Authors: Stephen Dobyns
“He was just a kid.” Hawthorne told himself that he had to make some sort of plan, but his mind felt frozen.
“‘Just a kid’—
exactly
, professor. Look at it this way: I saved him. A kid like that, a little dicking in his past, some old fart holding his mouth open with his thumbs and banging past his tonsils. I saved him from being sent away, from fucking up too bad, from going to jail, from a bunch of guys using his asshole like a revolving door, from being like me. I fucking liberated him, you hear what I’m saying? He’ll never be like me. He’s safe. Now he’s one liberated little kid. Dead, though.”
“Where’s Jessica?”
“She don’t like being called Jessica. Her name’s Misty. She’s fucking trouble. I thought it’d be a piece of cake.” LeBrun pinched his lower lip, drew it forward, and let go. Then he took a drink from his bottle and belched. “You ever have a job you’re supposed to do, that you’re paid to do, but something’s not right about it? You keep putting it off. You don’t feel like it. I don’t even like the little bitch and she’s got that fucking cat. Well, maybe she’s not so terrible. She just talks too much. But maybe it’s because I never stuck a girl. Maybe I don’t like the guy with the money. But it’s business, right? No kill, no dough. And now she’s figured it out. She saw us today. She knows what’s coming. You got to do what you’ve been paid to do. That’s ethics, right? The big fucking morality.”
“Is that what you were talking about a few weeks ago? The thing you couldn’t do?”
“Yeah, professor, I needed your advice. I wanted to make you an accessory before, during, and after the fact. A little boost. You were no help at all. Hot air, all you shrinks are like that.”
“Where is she?”
“Forget the questions, professor. I can change my mind about you anytime—fucking dumb school in a fucking dumb place. Fucking snow. I got something I need to do and I’m not doing it. Sounds like a fuckin’ hillbilly song. Even if she was my little sister, I’d make myself do it. You can’t let stuff like that stand in your way. That’s how they finally get you.” LeBrun reached forward and flicked the ice pick stuck in the desk so it vibrated with a buzzing sound. “You should sympathize with my problem. Those shrinks when I was a kid were always talking about how I felt, what was going through my mind. I didn’t feel shit. I never felt shit. Like ice, that’s how I wanted to be. Ice feels nothing. It don’t even feel angry.”
“Where was this?” Again the lights dimmed. LeBrun didn’t answer until they came up again. Now the lights kept flickering.
“In Derry. It’s none of your fucking business where it was. Hey, Doc, give me a pill so I can stick the girl. Give me some medicine to commit devastation.” LeBrun laughed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Hawthorne had no sense of what LeBrun would do next. He tried to quiet his fear so that he could think clearly. “Maybe you once knew somebody like Jessica.”
LeBrun cackled and slapped the desk, knocking over the beer. The bottle rolled to the edge of the desk and fell to the floor, spilling on the carpet. LeBrun reached down to a bag at his feet, pulled up another bottle, and twisted off the cap, which he tossed at Hawthorne. “There you go again, getting all shrinky on me. Maybe in my tender years a girl like Misty was sweet to me. I can see it now, just like in the fuckin’ movies—
Misty and Me
, staring Francis LaBrecque. Fuck you, asshole, I was never a nice guy. You know those vampire movies? I always wanted to be the bat. I wanted to fly down your chimney and stick my teeth in your throat. Suck you dry till there was nothing left. I like being the bad guy. You always know where you are and what you’re supposed to do. Fucking Skander thought he’d scare me. What a jerk. You ever been dicked, professor? You ever have a bunch of kids hold you down on the floor? Or old drunken farts who’re supposed to be taking care of you? Churchgoers, you hear what I’m saying? Either dick or get dicked is what it boils down to.”
“Where’s Fritz?”
“Fuck you, professor. I got one and a half problems. You’re the half problem—just a fucking smidgen of a problem. Misty’s the whole one.”
“Where is Jessica? I want you to give her back to me.”
LeBrun kicked his feet down to the floor. “Shut up, professor. Don’t make me mad.”
Hawthorne tried to keep himself still. He hated his fear—it brought back the bad times, the burning corridor, Meg’s awful screaming. But he had to make LeBrun stop, to jolt him out of his sense of power and control.
“Did you hold those pictures up at the window?” asked Hawthorne after a moment.
