“Guess it wouldn’t hurt,” Jerome says.
Hodges sighs. “And tell him what, exactly? That one of his students found or stole a stack of money and doled it out to his parents like a monthly allowance? The parents should find that out before some teacher who probably doesn’t know jack-shit about anything. And Pete should be the one to tell them. It’ll let his sister off the hook, for one thing.”
“But if he’s in some kind of jam he doesn’t want them to know about, and he still wanted to talk to someone . . . you know, an adult . . .” Jerome is four years older than he was when he helped Hodges with the Brady Hartsfield mess, old enough to vote and buy legal liquor, but still young enough to remember how it is to be seventeen and suddenly realize you’ve gotten in over your head with something. When that happens, you want to talk to somebody who’s been around the block a few times.
“Jerome’s right,” Holly says. She turns back to Hodges. “Let’s talk to the teacher and find out if Pete asked for advice about anything. If he asks why we want to know—”
“Of course he’ll want to know why,” Hodges says, “and I can’t exactly claim confidentiality. I’m not a lawyer.”
“Or a priest,” Jerome adds, not helpfully.
“You can tell him we’re friends of the family,” Holly says firmly. “And that’s true.” She opens her door.
“You have a hunch about this,” Hodges says. “Am I right?”
“Yes,” she says. “It’s a Holly-hunch. Now come on.”
25
As they are walking up the wide front steps and beneath the motto EDUCATION IS THE LAMP OF LIFE, the door of Andrew Halliday Rare Editions opens again and Pete Saubers steps inside. He starts down the main aisle, then stops, frowning. The man behind the desk isn’t Mr. Halliday. He is in most ways the exact opposite of Mr. Halliday, pale instead of florid (except for his lips, which are weirdly red), white-haired instead of bald, and thin instead of fat. Almost gaunt. Jesus. Pete expected his script to go out the window, but not this fast.
“Where’s Mr. Halliday? I had an appointment to see him.”
The stranger smiles. “Yes, of course, although he didn’t give me your name. He just said a young man. He’s waiting for you in his office at the back of the shop.” This is actually true. In a way. “Just knock and go in.”
Pete relaxes a little. It makes sense that Halliday wouldn’t want to have such a crucial meeting out here, where anybody looking for a secondhand copy of To Kill a Mockingbird could walk in and interrupt them. He’s being careful, thinking ahead. If Pete doesn’t do the same, his slim chance of coming out of this okay will go out the window.
“Thanks,” he says, and walks between tall bookcases toward the back of the shop.
As soon as he goes by the desk, Morris rises and goes quickly and quietly to the front of the shop. He flips the sign in the door from OPEN to CLOSED.
Then he turns the bolt.
26
The secretary in the main office of Northfield High looks curiously at the trio of after-school visitors, but asks no questions. Perhaps she assumes they are family members come to plead the case of some failing student. Whatever they are, it’s Howie Ricker’s problem, not hers.
She checks a magnetic board covered with multicolored tags and says, “He should still be in his homeroom. That’s three-oh-nine, on the third floor, but please peek through the window and make sure he’s not with a student. He has conferences today until four, and with school ending in a couple of weeks, plenty of kids stop by to ask for help on their final papers. Or plead for extra time.”
Hodges thanks her and they go up the stairs, their heels echoing. From somewhere below, a quartet of musicians is playing “Greensleeves.” From somewhere above, a hearty male voice cries jovially, “You suck, Malone!”
Room 309 is halfway down the third-floor corridor, and Mr. Ricker, dressed in an eye-burning paisley shirt with the collar unbuttoned and the tie pulled down, is talking to a girl who is gesturing dramatically with her hands. Ricker glances up, sees he has visitors, then returns his attention to the girl.
The visitors stand against the wall, where posters advertise summer classes, summer workshops, summer holiday destinations, an end-of-year dance. A couple of girls come bopping down the hall, both wearing softball jerseys and caps. One is tossing a catcher’s mitt from hand to hand, playing hot potato with it.
Holly’s phone goes off, playing an ominous handful of notes from the “Jaws” theme. Without slowing, one of the girls says, “You’re gonna need a bigger boat,” and they both laugh.
Holly looks at her phone, then puts it away. “A text from Tina,” she says.
Hodges raises his eyebrows.
“Her mother knows about the money. Her father will too, as soon as he gets home from work.” She nods toward the closed door of Mr. Ricker’s room. “No reason to hold back now.”
27
The first thing Pete becomes aware of when he opens the door to the darkened inner office is the billowing stench. It’s both metallic and organic, like steel shavings mixed with spoiled cabbage. The next thing is the sound, a low buzzing. Flies, he thinks, and although he can’t see what’s in there, the smell and the sound come together in his mind with a thud like a heavy piece of furniture falling over. He turns to flee.
The clerk with the red lips is standing there beneath one of the hanging globes that light the back of the store, and in his hand is a strangely jolly gun, red and black with inlaid gold curlicues. Pete’s first thought is Looks fake. They never look fake in the movies.
“Keep your head, Peter,” the clerk says. “Don’t do anything foolish and you won’t get hurt. This is just a discussion.”
Pete’s second thought is You’re lying. I can see it in your eyes.
“Turn around, take a step forward, and turn on the light. The switch is to the left of the door. Then go in, but don’t try to slam the door, unless you want a bullet in the back.”
Pete steps forward. Everything inside him from the chest on down feels loose and in motion. He hopes he won’t piss his pants like a baby. Probably that wouldn’t be such a big deal—surely he wouldn’t be the first person to spray his Jockeys when a gun is pointed at him—but it seems like a big deal. He fumbles with his left hand, finds the switch, and flips it. When he sees the thing lying on the sodden carpet, he tries to scream, but the muscles in his diaphragm aren’t working and all that comes out is a watery moan. Flies are buzzing and lighting on what remains of Mr. Halliday’s face. Which is not much.
“I know,” the clerk says sympathetically. “Not very pretty, is he? Object lessons rarely are. He pissed me off, Pete. Do you want to piss me off?”
“No,” Pete says in a high, wavering voice. It sounds more like Tina’s than his own. “I don’t.”