Shadowmaker (18 page)

B.J. muttered something under his breath and slumped in his chair. His eyes glittered through the peepholes in the hood, glaring at me with anger.

“Thank you, your Honor,” I said to Mrs. Walgren, and stepped around to the side of the chair.

“D’Artagnan,” I began. “In association with your seniors, known as Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, you have formed an illegal association, dedicated to crime. Is that not correct?”

“No,” B.J. muttered.

Somebody whispered loudly enough for me to hear, “I saw the movie. The Three Musketeers weren’t criminals.”

Ignoring her, I continued, “The four of you have long been criminals, and the derring-do is all for show. Whether you’re known as swordsmen, adventurers, or Blitz, behind your fine words are the blackest of hearts.”

B.J. started at the word
Blitz
, and sat upright.

“D’Artagnan, you’re the one who was a tagalong, who fought so hard to get into the group. They didn’t want you, did they, until you insisted you could be part of their misadventures?”

“Why’d you say
Blitz
? What are you talking about?” B.J. demanded.

“I’m talking about theft, to begin with,” I answered. “Shall we go over the list? First, small things taken from stores, then larger items; next, burglaries of homes. One, two, three, four, five … getting harder all the time, and if you don’t participate, you’re out!”

“Where’d you hear that? This is supposed to be about the Three Musketeers, isn’t it?”

“
One
is for shoplifting;
two
, petty theft;
three
, household burglary;
four
, armed robbery—”

“Cut it out!”

“But it went wrong. Who pulled the trigger, d’Artagnan? You know, and you can tell us. Why be loyal to them? They wouldn’t be loyal to you. They didn’t want you in their club in the first place.”

“That’s not true! It was my …”

He broke off, and I pounced. “D’Artagnan, the tagalong. Save yourself. Tell the truth.”

B.J. squirmed in his chair. I could see that he was furious, and I hoped he was scared, too—scared enough to
snitch. “Tell us, was it Athos who shot the worker? Porthos? Aramis? Or was it you? Someone’s going to tell! Someone’s going to pay for the crime of murder!”

B.J. jerked off the hood and jumped to his feet. His face was pale, and a muscle twitched near his mouth. “You’re crazy!” he shouted.

I snatched the hood from his hand and held up the piece that had been torn away by the thorn bush. “Am I?” I asked. “Which one of you was wearing this hood and backed into a thorn bush? Was it when the worker refused to give you his money? Did he put up a fight? It was murder, d’Artagnan! And you know what happens to murderers!”

With a yell of rage, B.J. shoved over the chair and ran out of the room.

I picked up the chair, not sure exactly what to do. I remembered that all performers take bows, so I bowed formally to Mrs. Walgren and to the class and said, “Those who may think of themselves as heroes, able to commit any crime without hesitation because of their standing at court, might be nothing more than criminals to the community at large. I rest my case.”

Mrs. Walgren’s expression was a combination of bewilderment and pleasure. “Your presentation had some puzzling aspects, Katie, but it was very interesting. Quite an unusual viewpoint to think about. Tell B.J. to return, and we’ll begin our discussion.”

I opened the door and looked out, but the hall was empty. “He may not come back,” I said. “He got kind of emotional.”

“I didn’t know he was such a good actor,” Mrs. Walgren said.

“I didn’t either.” I folded the torn hood with its missing piece and pocketed it. “There were a couple of things I hoped he’d say—I mean, a couple of lines he left out that would have given some answers.”

“Perhaps the class can come up with the answers,” Mrs. Walgren said.

Julie raised her hand. “I don’t think there
are
any answers. There are two sides to almost everything. Even in war, both sides think they’re right and the other one is wrong.”

“A good observation,” Mrs. Walgren said. “But these men, as the prosecutor pointed out, are guilty of theft and even murder. Could those crimes ever be considered right?”

“They were in the movie,” someone said. “My father has the video of the real ancient
Three Musketeers
with Gene Kelly in it.”

“Forget the movie,” Mrs. Walgren said. “We’re using the novel as a base for our thinking. Are the actions taken by the Three Musketeers and d’Artagnan considered crimes, punishable by law, as our prosecutor would have us believe?”

