The Academy (Moving In Series Book 6) (5 page)

More often than not, his parents usually passed out by midnight. Herman still had a hard time getting ready for school in the morning, since he was constantly tired, but he was making the best of a bad situation.

The good thing was he didn’t have nightmares or even dreams he could remember.

All of that changed on the night of his lost hour in the library.

His parents had been up later than usual. Almost until one. They were fighting about who owned the Shirley Jackson books. Herman didn’t care who actually owned them, he wanted some quiet so he could sleep. Eventually, he drifted off and started to dream.

He was in Mrs. Alcott’s office. The book was on the desk, and the clock was blank. He turned around, confused, wondering why he was back. When he faced the door, he came to a stop, staring at a man who stood there.

He was an old man, and exceptionally tall; his hair brushing the lintel of the doorframe. The old man’s beard was long, well past the center of his chest, and was white with streaks of black hair running through it. When the man smiled, he revealed yellowed teeth, some straight and others crooked, all with gaps between them. His eyes were a brilliant blue, the color of the sky on a clear winter morning. The man’s forehead was heavily lined, as though he had thought and worried about a great deal. He was a lean man, too, his black suit accentuating the angles of his body. He radiated confidence and calm.

“What are you reading, young man?” the old man asked. His voice was melodic, powerful.

Herman enjoyed the sound of the man, the rhythm of his speech. “An autobiography, sir.”

Herman didn’t usually say ‘sir,’ but it felt right to do so. Proper.

“Is it good?” the old man asked confidentially.

Herman smiled, unsure why. “Yes, sir.”

“Will you read all of it? Every last word?” the old man asked softly.

Herman nodded his head vigorously.

“Excellent. What’s your name, young man?”

“Herman, sir,” he said. And then he added, “Herman Emerson Hawthorne.”

“A good name. Mine is Nathaniel Weiss.”

Mr. Weiss offered his hand, and Herman shook it. He remembered how Mr. Licata had taught him how to shake hands properly. Firmly, without too much strength, or too little.

No one wants a broken hand,
Mr. Licata had said, smiling,
or to touch a limp fish.

“Now, Mr. Hawthorne,” Mr. Weiss said, looking around the room. “Will you tell me exactly the day and the year?”

If Herman hadn’t been dreaming, he would have found the question odd. “June second, 2016.”

Mr. Weiss smiled. “I am pleased to hear it. And is this still an academy?”

Herman nodded.

“I am glad,” Mr. Weiss said. “I will let you return to your reading, young sir, and I trust I shall see you again.”

Herman didn’t want him to leave, and he asked, “Do you have to go?”

“I must,” Mr. Weiss said, nodding. “We shall meet again, however. I wish to hear your thoughts on the book.”

Mr. Weiss grinned, and the dream faded to black. Herman awoke and sat up. It was two-thirty in the morning, according to his alarm clock. He was sweating, his tee-shirt drenched. The room was cool, though, the central air of the house humming placidly. The blanket and towel were still in their places at the door, and the house was silent except for the air conditioner. Herman had fallen asleep with the light on, and he leaned over to turn it off when he saw the autobiography. He picked it up and looked at the author.

Nathaniel Weiss
.

Herman opened the book up and found a photograph inside of the author. It was the man he had dreamed of.

Probably why I dreamed of him
, Herman thought.

He closed the book, returned it to his bed table and yawned. He was tired, and in less than five hours, his parents would start in with their arguing again. Herman turned out the light, dropped back onto his pillow, and closed his eyes. He’d finish the book in study hall.

It was a lot better than he had expected.

Chapter 12: Making a Decision

At six in the morning, Mitchell still hadn’t gone to sleep. His mind had plagued him with the images of the previous day. Marilyn’s body. The plumbers and their mad descent. The message about Weiss.

Mitchell sat at his kitchen table. His wife, Leann, was in the shower. She had just gotten home from her morning run. She knew of Marilyn, of course, and of the plumbers. But Mitchell had not spoken about Weiss. Nor had he mentioned anything about Dave’s theory concerning the long dead founder.

With a sigh, Mitchell finished his coffee and looked down at the portable phone. Beside it, he had his address book, his cousin Brian’s information was before him.

