Black Christmas (6 page)

Strings were snapping, chips of wood flying and the sound overwhelming. All at once he stopped, set the base down and coolly examined his handiwork.

He turned coolly and walked across the room and walked out, carefully closing the door behind him.

Despite the chill in the hockey rink, all of the players were sweating profusely. The lights were bright and the young men were moving swiftly up and down the rink, passing the puck back and forth, crossing the blue line and firing shots at the goalie who was sweating most of all despite the fact that he had to move far less than the other skaters. The heavy padding weighed him down and the plastic mask made it almost impossible for air to reach any part of him. Besides, there was activity in goal-tending, a great deal of it as he dived and kicked and flashed out a hand or stick to deter the puck from its course toward the net behind him.

Jess came into the rink and looked down, saw the goalie and, although he was masked, was sure it was the man she was looking for. She moved through the empty seats and down behind the plastic that was behind the goal net. Twice she called out but there was too much noise and his concentration was too great for her to be able to attract his attention that way. Finally, uncharacteristically, she put two fingers to her lips and whistled shrilly. All at once all of the action stopped and the goalie turned to her.

“Can I see you a minute?” she called to Chris Hayden.

Through the mask he answered what she thought was the word, “sure,” then he signalled to the bench and another player, dressed similarly, skated over to the net while Chris, still wearing his mask, came around behind it and pointed to a spot just beyond the plastic.

Jess walked over quickly, but he was on skates and made it much faster so that he was waiting, still masked, when she arrived.

Through a wire screen she asked, “Have you seen Clare today?”

“No. She went home.”

“No, she didn’t. No one knows where she is. How about last night?”

“No. Not after I brought her home.” He pushed the mask back. “What do you mean no one knows where she is?”

Shouting over the renewed sound of the practice she said, “I thought maybe she was with you, or at least you might have heard from her.”

“No. Like I said, not since last night. Early. What do you think?”

“I don’t know what to think. I just was hoping—”

“Look, maybe it sounds a bit alarmist, but do you think we ought to go to the police, Jess?”

“Her father is already a bit alarmist. He went to them this afternoon. Unfortunately the local constabulary didn’t take it all too seriously.”

“They
what?
Why not?”

“I think they figured she was shacked up somewhere. It seems, according to the sergeant on duty which I got second hand from Phyl when she called, that that is where young maidens from the college usually are when they turn up missing. Off in the woods somewhere with a romantic hero. As you fit the bill, well, no doubt they’re wrong in this case.” She signed wearily. “Christ, I’m worried, Chris.”

“So am I. Oh, I doubt if anything has happened to her, but I suppose the fuzz said that to Clare’s father, about being shacked up?”

“More or less. It’s only hearsay evidence from Phyl, but she’s pretty reliable. Says that Barb gave the man in blue a tongue lashing which sounds pretty typical, and Clare’s father didn’t exactly like the implication.”

“No doubt. That’s what I’m worried about. I haven’t met him yet. After Christmas I was going to visit—”

“So that’s why she wouldn’t go skiing with Barb.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Doesn’t matter. Ancient history. What shall we do, Chris?”

I think . . . I think I’d better go see them. The police. And her father. Damn, damn, damn, damn!”

CHAPTER SEVEN

In the dim light of the dining room Mr. Harrison sat disconsolately at the table with Mrs. MacHenry and Phyl while off to one side Barbara was slouched in a heavy chair, a drink in her hand.

Mrs. Mac looked up from her plate where she had been gorging herself and said to him, “Mr. Harrison, really I do wish you’d eat something. Starving yourself isn’t going to help the situation at all. In fact, I always say that you can’t get anything done on an empty stomach. I tell the girls that, too, when they’re worried about,” she hesitated, “an exam or something.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. MacHenry. But, no thank you. I just have no appetite. I feel like I should be doing something but frankly I don’t know what to do.”

“One thing you could do would be to eat to keep your strength up.” When she saw that remark had made no dent she went on, “Well, just stop worrying. The best thing you can do is wait here and I’m sure she’ll call or show up.”

Mrs. Mac heaved herself up from her chair and went out toward the kitchen as Mr. Harrison said to no one in particular, “I just wish I knew what to do.”