“That wasn’t me. You got to admit some of it was funny. The rotten food, I loved the rotten food. And the dead-wife stuff. Jesus, I laughed.” Again LeBrun grinned. He put his feet back onto the desk, then he linked his hands behind his head. “That was Bennett; he got some woman to call. He used to laugh all the time, then he got scared. But Fritz thought he could drive you nuts, that you’d go running back to California. I knew it wouldn’t work. So when you didn’t go nuts, Fritz cranked up the heat. Fuckin’ amateurs, they never know when to stop. Fritz figured he could make me jump.”
Hawthorne’s mouth felt like dry fabric. “Do you know when to stop, Frank? You look like an amateur to me. What have you done with Fritz?”
Immediately, LeBrun was on his feet, spilling the beer and knocking the phone from the desk. “I been nice to you, professor. I gave you the chance to go someplace safe and warm.” LeBrun reached toward the ice pick, which was still stuck in the desk, but he was so jittery that at first he missed it. Then he got it and yanked it free.
At that moment the lights began to dim. Hawthorne and LeBrun looked at the ceiling, watching the globe light turn from white to dull orange. Then it went out. The lights in the outer office and hall went out as well. Standing in the dark, Hawthorne and LeBrun were silent, waiting for the lights to come back on. But they didn’t.
“You there, professor?” asked LeBrun quietly.
Hawthorne began backing across the outer office. “I’m worried about you, Frank.”
LeBrun shouted, “You think you can fuckin’ play with me?”
By now Hawthorne was already out in the hall. “Hey, Frank,” he called. “I think you’re cracking.”
LeBrun began screaming, “You’re a dead man! You’re a dead man!” A chair was knocked over and something else slid across the floor and banged into the wall.
Hawthorne began to move off down the hall, trying to run silently in his boots. Now that he had challenged LeBrun’s sense of his own power, Hawthorne had to escape from the consequences.
“I hear you, professor,” shouted LeBrun, running after him. “You don’t know how bad I can hurt you.”
Now Hawthorne was running swiftly through the dark. Somewhere up ahead was the fire door leading to the stairs. Hawthorne could see nothing. He took the flashlight from his back pocket. He didn’t dare turn it on but perhaps he could use it as a weapon. It seemed that LeBrun’s heavy feet were only a few yards behind him.
Abruptly Hawthorne hit the door at the end of the hall. He fell back, holding his head. His glasses were knocked off. LeBrun crashed into him and they both tumbled against the fire door. Hawthorne freed the arm with the light. He grabbed the fabric of LeBrun’s jacket and pushed him back. LeBrun was growling like a dog. Then he stopped and laughed. He broke Hawthorne’s grip and they again fell against the door. Hawthorne swung the flashlight, clubbing LeBrun, once, twice. The flashlight slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor. He shoved LeBrun away, then opened the fire door and ran up the stairs.
“You’re a dead man, professor!” shouted LeBrun up the stairwell.
Hawthorne paused at the second-floor landing. He heard LeBrun running up the stairs behind him. Opening the door to the second floor, Hawthorne hurried into the dark hall. Here the classroom doors were open and in each doorway the dark was a shade lighter. LeBrun slammed open the door behind him. Hawthorne ran into a classroom on his left, then began feeling along the wall to the back of the room. Many of the classrooms had closets in the rear and he hoped to hide there. Hawthorne found the closet door and gently pulled it open. He was terrified that LeBrun might hear him. Feeling around in the dark, Hawthorne discovered a mop and a pail, then a stack of books.
“Hey, professor, this is the part I like best,” LeBrun said in a stage whisper from out in the hall. “This is when we begin to have fun. I got my bat wings, professor, I got my fangs. I’m going to stick them in your throat, professor.” LeBrun paused to listen. Hawthorne could hear him breathing. “What about jokes, professor? I can make you laugh. We used to have some good laughs, didn’t we? You remember the clown joke? This taste funny to you? You listening, professor? You gotta be listening. You hear about the Canuck who picked his nose apart to see what made it run?” LeBrun chuckled, a hoarse sound deep in his throat. “You’re in one of these fuckin’ rooms, aren’t you? I can smell you. I can smell how scared you are. But I’m going to make you laugh, professor. I’m going to make you crack up. You know how you brainwash a Canuck? Come on, Doc, I’m waiting for the answer. You give him an enema. You fuckin’ ram it right up his asshole!” LeBrun laughed. His boots scraped on the floor as he moved along the hall. “You’re going to laugh too, professor, then I’m going to find you.”
