Beyond Midnight (55 page)

As for Russell, Helen could tell by his face that last night never happened as far as he was concerned. He kept to the subject—basketball—and expected his mother to do the same. She drove across town and dropped him off at basketball camp (part of the deal she struck with him after the spray painting), then continued on her way to the preschool.

Part of her was expecting no one but the staff to be there. They knew nothing of the rumors—not from Helen, anyway. She
'
d agonized over it but in the end had refused to legitimize the gossip by discussing it, even with the staff.

Helen was relieved to see plenty of parents milling around the parking lot, talking in small groups. Then she noticed that some of the kids were in the playground and some of them, still with their parents. Apparently no one was inside, which is where they were supposed to go directly.

Was The Open Door still closed? It didn
'
t seem possible. Helen pulled into a staff space and got out of the car, then waved to the closest of the parents and said,
"
Has no one arrived to open up yet?
"

"
They
'
re inside,
"
said one mother, and then she turned away.

Stung by the rebuff, Helen hurried with a sinking heart along the flagstone path that led from the parking area to the front door. So distracted was she that she didn
'
t notice the graffiti until she was nearly on top of it—and then it hit her with the force of a two-by-four across the face.

SHE
'
S ANOTHER.

The foot-high words, all in capitals, were scrawled on the old red bricks in Day-G
lo
pink next to the main door. You couldn
'
t miss them, although the color was far more shocking than the sentiment.

Helen
'
s first thought was,
another what?

Her second was,
Paint thinner won't
work this time.

Furious at the vandalism, she swung the door open and strode inside, determined to call the police—and aware that they might find it ironic.

What goes around comes around.
Thank God the vandal had run off before he finished the job; it might
'
ve been a lot worse. Or maybe he
'
d been caught? She found herself praying that he had. Either way, the deed was done and tongues were wagging all over again.
Hell.

Janet was on the phone in Helen
'
s office, calling hardware stores for advice on how to get the paint off. Kristy Maylen, who taught the older three
'
s, was there, too. And so was a police officer.

He
'
d just finished taking a statement—such as it was—from Janet. She
'
d come in, found the scribbling, and called the police. End of story. Almost.

Helen said, half in relief,
"
I guess the kid got spooked by something before he had a chance to finish.
"

But the officer, a middle-aged man with a sympathetic manner, shook his head.
"
You
'
re not reading it right. The message reads SHE
'
S AN OTHER. Three words, not two. The
'
Others
'
were a Satanist gang we shut
down about
ten years ago
.
"

It was another two-by-four, right across the face. Helen had to struggle for breath as she said faintly,
"
I don
'
t remember anything about it.
"

"
It was in the paper; but we don
'
t go out of our way to publicize that kind of thing. It
'
s bad for tourism, and we don
'
t need copycats. Someone
'
s just pulling your chain, I expect,
"
he said, seeing Helen
'
s distress.

"
Can you find out who did it?
"
she said, reeling.

He lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug.
"
It
'
s hard. Graffiti is very frustrating to stop. It
'
s all the rage now—as anyone who walks around a city can see. My guess is it
'
ll get worse before it gets better. Once in a while an irate owner will offer a reward for information. You could try that.
"

Just what she wanted to do: advertise.
"
Thanks,
"
she said, dismissing the idea out of hand.
"
But I was hoping for a more discreet solution.
"

The officer looked at her curiously but said nothing. Helen thanked him for his time and walked with him to his patrol car, which was parked smack-dab in front of the school—more advertising.

She was about to retrace her steps down the flagstone path to the parking area, with every intention of shepherding the parents inside like some border collie, when she saw her first parent approach: Nathaniel Byrne, holding Katie by the hand.

Helen greeted them with more enthusiasm than she felt. It was too late to drape a black cloth over the offensive scrawl. She had to stand and watch while he stopped and stared.

He fell into the same trap she did.
"
Another? Another what?
"

"
An Other,
"
she corrected, saying the words separately.

"
Who
'
s another? Another what?
"

"
Becky, I suppose. Another Other.
"

Scowling at the Abbot and Costello routine, he said,
"
Let me try it one more time: What
'
s an
'
other
'
?
"

She took a kind of morose pleasure in giving it one last twist.
"
What
'
s another nail in the coffin of my career? This is,
"
she said, running a finger over the disgustingly dry pink paint.

