could have known in advance that Tripp was a killer. And maybe that's not her only worry. It's a small town. Parents are upset. The Board has promised to look into things. There've been whisperings of negligence, suspension, civil actions. She's talking to me to save herself.

''Well, now,'' she starts again, ''how can I be of assistance to you, then, Mr. Crane?''

''A little history would be nice. Specifically, I'm wondering how you would characterize Thom's behavior prior to the girls' disappearance. Why don't we start there.''

''His behavior.'' She releases a tremulous sigh. ''Well, we had noticed some changes, to be honest. But you have to appreciate that Mr. Tripp had an impeccable teaching record. Committed to his students, a jovial presence in the staff lounge, even popular with the parents. And never stingy on his availability for extracurriculars. So I feel it was entirely understandable that for the first while I was prepared to give him some time to sort things out.''

''Sort what things out?''

''His personal life. An area I knew little about, I must confess, so I can't really be expected--''

''What evidence was there that he'd changed?''

''Oh--how do I put this? I suppose you could say he was distracted. Some students made note of it. It's all in his file. I did have some student teachers sit in on his class to take notes--to observe his performance from a casual perspective--but beyond that my hands were tied. I mean, as you may be aware, there are quite stringent union regulations which protect--''

''So you sent in your spies. And what did they find?''