A boy near the window waved his hand, and Mrs. Walgren said, “Yes, Arthur?”

“Could I sharpen my pencil?” he asked.

Fortunately, Julie spoke up. “If you put those four characters into today’s world, they would be arrested and convicted. Even though they were protecting the queen, their
country wasn’t officially at war, so whatever their reason for murder, it’s still murder.”

The discussion went on, and I only half listened. I had learned one thing from B.J.’s fury and fear. I’d been right.

But B.J. had run off, and I had no idea where he’d gone. Was it to warn Travis and the others?

I was beginning to get a little scared myself, not knowing what B.J. was going to do. Maybe I was trying to take the law into my own hands, and maybe that wasn’t such a good idea, after all.

I
would have guessed that B.J. had warned the others in Blitz, but Duke and Delmar showed up for history as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and I gave a huge sigh of relief. Had I succeeded in making B.J. mad at them? And was he angry enough that he might decide to tell what he knew?

I spent lunchtime in the school library, and again, after classes were over, ducked out the side door to avoid Travis.

Now was the time to talk to Mom. I knew the sheriff wouldn’t listen to me, but he’d have to listen to Mom—and soon. I nearly panicked when I got home and found a note telling me she’d driven Anita Boggs and her little boy to the Houston medical center.

“Don’t expect me for dinner, honey,” Mom had written. “But I should make it home no later than ten or eleven.”

Not today, Mom
, I silently begged.
Today I need you to be here.

The dogs’ barking alerted me to the car that had pulled up in front of our house. I made sure the door was securely locked before I looked out the window and saw the sheriff thudding his way up our walk.

I fumbled with the locks, then threw open the door. “I was going to call you,” I told him.

“We need to talk,” he said. “You, me, and your mama.”

“Mom’s not here,” I explained as I followed him into the living room. “She went to Houston, but she’ll be back soon.”

He sat down and motioned to me to take a seat. “Then I’ll keep this short. First place, you shoulda told me what you knew and how you found out about it, instead of pullin’ that silly dramatic scene in Mrs. Walgren’s class.”

“How did you know about that?” I asked.

“Mrs. Walgren’s sharp. She started thinkin’ about the things you told B.J. and right away remembered the carnival worker, so she called me. Where’d you get this information?”

“From Lana Jean’s journal. She was crazy about Travis, so she wrote about nearly everything he did. She wrote about the four members of Blitz going into the woods after a pigeon. She took them literally. She didn’t understand what they were talking about.”

I filled him in on the reason for Blitz and what Travis, B.J., Duke, and Delmar had been doing. I gave Sheriff Granger the hood and the torn piece that fit it. Then I pulled the chicken à la king box out of the freezer and
handed him the sheets torn out of Lana Jean’s journal. “Everything I told you is written on these pages,” I said.

He slowly shook his head. “I’ve known these boys and their families for more years than I’d care to count.” He looked up at me. “Do you know which one of ’em killed the carnival worker?”

“No,” I said, “but I think—”

The phone rang, interrupting me, and Sheriff Granger answered it, as though it was his house, not ours. He lowered his voice as he talked to someone, so I guessed he’d been expecting the call, and when he hung up he frowned at me. “Maybe you can tell me this—where’d the boys go off to?”

“They’re gone?”

“They sure are. I sent a deputy to pick them up—just for questioning—but not one of ’em can be found.” He stomped to the door, adding as an afterthought, “If you come up with anything else, call the dispatcher. I’ve got a new man on, but he’ll get in touch with me, and I’ll be right out.”

“Thanks,” I said, and made sure the door was securely locked as soon as the sheriff had left. Even though the long afternoon shadows hadn’t yet melted into a purple twilight, I went throughout the house, turning on every light, inside and out. The knowledge that no one knew where Travis, Duke, Delmar, and B.J. were made me very uncomfortable. No—a lot more than uncomfortable. I was scared right down to my toenails.

There was no way I was going to stay here by myself. As I picked up the phone my fingers trembled so violently I
nearly dropped the receiver. When Tammy answered, relief flooded through my body like warm tea and for a moment I had trouble talking.

“Is that you, Katie?” Tammy asked. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” I said. “Could I come over to your house?”

“Sure,” she said. “Come right now.”