Lowering her voice and turning aw
ay from Katie, Helen
explained what she
'
d learne
d. "The Others were apparently
a local Satanist
'
cult
'
a decade ago. They turned out to be
a gang of midteen kids with
a penchant for cutting up rats
and woodchucks. I didn
'
t ask what they did with the
parts,"
she added wearily,
"
and the officer didn
'
t tell me.
"

Both of them glanced over at the parents still hanging back in the parking area.
"
Maybe they were all just waiting for the police to leave,
"
Helen said hopefully.

Even as she said it, two or three mothers broke away from the rest and began walking hurriedly down the flagstone path with their little ones. Maybe they had faith in Helen; maybe they just wanted to get on with their day.

Nat turned to his daughter, who was deep in conversation with her teddy bear, and said with hearty enthusiasm,
"
C
'
mon, Katie-kins, time to go to school, just like the big kids!
"

He gave Helen a last, burning look.
"
Call a meeting of the parents, damn it. Get it all out. Clear the air once and for all.
"

"
No, Nat!
"
she said.
"
I haven
'
t done anything, and nei
ther has Becky. I refuse to—well, hello there, Me
ri
elle,
"
she said as the child, running ahead of her mother, drew near.

Exasperated, Nat took his
daughter inside, leaving Helen
to face little Merielle
'
s mo
ther, who took one look at the
graffiti and said,
"
That
'
s wh
at all the fuss is about? I've
had worse on my storefront, be
lieve me. Try selling lingerie
sometime.
"
She glanced at t
he scrawl again and said, "The
worst thing about it is tha
t the colors clash," then gave
Helen a wry smile of sympathy and went into the little brick bank.

How could I have bumped her to the waiting list?
Helen
thought.
She's the bravest woman here.

Helen stayed right where s
he was, in front of the spray-painted wall,
forcing the i
ncoming parents to look at her
instead of it as they straggle
d in. Some were friendly, some
were reserved.

And some drove off with their children.

Helen tried not to let it ups
et her. Nat was right. She was
bound to lose some parents if
she chose not to confront the
rumors. She waved forlorn
ly to him on his way out as he
passed behind some of her
stauncher supporters, who were
busy telling her how wonderful
she was. No one actually
used the word
Satanism,
but it
was clear from their flattering
remarks that they were
trying to tell Helen they were
on her side. Helen drank in th
eir compliments like a thirsty
camel, knowing the ride ahead might be long, hot, and dry.

Eventually the last pare
nt left. "Hold down the fort,"
Helen told Janet without waiting a second longer than necessary.

She drove off to the ne
arest hardware store, had them
mix a quart of brick-red paint,
bought a throwaway paintbrush,
drove back to her
preschool, and got to work. In
twenty minutes the pink letters were covered by a red re
c
tangle of paint—not the most sophisticated camouflage job in the world, but good enough for now.

After that, she sat back and waited for the next shoe to fall.

On a street of grand Victorians, one house was grander than all the rest. It had a columned veranda that curved from front to side, an octagonal turret, and multiple gables fitted into its steeply sloped roofs. Meticulously restored, the house was painted a dark but pleasing brown, with accent shades of copper and sienna highlighting its intricate, extravagant trim.

The wide, inviting porch was festooned with massive pots of pale ivy gera
nium and highlighted by an old-
fashioned, wood-slatted swing suspended from chains. On the swing sat Rebecca Eve
t
t, dressed in black bib-top overalls over a white shirt. Next
to her sat a four or five-year-
old girl with cherry-blond hair, wearing a blue gingham sundress.

On the little girl
'
s lap was a young white cat.

The child was having trouble getting the frisky cat to stay. Rebecca took the animal from her and showed her how to pet the cat in a soothing way. She began to stroke the animal under its chin. The cat stretched its neck, begging for more. Rebecca put the cat back on the little girl
'
s lap. The girl rubbed the cat
'
s throat and giggled at the ease of her success.

The child
'
s mother, dressed in dinner clothes, came out of the house, spoke briefly with Rebecca, hugged her daughter, and walked down the steps to the Lexus that was parked on the street. Her husband took off with a squeal of tires; they must have been late.

It was getting dark. Rebecca swatted a mosquito on her arm, then stood up. She looked down at her black overalls and let out a cry of surprise. Wiping away what was obviously a layer of white fur, she led the little girl, carrying the cat awkwardly, inside the house.

Peaches waited until the door was closed, then turned the key in the ignition of her car and shifted into
drive.

****