her.
“Kimberly, wait,” I say. I want to ask her what she means about Lindsay and Coach Andrews. She can’t possibly mean what I think she means. Can she? I mean, Coach Andrews? He seems like such a… well… putz.
But Kimberly just sashays out of the room. Not surprisingly, she doesn’t even say goodbye.
I stand there, staring at the door the girls have just disappeared through. Lindsay and Coach Andrews?
But even if it were true, and he’s a potential suspect, I can’t think of a reason why Coach Andrews might kill Lindsay. Lindsay’s over eighteen. Yeah, okay, the college disapproves of faculty sleeping with their students. But it isn’t like Coach Andrews would ever get fired over it. He’s Phillip Allington’s golden boy, the man who is going to lead New York College back to Division I glory… somehow. Or something. Coach Andrews could sleep his way through the entire Women’s Studies Department and the trustees wouldn’t blink an eye, so long as the Pansies keep winning games.
So why would he kill Lindsay?
And what had that little brat called me? Desk jockey? I’m way more than just a desk jockey. Fischer Hall would fall apart if it weren’t for me. Why does she think I’m asking so many questions about Lindsay, anyway? Because I care about that place, and the people who live in it. If it weren’t for me, how many more girls would have died last semester? If it weren’t for me, nobody would get their vending machine refunds. How would Kimberly Watkins like living in Fischer Hallthen?
Fuming, I leave the ladies’ room. The hallway outside is dead silent. That’s because, I realize, the girls have started their tribute to Lindsay back in the gym, and everyone has hurried back to their seats to watch it. I can hear the faint strains of the school song, played real slow, just like they’d said they’d have the band do it. I sort of want to be in there watching, too.
But I haven’t gotten Tom’s nachos yet, or Pete’s soda. Not to mention Cooper’s popcorn. Now is actually a good time to do so, with everyone inside watching Lindsay’s sweater ascend to the rafters. Maybe there won’t be a line at the concession stand.
I turn the corner, hurrying past empty squash court after empty squash court—if Sarah ever took a serious look around the sports center, she’d come up with a lot more reasons to complain about how the Psychology Department is treated. There must be twenty or thirty million of the Winer family’s dollars poured into this building alone. It’s almost brand-new, with special ID card scanner gates you have to pass through to get in. Even the soda machines have built-in scanners so you can buy a can of Coke using your dining card… .
Except, for such fancy, new-fangled soda machines, they sure seem to be making a funny noise. Not the usual electronic—and, let’s admit it, to a soda-lover, comforting—hum, but a sort of thud—thud—thud.
But soda machines don’t thud.
Then I see, suddenly, that I’m not the only person in the hallway. When I come around the side of the bank of soda machines, I see that the thudding noises are coming from the hilt of a long kitchen knife as it repeatedly strikes the ribs of a man in a sports coat and tie. The man lies slumped against the wall to one side of the soda machines, and above him crouch three other men, each wearing half a basketball over his face, with small slits cut out in the rubber so that they can see.
When all three men hear my scream—because if you come across a scene like this when you are just walking along minding your own business, thinking about nachos, you’re going to scream—they turn their heads toward me—three half basketballs, with eye slits cut in them, swiveling my way.
Of course, I scream again. Because, excuse me, but, creepy.
Then one of the men pulls the knife out of the man on the floor. It makes a sickening sucking sound. The blade that has just come out of the man is dark and slick with blood. My stomach lurches at the sight of it.
It’s only when the man with the knife says, “Run,” to his companions that I realize what I’ve just done— stumbled across the scene of a crime.
But they don’t seem interested in killing me. In fact, they seem interested in getting away from me as quickly as possible, at least if the squeaking of their sneaker soles on the polished floor is any indication as they flee.
Then, the New York College fight song (Hail to thee New York College / Colors gold and white / We will honor you forever / Bite them, Cougars, bite! — the words to the song not having been changed after New York College lost its Division I standing and mascot) playing dimly in the background, I sink to my knees at the side of the injured man, trying to remember what I’d learned in the emergency first- aid seminar Dr. Jessup had over Winter Break. It was only what information they could cram into an hour, but I do recall that first and foremost, it’s important to call for help—a feat I accomplish by whipping out my cell phone and dialing Cooper’s cell number, the first one that pops into my head.
It takes him three rings to answer. I guess Lindsay’s tribute must be especially moving.
“Somebody’s been stabbed by the squash courts,” I say into the phone. It’s important to stay calm in an emergency. I learned that during my assistant hall director training. “Call for an ambulance and the cops. The guys who did it are wearing basketball masks. Don’t let anyone in basketball masks leave. And get a first-aid kit. And get down here!”
“Heather?” Cooper asks. “Heather—what?Where are you?”
I repeat everything I’ve just said. As I do, I look down at the stabbed man, and realize, with sudden horror, that I know him.
It’s Manuel, Julio’s nephew.
“Hurry!” I shriek into the phone. Then I hang up. Because the blood from Manuel’s body is starting to pool around my knees.
Whipping off my sweater, I stuff it into the gaping hole in Manuel’s stomach. I don’t know what else to do. The emergency first-aid course we took didn’t cover multiple stab wounds to the gut.
“You’re going to be all right,” I tell Manuel. He’s looking up at me with half-lidded eyes. The blood around him is gelatinous and almost black as it seeps into my jeans. I stuff my sweater more deeply into the biggest hole I can find, keeping my fingers pressed over it. “Manuel, you’re going to be fine. Just hang on, okay? Help will be here in a minute.”
“H-Heather,” Manuel rasps. Blood bubbles up out of his mouth. I know this is not a good sign.
“You’re going to be fine,” I say, trying to sound like I believe it. “You hear me, Manuel? You’re going to be just fine.”
“Heather,” Manuel says. His voice is nothing more than a wheeze. “It was me. I gave it to her.”
Pressing hard against the wound—blood has soaked through my sweater and is gathering under my fingernails—I say, “Don’t talk, Manuel. Help is on its way.”
“She asked me for it,” Manuel says. He’s obviously delirious with blood loss and pain. “She asked me for it, and I gave it to her. I knew I shouldn’t’ve, but she was crying. I couldn’t say no. She was… she was so… ”
“Would you shut up, Manuel?” I say, alarmed by the amount of blood coming out from between his lips. “Please? Please don’t talk.”
“She was crying,” Manuel keeps saying, over and over again.Where is Cooper? “How could I say no to her when she was crying? I didn’t know, though. I didn’t know what they were going to do to her.”
“Manuel,” I say, hoping he can’t hear that my voice is shaking. “You have to stop talking. You’re losing too much blood… .”
“But they knew,” he goes on, clearly off in his own world. A world of pain. “They knew where she got it —”
At that moment, Cooper turns the corner, Pete and Tom right behind him. Pete, seeing me, pulls out his security walkie-talkie, and begins squawking into it about how they’ve found me, and to get a stretcher down to the squash courts ASAP.
Cooper falls to his knees beside me and, miraculously, reveals a first-aid kit he’s snagged from somewhere.
“Ambulance is on the way,” he says, while Manuel, beneath my blood-soaked fingers, rambles feebly on.
“I gave it to her, don’t you see, Heather? It was me. And they knew it was me.”
“Who did this to him?” Cooper demands, pulling a huge roll of Ace bandages from the first-aid kit. “Did you get a look at him?
“They all had basketballs on their heads,” I say.
