Nightmare (14 page)

“I’ll hope they won’t.”

“Doesn’t that scare you?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you going to do it?”

“It’s the only way I can think of to find out who also hit Taylor and who might be trying to harm me.”

Haley spoke slowly. “Maybe what happened to Taylor really was only an accident.”

Emily pulled the vial from the pocket of her shorts. She kept her eyes on Haley. “Then I won’t need this,” she said.

“Yes, you will!” Haley jumped to her feet. “Put that back in your pocket!”

“Haley, believing in this potion is only superstition,” Emily said.

Haley shook her head. “You’re wrong. It’s no more superstition than my runes are.”

Emily didn’t want to argue. Without another word she slipped the vial back into her pocket.

Haley, satisfied that she had convinced Emily, flipped back her hair and said, “Ready for breakfast?”

“Ready,” Emily said. She followed Haley to the door. “Want to help me interview the staff?”

“Me?” Haley looked astonished. “I don’t know how to interview people. Besides, it’s not
my
class project. It’s
yours
, and Dr. Weil said he wants our projects to be original and individual. Come on. Let’s hurry. I’m absolutely starving to death.”

As soon as they had filled their trays, Emily saw Taylor wave to them from one of the tables on the opposite side of the room, so they joined her.

Emily saw no sign of Maxwell, but he appeared at her side the moment she and Taylor left for their first class, history. Emily told them about her plan to interview the staff.

“That sounds like a lot of work,” Taylor said. She smiled to herself. “I’m going to write a poem.”

Maxwell gave Emily a knowing look. “I think you found a good way to get the information we need,” he said.

“Dr. Weil said there was no word limit,” Taylor
added, “but I don’t think the poem should be too short. He might not like it.”

“I’ll start the interviews this morning,” Emily said.

“Good plan,” Maxwell said.

“Maybe I’ll write my poem in the form of an old-fashioned sonnet,” Taylor said. “That should surprise him.”

“Does either of you want to help me?” Emily asked.

“Help you what?” Taylor asked.

“Interview the staff for the directory I’m going to write.”

Maxwell thought a moment, then said, “No. It’s too obvious. Since everyone probably knows that Dr. Weil’s assignment was for individual projects, it would look strange for you to bring someone with you. The person whose identity you’re trying to uncover might become suspicious.”

“Why don’t you just write a poem?” Taylor suggested. “It’s so much easier.”

Emily opened the door to Mrs. Comstock’s room. “Never mind,” she said, knowing she sounded braver than she felt. “I’ll take care of it myself.”

Maxwell smiled and said, “Just remember that we’re here for you, Emily.”

“You know it,” Taylor added.

They chose the same seats they’d had before, in the back row. But this time Emily sat up, pushing her hair back from her face, so that she could watch Mrs. Comstock carefully. The teacher often nodded vigorously to emphasize what she was saying, her short brown hair bouncing, and she smiled often. Was the smile real? Emily wondered. Or was it put on for show? She hoped she’d find out.

“Before I give you some of the historical background of the Longhorn Cavern, I want to remind you not to be late this afternoon. Meet at the main drive at four o’clock. There will be about thirty people going from Camp Excel—this class and one other—and our vans will take us to the cavern. Be on time. We’ll be the last tour group of the day to be escorted through the cave, and I don’t want our guide to have to stay overtime.”

“Is this supposed to be a lesson in responsibility?” Maxwell whispered to Emily.

“Does it matter?” Emily asked.

“Not to me, it doesn’t. Playwrights are creative individuals, unfettered by the restraints that bind other people. Can you imagine Arthur Miller breaking his creative thought by rushing to catch a van at four o’clock?”

“Let’s pay attention back there,” Mrs. Comstock said.

Embarrassed, Emily had all she could do to keep from ducking behind her curtain of hair. Instead, she sat taller, ignoring Maxwell, and tried to pay attention.

“Some of you have seen pictures on television of the caves in the mountains of Afghanistan,” Mrs. Comstock explained. “The Longhorn Cavern was formed much like those caves were formed, perhaps five hundred million years ago when both areas were covered by shallow seas. That is when the limestone that makes up the caves was deposited. Then, during the mountains’ upheaval, which is called the Llano uplift, about two hundred eighty million years ago, water began to pour through the cracks and faults of the limestone, creating tunnels—some of them immense.”

