A Twist of Hate (16 page)

              “Your mystery man seems to have stood you up,” Camden said cheerfully. He used a thin butane torch to light the candles.

              Brian eyed Camden over a flickering flame. “Afraid of a little competition, Cam?”

              “He’ll be here.” Siobhan confidently took her seat beside Camden. “He’s running late, that’s all.”

              They served themselves from dishes of crab rangoon, egg rolls, scallion pancakes, scallops stir-fried with broccoli, shrimp with snow peas and sizzling rice, pan-fried noodles with beef and mushrooms, and crispy braised eggplant.

              Siobhan had also prepared a simple vegetable stir-fry, steamed white rice, and a salad of English cucumbers, carrots, bean sprouts, shrimp, and peanuts served with an Asian vinaigrette dressing.

              “Everything looks positively delicious.” Mr. Cleese dipped an egg roll in plum sauce, then held it to Amanda’s lips.

              “Who did the catering?” Courtney asked. “The sauce on this eggplant is awesome. Oops!” She had a little trouble handling her chopsticks. Brian retrieved the piece of eggplant she accidentally flipped into his lap.

              “Siobhan cooked,” Camden said. “She did everything except grow the flowers and pour the candles.”

              Brian looked up from his full plate. Martha Stewart couldn’t have set a more eclectically elegant table. Ming Tsai couldn’t have prepared more delicious food. The flowers, her dress, the music softly playing in the background—everything was perfect. In the space of a few hours, Siobhan had planned and executed a dinner party with only one problem: it would end too soon.

              “You are the most amazing girl I’ve ever met, Siobhan,” Brian said earnestly. He spoke directly to Camden. “I hope you know how lucky you are.”

              Brian’s heartfelt comments unsettled the table. Siobhan, unsure how to respond, muttered her thanks. Courtney, pain in her eyes, stared at Brian. Camden took Siobhan’s hand under the table and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

              A noise at the front door broke the awkward silence. Siobhan stopped Camden from leaving the table, opting to go to the door herself. She returned with her mystery guest and wordlessly took her seat. Camden, a big smile on his face from something Mr. Cleese had said to restore the table’s good cheer, turned to see Siobhan’s late arrival.  His happy smile transformed to jaw-dropping shock. Siobhan had told him the truth. Their tenth guest
was
old enough to be his father.

              “Dad,” Camden exhaled, rising on legs suddenly gone numb.

              Patrick Dougherty had come straight from the office. He still wore the finely cut English suit Siobhan had seen him in at his office that morning. She remained at Mr. Dougherty’s side, holding his arm to give him support or prevent an escape.

              Siobhan was stunned by the striking resemblance between Camden and his father, who had the golden good looks of a gracefully aging movie star.

              “Hello, Patrick,” said Mrs. Livingston.

              “How are you, Patrick?” Mr. Livingston asked, half rising to shake his hand.

              “Hi, Mr. Dougherty,” Courtney and Brian greeted in turn.

              Siobhan introduced Mr. Dougherty to Amanda, Mr. Cleese, and her father. “Mr. Dougherty,” she said, leading him to the far side of the table, “perhaps you’d like to sit by your son?”

              “Dad.” His father’s presence had reduced Camden’s vocabulary to one word.

              “Siobhan came to my office this morning,” said Mr. Dougherty. “She walked right in on a meeting with Augie Daley, my biggest client. She insisted that I speak with her, but she did all the talking. She made an offer I didn’t dare refuse.”

              Mr. Dougherty reached into his breast pocket. He pulled out a rectangle of paper stamped with black ink, and showed it to Camden. It was a ticket, fifth row center, to the opening night performance of Prescott High School’s
The Glass Menagerie
. “It’s your last play. I’d be a fool, and those were her exact words, to miss it.”

