Leaving his car, he approached the elevator, its metal surface scarred and dinged red with age. He punched a battered silver button.
Nothing.
He tried it again, held it down.
Something connected. Motor sounds, rumblings from above. Would they betray his coming?
What did it matter?
He would find the slasher, verify the phone lady’s story, milk his colleague-assuming said colleague hadn’t died at Dex’s hand-for details about Tweed’s murder, details he would then use to shame the promgoers.
There would be no animosity, hard feelings, nor thirst for revenge against the one chosen to carry out the slash. That was an impersonal task. An honor. One did the deed, then let it fade into collective memory. To some, it was a revered act of heroism.
To others, it was a scandal.
Krantor Berryman, the earth science teacher, had been routinely shunned for years.
He had been chosen once.
Rather than take part in what he called the country’s shame, he had paid his fine and served a year in prison.
Now, Matthew, as the elevator door opened and a blast of rank air billowed forth, vowed to join forces with poor Berryman.
He had gone along with the others, shunning the outspoken anti, like the rest. But all that, he vowed, would change.
Do it, thought Matthew, the sound of those words trumpeting in his ears like a clarion call.
New waves of anxiety about Tweed flooded him as he ducked into the elevator and punched for ascent.
17. Darkness Descends
As she left on her assigned search for the janitor, Delia Gaskin met Brest and Trilby Donner heading for the gym.
Her longed-for lovers.
Pill clung to Trilby. the little girl’s tear-stained face, blanched to the lobes, was scooped hollow. She seemed to have staggered off a rollercoaster, vowing never to ride one again.
“What is it?” asked Delia, laying a concerned hand on Brest’s arm.
“She’ll be okay,” said Brest. “Trilby and I thought Pill would be safe in the faculty lounge. She heard Pesky and Flense being slaughtered. She even saw part of it through a crack in the closet door.”
Concern washed through Delia. “Does she need to lie down? There’s a nice comfy bed in the dispensary.”
“Do you want to, honey?” Trilby asked.
Pill shook her head decisively. She gripped her mommy’s waist tighter than ever.
There would be no chance, thought Delia, to do her nurse number on the frightened child.
Not yet anyway.
“The poor girl’s really upset,” Delia said. “Did she get a good look at the slasher?”
“Not from what we can tell,” replied Brest. “Just a lot of noise and voices, a knife flashing by, an arm in a dark blue sleeve.”
“Sounds like Gerber Waddell.”
“That’s what we’re starting to think. We’re wondering if maybe the surgeons missed one small chunk of brain and his dormant urges are just now catching up with him. He’s reverting to what he was.”
“Futzy sent me to find him and get him to turn the gym lights up full. Sounds like you two haven’t seen him.”
“Not a sign,” said Trilby, Pill staring up at Delia from her mommy’s waist. “I haven’t seen him all night.”
“Well, I guess I’ll check the band room.”
“Be careful,” said Brest, glints of lust peering through her concern.
“Don’t worry. I’m stronger than I look.” Delia smiled grimly and left them.
Glancing back, she saw Bix come up to them, his gaze drawn to the child, then shooting along the hallway toward her.
Fucking nuisance. The one damned thing that stood between her and his wives.
She reached the band room door and tossed another glance backward. There was Bix, still staring at her as his hand caressed the back of his child’s head.
He would come after her. Delia could sense it. He would make his move.
And she would make hers.
She pushed open the door. The shadows were darker in here, a lone dim lightbulb casting much of the room into obscurity. It was a decidedly creepy place, what with the tall gray semicircle of doors, each concealing instruments and music stands. And possibly more.
It was quiet here too. The stillness of a volcano readying to erupt.
No janitor of course. Delia had known she wouldn’t find Gerber here. But she supposed she ought to try a few doors, if only to go through the motions.
A noise behind her.
Big surprise: Bix Donner walked in.
She hoped he had been circumspect.
“Hi, there.” Almost a whisper in church. “Mind some company?”
“You never give up, do you?”
Bix chuckled softly. “Nope, not where a beautiful babe like you is concerned. Cupid’s arrows pierce deep.” He approached her, each level of wood flooring groaning as he ascended.
“Did you tell your wives where you were going?”
“I told them I’d take a spin past the science labs, see if our killer shows himself. He’s gotta be one sick gent, a real nutcase. But if I could come at him mano a mano, I’ll bet I could take him.”
“Heroics, huh?”
Bix shrugged. “Why not? Maybe that’s the way to my Delia’s heart. Unless of course… you’d like to give in to your little Bixie-poo right now.”
He took a step closer.
Delia held her ground.
“Unless,” he said, “you’d like him to kiss you right where you stand.”
She sensed heat and a faint whiff of musk lifting off his body. His hungry eyes peered out of the obscurity, searchlights slashing nightfog to ribbons.
“I’ll tell you what I’d like,” said Delia, swaying with him, almost touching him, toying, tantalizing, turning him on. “I’d like you to find our killer—”
“Ummm hmmm?”
“Walk right up to him—”
“Ummm?” Smug smile.
“And do this.”
Delia’s right fist was pulled close by her side, tense as a steel spring. She had kept her tone calm and casual. Now the fist shot out, a dark thunderbolt to Bix’s solar plexus, knuckled, swift, deeply damaging.
He went to his knees.
Big man brought low.
His hands fumbled at her dress.
She backed away, then turned to the standing lamp.
He would take a good few minutes to recover, but Delia saw no need to wait that long.
The lamp pole was thick and securely screwed into a heavy base, an ample supply of cord coiled beside it that snaked off to a wall socket.
Delia lifted the lamp and upended it.
The on-off pull jinked against its lightbulb like a distant tricycle bell.
This is for Trilby, she thought, swinging the lamp base against the side of Bix’s head with all her might.
And this is for Brest.
The first blow had collapsed him. The second came down squarely on his face, staving it in beneath the eyes. A big iron smile punched across his nose and cheeks, a pleased dent that spewed bloody ecstasy.
Damned pole wasn’t long enough to keep his blood from spattering her dress.
Stability returned to the rocking room. The one pale light, moving with her attack, had made shadows dance. Now they calmed.
The Bixmeister was stone-cold dead. Could she be sure? Delia righted the lamp, slipped out of a shoe, and pressed her foot against his chest.
No heartbeat.
She toyed with smashing the lightbulb. She would grind hot shards of glass into his eyes in the darkness she had brought on, just to be sure.
But other matters needed attending to.
And the air wasn’t moving above his nostrils.
Delia slipped her foot back into the shoe and wiped down the lampstand.
Should she check on the janitor? No need. His bonds were surely as secure as the last time she had checked and the time before that.