A large part of Mitchell refused to believe Weiss had come back. That he
could
come back. Then there was a small voice, little more than a whisper, who asked the question,
But what if?

Could it hurt?
Mitchell asked himself.
Is it really so difficult to call Brian and ask him to come down?

Mitchell hated the idea of the supernatural. It was offensive, and it upset him.

Yet is there another explanation?
he wondered.

Yes,
he thought.
All those lines to the sewer suddenly exposed. Toxic gasses. People could have adverse reactions.

As quickly as the idea came, though, Mitchell dismissed it. He knew enough to know the gasses wouldn’t have made anyone either suicidal or homicidal.

It could be coincidence
, he argued.

And then he shook his head.
Are you really so proud you won’t call your cousin? Are you going to be embarrassed because you asked for some help with a strange situation?

Mitchell looked at the phone, picked it up and dialed Brian’s number.

I hope he’s awake,
Mitchell thought, glancing at the clock. He thought about hanging up the phone, but even as he did so, Brian answered the call.

“Mitchell?” Brian asked.

“Hello, Cousin,” Mitchell said, using their old, familiar greeting.

“Hey, everything okay?” Brian’s voice was heavy with both sleep and concern.

“Not really,” Mitchell said, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

“Leann okay?” Brian asked, fully awake.

“Yes,” Mitchell said. “It’s nothing to do with the family, Brian. It’s the Academy.”

“What’s wrong?”

Mitchell told him. He told him everything, from the burst toilets to the deaths of the plumbers. Mitchell included every detail.

“Are you going to school today?” Brian asked after a moment.

“Yes,” Mitchell said. “I have to. The staff needs to be spoken with. We’re bringing in grief counselors. All the stuff that goes into a tragedy. Why?”

“I just wanted to make sure you were there when I get in,” Brian said.

“You’re coming down?” Mitchell asked, surprised and relieved at the same time.

“Of course,” Brian said seriously. “I’m not going to let you hang out there in the wind, Mitchell. Give me about an hour to get ready and then I’ll be on the road. I’ll call your office phone when I hit the rest stop outside of Danielson. Figure I’ll get into the Academy around nine-thirty, maybe ten. All depends on the traffic in Worcester.”

“Are you sure?” Mitchell asked, suddenly embarrassed.

“Yup,” Brian replied. “Just make sure you’ve got a big pot of coffee on.”

“I will,” Mitchell said.

He and Brian said their goodbyes and Mitchell ended the call. He looked at the phone for a moment, and then he dialed Dave Licata’s number.

“Hello?” Dave’s voice was thick with sleep.

“Dave, it’s Mitchell.”

“Mitchell? Is everything alright?” Dave asked, yawning.

“Fine, Dave. Everything’s fine. Listen, I think you’re absolutely right about the supernatural angle. I went and got in touch with my cousin,” Mitchell said, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

“You did?” Dave said, all sounds of sleep gone from his voice. “Is there anything you need me to do?”

“No, no, nothing at all,” Mitchell said, forcing himself to sound more confident than he felt. “I would feel better if you would stay away from the school for a few days. I’ll be sending out an email to everyone telling them the police need the campus and all, but you’re the only one who’ll know the truth.”

“Alright, Mitchell,” Dave said. “You’re certain you don’t need my help?”

“I won’t hesitate to call you if that changes, Dave,” Mitchell said. “I’m sorry to have woken you up so early, but I wanted to tell you.”

“No, I appreciate it,” Dave said. “Call me when it’s all said and done, Mitchell.”

“I will. Bye now.”

After David said goodbye and hung up, Mitchell put the phone back on the table. He hesitated for a moment before he stood up and went upstairs. He needed to get ready for work.

Chapter 13: Strange Behavior

Larry showed up for work at seven in the morning. In one hand, he had a cup of coffee and in the other he had a Hostess cupcake. Both were part of his morning ritual. He would stop at Dashiell’s corner store at six, drink a coffee with the man and complain leisurely about politics, the weather, sports, and anything else which happened to cross their minds.