              Camden turned to Siobhan, his eyes glistening. “You did all this…for me?” He pinched his forefinger and thumb to his eyes. The last thing he wanted was to cry, especially in front of his friends. Siobhan ignored her first instinct, which was to take him in her arms and hold him tight. She stepped back. Mr. Dougherty took one step forward, lessening the gap between himself and his son. He hugged Camden, and closed the gap completely.

Chapter Eight

“When your child is born, you look into his eyes. You try to see yourself, or your husband, or your Grandma Tillie in his face. You see your future. You don’t see hate or rage. Or evil.”

—Elvira Littlefield,
Christian Corner Magazine

              The cast and crew assembled in the wings. David, Ann, Courtney and Brian were in costume. Siobhan had changed into a more practical backstage outfit: shapeless drawstring pants, a matching sleeveless tunic, and flats with a tiny silver buckle. Heads and hands floated in the semi-darkness as Mr. Cleese quietly addressed the students. “This, my pets, is the beginning of the end.”

              Camden gave Siobhan’s hand a light squeeze. They had heard that line on each opening night. This would be the last time.

              “On the other side of that curtain, fate awaits,” said Mr. Cleese. “Every moment we’ve spent turning this work from the page to the stage will be judged in the short space of seven scenes crafted by troubled, hometown-boy-made-good, Thomas Lanier Williams. We’ve weathered storms mighty and small, and now, we shall present the finest play Prescott will see this year.”

              He nodded toward Camden, Brian and David. The three boys slipped into his office. “I’ve always found it easier to bid adieu to my cast and crew before the play. Call me a coward, if you will. I bear the title with pride.”

              The boys returned carrying bouquets of red roses. “It’s customary for the leading ladies to receive an offering, of sorts, on opening night,” Mr. Cleese said. Brian presented a bouquet and a kiss on the cheek to Courtney. David handed a bouquet to Ann.

              “I’d like to break tradition, just this once, to make a special acknowledgement. For an example of grace under pressure, look no farther than our own Miss Curran.” Mr. Cleese raised a hand to her. Camden set a bouquet in her arms.

              She bowed her head into Camden’s chest. “This is so embarrassing,” she murmured.

              “Is there anything you’d care to add, Mr. Dougherty?” Mr. Cleese offered.

              Camden couldn’t take his eyes off Siobhan. She had given him so much, more than enough to fill the empty places deep in his heart. She had bridged the past and the present to give him and his father a shot at a future. They were starting anew and Siobhan had made it happen. This wonderful girl looking at him with the eyes of a goddess had changed his life.

              “I don’t know where to start,” Camden said, still unable to look away from her. “Thank you just isn’t enough.”

              Courtney carefully brushed away a tear before it fell to streak her makeup. Camden and Siobhan had a Oneness, that indescribable something, that made it seem as if they had known each other for this life and all others. Their bond seemed as strong as the one between Reece Wyndham and Christopher Daley III, Prescott’s reigning first couple.

              Courtney clutched Brian’s hand. “I’ve never seen Camden like this. He’s never smiled with his whole face before.”

              “He’s happy,” Brian said wistfully.

              “Miss Curran, have you anything you’d like to share?” Mr. Cleese asked.

              Nothing short of an act of God could have distracted her from the shine in Camden’s eyes and his sweet, chaste kiss. This young man who enraptured her was direct and uncomplicated in his feelings for her. He never pretended she was something she wasn’t, and he never locked her into a stereotype. He accepted her as she was, and that was all she had ever wanted from anyone.

              What could she say to thank him for that? What words were special or right enough?

              His touch told her he already knew. She threw an arm around his neck, nearly crushing the roses between them. She whispered in his ear and Camden laughed softly.

              “I’ve never seen him do that,” Mr. Cleese muttered.

              “Do what?” Brian asked.

              “Laugh.” Mr. Cleese winked. Sending cast and crew to their appointed positions, he looked forward to what other surprises the evening would bring.