“But we’re a long way from the sea,” someone broke in.

“That’s right,” Mrs. Comstock said. “And we’re a
long way from two hundred and eighty million years ago. The earth never stops growing and changing.

“Now, let’s talk about some of the people from our own era who made use of this cavern, such as the Comanche Indians. They were able to penetrate the main room of the cavern, which later was named the Council Room, and found layers of chert rock, or flint, with which they made arrowheads and tools.”

“I don’t understand,” someone said. “You said the Indians were able to penetrate the main room of the cavern. That means there were other rooms. What about them?”

“At that time most of the rooms in the cavern were filled with mud and guano,” she answered.

“What’s guano?”

“Dropping from the millions of Mexican free-tailed bats that once lived in the cave.”

“Gross,” Taylor muttered.

“Not to the Confederates who discovered the cave during the Civil War,” Mrs. Comstock said. “A detachment from the Confederate army used this room to secretly manufacture gunpowder made from sulfur, charcoal, and nitrate. The nitrate came from the bat guano.”

“Was this ever proved to be true?” someone asked. “Were artifacts found to support this story?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Comstock answered. “In addition to information found in historical records, a number of rusted guns, bullet molds, and a bayonet were found, along with countless arrowheads. And, oh, yes, two human skeletons were found in the cave.”

“Whose?”

“We don’t know,” she said. “There is also a legend that the notorious outlaw Sam Bass, who robbed stagecoaches and trains back in the late eighteen hundreds,
hid his stolen gold in the cavern. Since no gold has ever been found, the story remains a rumor.”

“Did Sam Bass bury his gold in the guano?” someone else asked, and everyone laughed.

“I doubt it,” Mrs. Comstock said. “Even outlaws have sensibilities.”

“None of the ones I know,” Maxwell said, and the class laughed again.

Mrs. Comstock went on with her story. “In the early thirties, the state of Texas bought the cave from the gentleman on whose property the main entrance was found,” she said. “The Civilian Conservation Corps sent young men to clean out the cavern. According to records kept by the organization, the boys in the CCC were paid a dollar a day and cleaned out over two and a half million cubic yards of debris.”

“Yuck!” Taylor closed her eyes for a moment. “All that bat fertilizer and mud? What kind of a job was that?”

“The kind of job that kept the boys alive during the worst of the Depression years,” Mrs. Comstock answered. “People were starving. They were glad of any kind of work that would provide them with food and a bed for the night.” She smiled. “It wasn’t all cleanup work, though. The CCC also built trails in the area, constructed the administration building and observation tower, and installed the lighting system inside the cave.”

“Then could people explore all the rooms in the cave?” Maxwell asked, and Emily could see that he’d become interested in spite of himself.

“All that had been opened to the public,” Mrs. Comstock answered, “and remember that the people I’ve told you about used the cave even before it had been thoroughly cleaned out. During Prohibition in the twenties,
the owner installed a wooden dance floor in the Indian Council Room and turned it into a nightclub, or speakeasy. I understand that it became a very popular place to go to dance, eat, and drink because the cave was always cool, even in the hot summers. However, that entrance into the Indian Council Room was sealed off in the mid-thirties. The only entrance and exit to the cavern is the one near the administration building, which we’ll use.”

A girl in the front row raised her hand. “I’ve never been in a cave,” she said, “but I’ve seen lots of photographs of stalactites and stalagmites. Is that what we’ll see?”

Mrs. Comstock picked up a marker and went to the board, where she drew wide swirls, circles, and S-shaped lines. “This is the type of formation you’ll see in the cavern,” she said. “A few stalactites and stalagmites had formed in the Indian Council Room, but during the evenings when the cave was used for dining and dancing, they were broken off by unthinking souvenir hunters. The cave’s beauty is in the design of the rocks, carved by water. The cavern has a strange, surrealistic look.”

Emily sat back, thinking about the cave. She had never been inside a cave, either. She supposed Mrs. Comstock was right in telling them that it was beautiful, and she had told them earlier that they’d be safe if they stayed on the paths, but there was something about being underground with only one entrance and exit that made her feel creepy. She could understand why going underground frightened Taylor.