At a quarter to seven, Larry would get a second cup of coffee, buy a package of cupcakes, and eat one of the vanilla frosted wonders before he even left the store’s parking lot. The second one, he would eat once he got to his office in the basement of the Admin building on campus.

Today, Larry knew, was different.

They would speak about Marilyn, and ‘they’ happened to be the other staff and faculty members at the school. They weren’t a tight-knit group, but they were co-workers. The slights and insults of the days and weeks before would be forgotten. They were small and petty in light of Marilyn’s suicide.

Larry was thankful the kids weren’t around for the death. He didn’t envy the task Mitchell, and the guidance counselors would have once the students returned.

He shook his head, turned off the engine to his old Chevy big-block, and got out. The air was warm, muggy.

It’ll be a hell of a day to work outside,
Larry thought, nudging the car door closed with his hip. He took a sip of his coffee and wandered leisurely over to the back entrance of the Admin building. He balanced his cupcake on the lid of the disposable cup, unhooked his keys and unlocked the door. A moment later, he was down the stairs and into his office. He flicked on the lights, put his drink and food on the table, and dropped heavily into the old chair. Both he and the springs groaned simultaneously, and he eyed the computer warily.

Bet there’ll be a hundred emails about Marilyn
, he thought. He hesitated, and then with a shrug, he turned the computer on. While it powered up, the hard drive whining piteously, Larry finished his breakfast. He glanced at the calendar on the wall to see what he had penciled in for the day.

Need to mow the baseball field,
he thought.
And there are the windows in the shop class. Need to put new screens in. Osterman’ll have a fit if I don’t. Maybe if he sweats a little more, he might lose some of that fat.

Larry chuckled, scratched his head, and the humor left him.

At the feel of his own hair beneath his fingers, Larry remembered the day before. Recalled painfully the new color of his short hair.

He dropped his hand to the desk and angrily punched in his password, stabbing each letter with his index fingers.

When the screen came up and he accessed his email, he snorted and shook his head.

Ninety-eight new messages,
he read.

Heavy feet sounded in the hall, and Larry twisted around in his chair to see Bruce come into the doorway. The younger man was scowling, his Yankees ball cap pulled low.

“What’s wrong?” Larry asked as Bruce went over and sat down on the old couch in the corner.

Bruce pulled his hat off. The man had shaved his head.

“What’d you do that for?” Larry asked.

“Tried to dye my hair black last night,” Bruce said bitterly.

“Didn’t take?” Larry said.

“Naw, it didn’t,” Bruce said. “Damn eyebrows are white.”

Larry nodded. “You hear about Marilyn?”

“Yeah, Candy from the cafeteria called me last night, told me all about it,” Bruce said. “Shame. She was a nice lady. Never would have figured her to off herself. You know?”

“Yup. I was surprised, too. Pity.”

Silence fell over them and lasted for several minutes before Bruce broke it when he asked, “What’s the plan for today?”

With a sigh, Larry leaned forward, scrolled through his emails and spotted one from Mitchell. He opened it, read it, and frowned. “Looks like there’s a meeting for everybody.”

“About what?” Bruce said.

“Marilyn,” Larry answered.

Bruce groaned. “Is it all that crap about therapists and whatever?”

“More than likely,” Larry said. He drank some of his coffee. “Can’t be helped. It’s the way things work, now.”

Bruce snorted. “Well, it’s stupid.”

Larry nodded in agreement. “Doesn’t mean we can skip it, though. Mitchell says everyone, so we’re there too, right?”

“Yeah,” Bruce agreed sulkily. “Listen, I got to go to the john, I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” Larry said, waving a hand dismissively.

The younger man got up and left the room. Larry checked the time on the assembly and finished his coffee.

When Bruce hadn’t returned twenty minutes later, Larry stood up, concerned. He went out into the hall, looked up and down it, but didn’t see the man anywhere. Frowning, Larry headed to the bathrooms and opened up the men’s room. The lights were off. He flicked them on, walked in and checked each stall. Bruce wasn’t there. Larry hurried out of the room, knocked on the door of the women’s room, and when no one answered, inspected it as well.

Where the hell is he?
Larry thought worriedly after the search revealed nothing. He went back to the office to see if Bruce had returned, but the man hadn’t.