Hawthorne crouched down in the closet as LeBrun went up and down the hall whispering his jokes. “Hey, professor, what’s the difference between a Canuck and a three-day-old turd?” Then LeBrun chuckled. His footsteps faded away, then returned. Why is a Canuck like a tampon? Had he heard of the Canuck who had to use three rubbers at once? LeBrun’s laugh was a noise deep in his throat, half laugh, half growl. Several times he came into the room where Hawthorne was hiding, bumped into a desk, knocked over a chair, then went out again.
“Hey, professor, did you hear about the Canuck who shoved two aspirin up his dick so he wouldn’t get the clap? How about the Canuck who went to Paris and jacked off the Eiffel Tower? Where are you, professor! Answer me! You lousy fuck, you’re not making me feel good. I got work, professor. You’re making me waste the whole fucking evening! I don’t need to kill you easy, I can kill you so it hurts!”
LeBrun came into the classroom again, stumbled into another desk, and swore. He picked it up and threw it so it crashed against others. Something—a window—shattered. He went back into the hall. He had stopped telling jokes. Hawthorne could hear his boots tramping up and down the hall. He imagined him pausing at the doorways and listening. Ten minutes went by. At last Hawthorne heard LeBrun walk down the hall and open the fire door. Hawthorne still didn’t move. He imagined LeBrun taking off his boots and sneaking back. Another ten minutes went by, then ten more. Hawthorne crawled out of the closet and moved quietly to the hall. He was afraid even to breathe. A cold wind blew through the broken window. Hawthorne listened at the doorway. Then he began to move down the hall in the opposite direction from where LeBrun had gone, making no noise. The darkness seemed full of shapes. At every doorway he expected LeBrun to leap out at him. He had no weapon, not even the flashlight. When he reached the fire door leading to the stairwell, he paused to listen again. There was nothing. Quietly he opened the door and hurried down the stairs, continuing past the first floor down to the exit. Hawthorne pushed open the door and the cold air was like ice against his sweat-drenched shirt. He ran out into the snow.
Twelve
T
he le
ft-hand side of the double doors of Stark Chapel stood open and indentations led down the steps through the snow. Hawthorne was sure the door had been closed when he had passed by sometime after six. It was now after eight and the snow was falling as hard as ever. The electricity still hadn’t come on but there was a reddish glow from the chapel windows, a circle of radiance through the stained glass. Without his glasses, Hawthorne’s sight was blurry. Objects had lost their precise edges and seemed to merge with one another. His spare pair was in his desk in Emerson but he lacked the courage to go back and get them.
He was breathing heavily. He had thought he would die up there on the second floor of Emerson Hall. LeBrun’s raving, his intensity, his madness, had nearly paralyzed him. Hawthorne’s body felt as if its very center had been ripped away. For nearly an hour after the terrifying encounter with LeBrun he had stayed in Adams Hall—not even in his apartment but in a dark classroom on the second floor—trying to recover. He thought of Bennett’s remark that he would be safer running into the forest, into the deep snow, that they both would. But Hawthorne still believed that the more he could increase LeBrun’s self-doubt and irrationality, the better the chance Hawthorne would have of stopping him. In addition, he was worried about Jessica—and even Skander. LeBrun must have them both, and an attempt had to be made to rescue them. As he thought this, however, Hawthorne’s fear increased. Perhaps he could find somebody to go back into Emerson with him. Even Bennett might help now that he knew how brutal LeBrun could be.
Hawthorne worked his way up the chapel steps. Because of the light, he assumed somebody was inside. When he reached the top of the stairs, he looked back along the driveway at Emerson. Up in the attic he saw a dim glow that shifted from one window to another. LeBrun was prowling up there; most likely that was where he had Fritz and Jessica. Even the suggestion of LeBrun’s presence in the attic of Emerson Hall made Hawthorne’s heart beat faster.
Hawthorne entered the vestibule outside the chapel and kicked the snow from his boots. The noise was loud and he started. Cautiously he opened the door and stepped inside. The steeply banked rows of wooden pews descended toward the apse. At the foot of the center aisle, in front of the altar, a bright light pointed up at an angle toward a stained-glass window where a bearded disciple in a blue robe held a fishing net. Hawthorne’s nearsightedness transformed the light to a blurred shimmering, and it wasn’t for another moment that he saw a figure sitting in the front row facing the altar, slightly bent forward as if praying or meditating.