Phyl nodded sympathetically. She could understand how he felt. She didn’t want to eat, either, but she was forcing herself. Barbara had turned her nose up at the stew and proceeded to pour another drink.

There was a long silence punctuated by the sound of Mrs. MacHenry in the kitchen banging pots and closing cabinet doors. Both Barbara and Phyl knew that she was looking for her bottle of sherry but neither felt like snickering at the moment.

Finally Barbara said, “Did you know? And this is a little-known fact . . .” She stopped and took some of her drink while Mr. Harrison eyed her apprehensively and Phyl tried desperately to think of something to say.

At last Barb continued, “There are some species of turtles . . .” She stood for dramatic emphasis. “Some species of turtles, or is it tortoises? No, it’s turtles. There are some species of turtles that screw for three days without stopping.”

Mrs. MacHenry entered the room and stood there dumbfounded, trying not to look at Mr. Harrison who was aghast.

Barbara fell back into her chair and added, “Oh, yes. You may not believe me, but I’m not making it up. They screw for three days. Whoopee!”

Mrs. Mac came further into the room as though to protect poor Mr. Harrison from Barbara. “Barb, dear . . .” she started to say but she was interrupted.

“You don’t believe me, do you? Well, it’s true. Three days without stopping! I’m lucky if I can get three minutes. Three days, honest Injun. I know, ’cause after they told us that in some dumb class or other. I went to the zoo to watch them. It’s very boring. I didn’t stay for the whole three days, actually. I took their word for it. So I went over—because I got bored watching the turtles do it—I went over to watch the zebras. They only take about thirty seconds. Reminds me of me. No, it reminds me of a joke about this pony who’s a star and he wants to get fixed up so they send him a zebra up to his hotel room and the next day they ask him how he liked her and he said he didn’t know ’cause he spent all night trying to get her pajamas off.” She started to giggle insanely and then broke into paroxysms of drunken laughter.

The others stared at the wall, the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but at each other, embarrassed, unsure what to say or do.

All at once Barbara said, “You think it’s my fault, don’t you?”

Phyllis said, “Barbara, stop it.”

“You do. Don’t shit me. Why don’t you just come out and say it? All of you. It’s my fault. Go ahead, say it! You think I drove her off. If she’s dead you’re going to blame me!”

There was a long, stricken silence. Mr. Harrison’s face turned white as the word he had not dared to think was spoken aloud for the first time. He sat back and closed his eyes as Phyl said, in a low voice, “Barb! For God’s sake!”

Realizing what she had said but unable to go back, to retract or modify her words, Barbara answered, “That’s what you’re all thinking. Why don’t you just say it?”

Then she started to sob and Mrs. MacHenry went to her, putting her arm around the girl and saying in a consoling voice, “Barb, you don’t know what you’re saying. I think you’ve had too much to drink, dear. Mr. Harrison is going to have a very poor impression of this house.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Barbara answered, pulling from Mrs. Mac’s grasp. “I’m sick of people insinuating things around here.” She swayed and steadied herself on the edge of the table. “I’m sick of people never coming out and saying what they really mean.”

Phyl moved to her and said quietly, “Barb, why don’t you go up and lie down for a while? We’re all upset and no one—”

“Oh, shut up!” Then she turned to Mrs. Mac and added, “And leave me alone, goddamn it! I know you think it’s my fault. You’ve been implying it all the goddamned afternoon!”

“Barb,” Phyl said, looking across to Mrs. Mac, “you’re drunk. Now go to bed!”

Barbara was about to answer but she felt herself grow dizzy. With an effort of will she drew herself up, pushed off from the table and stormed from the dining room, slamming the door behind her. Mr. Harrison, his eyes closed, sat still, except for the slow negative motion of his head as he shook it back and forth in fear and disbelief.

The lights were burning bright in the police station as Lieutenant Ken Fuller sympathetically watched and listened to a thirty-five-year-old woman wearing rollers in her hair who was trying to keep her voice from quavering as she sat in his office and told him a story. Fighting back the tears, she said, “She’s out of school for the Christmas holidays but you see there was band practice today, over at the high school. Janice plays the clarinet and even though school is out they have practice because they’re going to give a band concert.”