***

              Siobhan, blocked script in hand, stood alone at the control board in the wings. Brian paced in the boys dressing room above Mr. Cleese’s office, listening to everything happening onstage through the closed speaker system. Ann and Courtney were in position onstage in the living room section of the set, ready for the curtain. On the roof of the mock tenement, on his mark, David took a few deep breaths to settle his nerves. Two prop handlers hid behind the scrim, awaiting their cues.

              Siobhan opened the curtain, and the last play of the school year finally began.

              In the light and sound booth, Camden gave Mr. Wechter the cue to spot David. Just as he had in the dress rehearsal, David crossed to the fire escape, descended to the stage, and took out a cigarette and a box of matches.

              Camden glanced at Mr. Wechter, wondering if the old man felt the tickle of anticipation and excitement that went with the opening of every show.

              Mr. Wechter drew a large handkerchief from the back pocket of his corduroy pants. He blew his nose so loudly, Camden almost didn’t hear the tiny blip of static and muffled sounds coming through his headset.

              “Siobhan?” he said quietly. Even if he had shouted no one would have heard him outside the soundproofed booth. He tapped the headset. Nothing.

              David broke character. Instead of moving downstage to address the audience, he sharply turned stage right, toward the wings. A loud crack, like thunder striking a dead tree, echoed through Camden’s headset and startled many of the audience members. David ran offstage. Courtney screamed, and she and Ann cowered behind the sofa. The thunder screamed twice more in quick succession. Camden tore off his headset and ran down the deep, dark stairwell of the light and sound booth.

***

              Brian had left the dressing room after convincing himself that he would have wanted to watch the action from the wings whether Siobhan was there or not. From outside the dressing room, he had seen a bald figure in black moving toward her. He never considered calling out to her, not with actors onstage playing to a full house.

              But then he’d seen the dull shine of metal pressed to Siobhan’s temple, and the pale, freckled hand clapped over her mouth. He yelled for help and vaulted down the stairs. Andy Blake and the other two prop handlers had rushed past the scrim but scurried back when they spotted the gun at Siobhan’s head.

              David, who had just lit his cigarette onstage, had glanced into the wings and seen Michael Littlefield—only this was a version of Michael no one had before seen. This Michael had exchanged his Eastern-preppy style of dress for that of a bald, militant James Bond.

              “Mike, what are you doing,” Brian pleaded. “Put the gun down and let’s talk.”

              “You never liked me,” Michael said, eerily calm. “I never liked you, either.” He clamped Siobhan to his chest and whipped his gun hand toward Brian. Siobhan struck his arm as he pulled the trigger.

              He threw her to the floor and two more shots rang out. One of them killed the control board above Siobhan, violently short circuiting it in a shower of sparks, charred metal and burnt plastic. David rushed to Siobhan, mindless of the dangling live wires, and shielded Siobhan with his body. Michael darted forward and struck him in his head with the gun. David fell like a wet sandbag.

“So much for your shining white knights,” Michael sneered. He gathered the back of her tunic in one hand, jabbed the gun into the small of her back, and forced her deeper into the dark.

***

              Camden exploded into the wings with Mr. Cleese on his heels. David lay unconscious on the floor. Brian, on his knees and one hand, struggled to stand. A bright river of blood stained the shoulder of his blue and white pinstriped jacket. He gained his footing and took two steps before toppling into Camden’s arms.

              “He took her,” Brian gasped. “God, help her, he took her!” His faculties were quickly deserting him. He had never before realized that pain wasn’t just a sensation. It was a place, one filled with jagged edges, cold and heat, and the nauseating stench of wet copper. He fully understood what it meant to be in pain.

              Camden’s heart jumped into his throat. “Help!” he shouted. “There has to be a doctor in the audience, get somebody!” He heard Andy in the office, shouting into the phone for the police. Mr. Cleese bent over David. Ann screamed into the audience for a doctor. Camden pulled off his belt and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet for Brian’s bloody arm. A sickening swell of panic churned in his gut.