I suddenly remembered I didn’t have transportation, and there was no way I was going to walk the distance to Tammy’s house in the dark. I told her.

“Darn,” she said. “Mom just drove to the grocery store, and Dad took the pickup into town to a board meeting of the Rotary Club. Is it okay if Mom or I come by for you after she gets home? It should be only around an hour.”

“That’s okay. See you then,” I said, and hung up. I suppose I should have called the dispatcher or someone, but I just sat on the sofa, feet together, hands in my lap, and waited.

I wasn’t sure who or what I was waiting for. Tammy? Mom? Travis?

Forty-five long minutes later, when it was close to eight o’clock and as dark as it could possibly get, I heard the dogs bark. As usual, it began with the Lab, baying a warning to whoever dared to pass the fence that stood between them. The German shepherd picked up the warning, and soon the rottweiler added his snarls and deep-throated barks.

My hands were so clammy they could hardly hold the phone, but I managed to dial the number of the sheriff’s office. “I think someone’s on our road,” I babbled at the
dispatcher. “The neighbors’ dogs are barking, which means someone’s coming, and—”

“Okay, lady,” he said in a hurried voice. “I’ll make a note of it.”

“My name is Katherine Gillian,” I told him, “and I live at—” I realized that he’d hung up and I was talking to myself.

With the outside lights on, at least I could see if someone came into our yard. I sneaked back the drapes to peer outside, but let them fall when I heard the shot.

I dropped to the floor and lay there, with my arms over my head, until I realized that the shot hadn’t been meant for me. Two of the dogs continued their frantic barking, but the Lab was still.

“No!” I whispered, so horrified I couldn’t move. “He wouldn’t shoot the dogs!” But I heard another shot, and the German shepherd was abruptly silent.

I froze, too numb to move or think until the third shot came and I heard someone running toward our house.

Terrified, I stumbled to the phone, jabbing at the buttons long after I realized there was no dial tone. He’d cut the telephone line.

Suddenly the lights went out, and I cried out in fear. He had access to the breaker box, and he had a gun. Soon he’d smash his way into our house, and I’d have no way of protecting myself!

Oh, Travis! For a while you made me believe you! How could I have been so stupid?

I scrambled along the floor, mindlessly searching for a place to hide, until my mind cleared and I realized I
couldn’t hide. Not in this little house, which he knew so well. Hadn’t Travis told me I should be glad we had such a small house to clean, with only four rooms and a bath? I’d heard him say it, yet I’d been so befuddled with Travis himself, I hadn’t realized at the time what his words meant.

The answer to the only possible way of protecting myself came as I heard a fumbling at the kitchen door. The attic! I’d hide in the attic! Bouncing off the walls in my haste, I ran into the hall and groped until I felt the rope. I tugged at it, pulled down the attic door, and stumbled up the steps. The moment I reached the attic floor I pulled the stairs up behind me.

How I wished I had a flashlight! Behind me were little scuttling sounds, but below me was the crash of broken window glass, and I was caught in the middle.

I could hear one pair of footsteps, and doors opening and shutting, as the murderer searched for me. He knew I was somewhere in the house. I wished I’d had the presence of mind to open the door to the porch so he might think I’d run down the beach, but it was too late for wishes. It was just a matter of time until he pulled down the stairs to the attic.

I heard him walk into the hallway and stop directly below the stairs. As he chuckled gleefully, I froze. Terrified, startled into a new and sharp awareness, I began to remember things I had heard and seen and tucked away, unheeded. In my mind I could clearly visualize the murderer, his eyes glinting as he smiled. Any moment now, he’d be coming after me.

I did the only thing possible. Heedless of the noise I
made, I picked up the portable television set, shivering so violently it nearly fell out of my arms.

The door, with its attached stairs, slid downward slowly, a flickering light around the opening showing me he had a flashlight—maybe my own flashlight. There was a soft thump as the stairs dropped into place, and shadows stretched upward like giant fingers reaching to peel me out of my hiding place.

He chuckled again and whispered, “I know you’re up there, Katie, and I’m coming to get you.”

I didn’t wait until he reached the attic. The moment he began to climb the stairs I did the only thing left for me to do. I dropped the television set on his head.