Mrs. Comstock went on to other stories about the early settlers in the area and the exploits of Sam Bass and his gang. Emily tried to concentrate and even took notes, but she couldn’t shake the uncomfortable prickle of fear
that taunted her whenever she thought about descending into the cave.

When class was over, Emily hurried to stand in front of Mrs. Comstock. She held her open notebook in one arm and a pen in the other and tried to look businesslike. “Mrs. Comstock,” she said in a rush, “I’m working on a project for Dr. Weil’s English class. It’s a directory, designed to give the kids here, and their parents, some personal information about the members of the staff at Camp Excel.”

Mrs. Comstock didn’t smile. She raised one eyebrow as she studied Emily. “What kind of information? How personal?”

“Oh, just normal stuff,” Emily said. She poised her pen over her notebook, ready to write. “Like what’s your favorite color and favorite thing to eat?”

“The color green and fried chicken,” Mrs. Comstock answered.

“Great.” Emily wrote so fast she was scribbling. “And where did you go to school?”

“The University of North Carolina for both my B.A. and master’s.”

Emily kept her gaze glued to the notebook. “Where have you taught?”

“Both public and private schools in North Carolina and then the Foxworth-Isaacson Educational Center.”

“When?” The word came out so raspy Emily had to clear her throat and ask again.

“Let’s see. I began teaching in 1987 and took a position at the center in 1993, when it opened.”

Emily jotted down the dates, her fingers trembling. Mrs. Comstock had been at the center even longer than eight years before. She glanced up to see Mrs. Comstock
looking at her quizzically. “Th-thanks,” Emily stammered.

“Is that it?” Mrs. Comstock asked. “Aren’t you going to ask about my hobbies or talents or clubs I belong to or anything like that?”

“Oh, yes, I am, in future interviews,” Emily said. She could feel herself blushing. She should have known she wasn’t asking enough questions. “Right now I have to get to English class, and I know you have another class to teach. I’ll see you later. Okay?”

Mrs. Comstock smiled. “Okay. Good luck with your project.”

But Emily could feel Mrs. Comstock’s eyes on her back as she left the room, elbowing past the kids who were entering, and she had the weird feeling that she hadn’t fooled Mrs. Comstock for a minute.

The picture of Emily Wood has arrived. Express delivery. Alice is highly efficient
.

There is no mistaking the identity of the terrified little girl in the photo. Her eyes are wide with both the horror of what she had seen and the unpleasant surprise of a camera flash right in her face. I have no doubts at all. The child is definitely Emily Wood
.

I remember that the camera had been in my hands. When I heard a cry of shock and fear coming from the foliage on the hill, I scrambled down the steps toward the source. That was the first time I had noticed the tunnel-like opening in the undergrowth. And there was the child—a perfect stranger—staring at Amelia Foxworth’s body. Obviously, the little girl was so horrified, she must have been unable to move. I pressed the button on the camera and took her picture. I’m glad I did. I have proof, and the proof is positive
.

Emily found Maxwell and Taylor standing in the hallway outside the classroom.

“Why’d you wait?” she asked.

“We said we’d stay with you to protect you,” Taylor said.

“I’m very good at saving lives,” Maxwell said. He nudged Taylor, and she giggled. “You realize, don’t you, that my swift action in pulling you to safety will be a scene in one of my autobiographical plays?”

“I’ll be in a play? Then I’ll be famous, too!” Taylor said.

“If I remember your name,” Maxwell answered. He turned to Emily. “How did your interview with Mrs. Comstock go?”

“Fine,” Emily said, although she knew it hadn’t. She hadn’t asked enough questions or the right questions. But she thought she knew how to take care of that problem. She’d try a different approach on Dr. Weil.

A short time later, when he asked his class to volunteer to discuss their projects, Emily raised her hand. “I’m
going to write a series of interviews with the staff members who were with the educational center from the time it opened,” she said.

“Ah, yes. That was 1993, I do believe.”

“Were you with the center then?”

“No,” he said. “I had a position with the Tyler school district, with which I am still connected. I’ve taken this Camp Excel job for two reasons: summer employment and because I believe so wholeheartedly in Dr. Isaacson’s approach to education.”