              “Michael took her,” Brian managed before finally passing out.

              “Where’s Siobhan?” Mr. Cleese demanded. He took off his jacket and propped it under Brian’s head. “Find Siobhan Curran!”

              Conscious but unsteady on his feet, David called for Siobhan, one side of his head covered in blood. A wave of cell phone wielding faculty, students, and parents tried to enter the backstage area, Mr. Edwards, the Livingstons, and two more parents who were doctors leading the way.

              “What the hell just happened?” Mr. Edwards barked.

              Andy clutched the headmaster’s arm. “Mike Littlefield came in with a gun! He just started shooting!”

              “God, no,” Mr. Edwards groaned.

              The Livingstons rushed to Brian’s side. Camden backed away to give them access. The other two doctors tended to David, who kept calling for Siobhan and ineffectively fought their efforts to sit him down.

              Through all the voices and bodies clogging the backstage area, Camden spotted a pool of blood beneath the control board. He shouldered his way through the crowd to follow a trail of shiny red droplets on the hardwood floor. The utility entrance, the wide back doors through which large pieces of scenery or equipment were brought, stood open the tiniest crack. The drops became splatters as they got closer to the utility doors. Camden followed the blood through the doors and outside. The blood trail disappeared in the wooded area edging the back of the parking lot. Siobhan’s car was still parked near the back doors. The only sign of her or Michael was a bloody handprint smeared on the side of her car.

***

              Seconds ticked by with the casual speed of eternity as Camden stood in the doorway of Mr. Cleese’s office, watching Emergency Medical technicians wheel Brian and David through the utility doors and into waiting ambulances. The headmaster and Mr. Cleese had cleared the backstage area of everyone except the surviving members of the cast and crew and their parents. While detectives and other officers questioned weeping students, a team of technicians moved behind a barrier of yellow police tape, collecting evidence and photographing the backstage—the crime scene.

              “Officers are searching the area,” stated Detective Russell Flynn. “We’ve got a cruiser at the Littlefield home and we’ve issued an APB on the boy’s car.” Det. Flynn turned to Mr. Curran, who managed to pace an anxious circle in Mr. Cleese’s packed office. “Littlefield won’t get far.”

              Mr. Curran appeared to have aged forty years. “This is the second time in less than twenty-four hours that Michael Littlefield has brought harm to my daughter! This time he’s injured, perhaps even killed, two other students as well!”

              Det. Avery Morton, his wooly salt-and-pepper eyebrows drawn together in a scowl, turned to Camden. “Do you have any idea where Littlefield might take her?”

              Camden had been torturing himself with that very question. “I don’t know,” he admitted, helpless.

              He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. He would have been looking for Siobhan already if Mr. Cleese and Mr. Curran hadn’t held him back to wait for the police. Michael had so many secrets! Camden had never delved terribly far into Michael’s world following the visit to Virrell Littlefield’s. He had no clue where Michael would have taken Siobhan, and that lack of knowledge terrified him because he knew only too well what Michael was capable of.

              Camden rubbed his temple, but nothing erased the afterimage of those droplets of blood. Had Siobhan been shot? Had he bashed open her skull? Uncertainty turned his stomach.

              “Do you know where he got the gun?” Det. Flynn asked.

              “His grandfather, Virrell Littlefield. He gave it to Michael for his eighteenth birthday. Mike brought it to my house. He waved it around and asked me if I wished I had one. I think he wanted me to be jealous of him.” Camden’s blood chilled as a realization hit him. “I know where he took her. I know where they are!”

              Shouting his destination, Camden ran for the utility doors. A pair of officers tried to stop him, but he broke free of them. He ran through the parking lot, charging past a technician collecting a sample of the blood on Siobhan’s car. He’d driven Siobhan to the play in her car, and her keys were in his pocket. The cops wouldn’t have let him take her car, not that he wanted to.