About the same age as the woman, Fuller could only think that he might be the father of a daughter such as the one she was talking about. That he might have a Janice who played the clarinet. He tried to erase such an image and to concentrate as dispassionately as possible on her words.

“Go on, Mrs. Quaife.”

“When she didn’t come home, I called Melody Greene’s place. That’s her best friend. But they hadn’t seen her all day. I talked to Melody and to Mrs. Greene. She’s only thirteen, Lieutenant, my Janice and she’s never been late like this. My husband, he’s a trucker and he’s on the road this week, half way across the country. I don’t know how to get in touch with him. Anyway, I was so worried, so I came over here.”

Her last words were almost apologetic as though had her husband been home he might have prevented her from doing anything so foolish as going to the police.

To make her feel more easy, Fuller said, “You did the right thing, Mrs. Quaife. That’s what we’re here for. Now . . . how long since you—or anyone—actually saw her? Saw Janice?”

“Well, not since band practice this morning. She was there. I checked and she was at practice, then she left and that’s the last . . .” She was about to break down again when her attention was turned to the noise outside as a young man and woman came in the front door of the station house.

The young man was visibly angry but Sergeant Nash on the front desk nearby did not notice it as he extended a warm greeting.

“Here’s our star goalie! How’s the boy, Chris?”

“Listen, Nash, you may be a cop but in my opinion you’re a stupid, s.o.b. with a big effing mouth.”

Dumbfounded Nash replied, “What the hell are you talking about?”

Hearing the noise, Lieutenant Fuller came out of his office and was surprised to see Chris Hayden standing there confronting Sergeant Nash.

“Hi, Chris. How’s your brother? I haven’t seen—”

Hayden interrupted him. “I’ve got to talk to you, Ken.” He walked past Nash and into the area behind the front desk where Fuller was standing. Jess followed him tentatively.

“So talk. What is it?”

Chris looked back at Nash as he said, “I want to know why nothing’s been done about Clare Harrison being missing? And how does this schmuck get away with saying the kind of things he does, especially to the girl’s father?”

Trying to calm Chris down, Fuller said, “Why? Do you know her?”

“Yes I know her. I’ve been taking her out. Oh, this is Jess, Jessica Bradford. She lives at the same sorority house as Clare. Jess, this is Ken Fuller.”

“How do you do,” Ken said.

“To tell you the truth,” Jess replied, “not very well. We’re really worried, and it doesn’t seem to be worrying anyone else.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that. Come on into my ofiice.” As they moved past him he called over to Sergeant Nash, “Sergeant, get me the file on the Harrison girl.”

Woefully Nash, who looked as though he had been caught in a buzzsaw, dug through the papers on his desk.

Inside Fuller’s office, after the introductions were performed Ken asked Chris what had happened.

“Well, I don’t really know. That’s why I brought Jess along. She knows more than I do.”

Ken turned to Jess and asked, “Okay, why don’t you tell me what you know and we’ll see if we can piece this thing together?”

“All right. I’ll try. Last night we all celebrated a little at the house. Then Clare went up to her room to pack. That’s the last anyone saw her. Most of the girls have left for the holidays. The few of us that are left were to go over to one of the fraternity houses for a small party for underprivileged kids. Clare didn’t show up at breakfast, but then most of us eat at different times. Mrs. Mac, she’s the house mother, Mrs. MacHenry, went out. So she didn’t see her. Then Clare didn’t show up at the party. In the meantime her father came and was supposed to meet her at one o’clock outside the ‘frat’ house. He showed up but she didn’t. He went to our house and found her bag packed but no Clare. He came here with another of the girls and they reported it. So far she hasn’t returned to the house and no one has seen her. That’s it, I guess.”

Lieutenant Fuller had followed her story carefully, making notes as she talked. Once or twice he looked over at Mrs. Quaife who was sitting silently listening to Jessica Bradford’s story.

When Jess was finished he thought for a few minutes before he spoke. “Well, it may be nothing, probably
is
nothing, but I think that we had better do a search just to be on the safe side. There’s a park between the high school and Mrs. Quaife’s house, and it seems sensible to start there.” He looked over at Chris and added, “Now here’s what I want you to do.”