Beyond the Chocolate War (10 page)

"I've received word," Archie said, "that the Bishop's visit to Trinity has been canceled."

Carter dropped the gavel.

Archie looked at Carter with contempt, waited for him to pick it up, then spoke again.

"Which means that there will be no day off. It's canceled."

Quick intakes of breath, stirrings among the Vigils, a whispered "
Aw, shit
" from someone.

Archie searched the room with those cold and merciless eyes, assessing the impact of his news.

Obie caught Archie's questioning scrutiny, the intensity of his search. He knew the great Archie Costello intimately enough to realize that something had gone askew.

Carter's hand seemed welded to the handle of the gavel. Blood raced under the surface of his flesh, pounding its way to his face.

"But it also means something else," Archie said, drawing the words out slowly, and all the time studying his audience, looking at them as if he had never seen them before.

Obie frowned, puzzled, glad that he was standing in the shadows, virtually unseen.

Ah, but Archie saw everything, and he turned his eyes now on Obie.

"What do you think that something else is, Obie?"

Stymied, Obie shrugged.

"I don't know."

"Bunting?"

Bunting leaped with surprise as if someone had goosed him, one of the more ordinary pastimes at Trinity. He had been uncomfortable about Obie's presence in the room, had barely followed Archie's conversation with Tubs Casper. Hearing Obie's voice now, he gained confidence. Obie certainly wouldn't be answering Archie's questions so normally if he suspected that one of the guys who had attacked him and his girl was in the room.

"I don't know either," Bunting said.

"Carter?"

The blood was pounding a tom-tom beat in Carter's head now, but he tried to keep his features in control.

"You've got me," he said, giving his voice the proper amount of disdain. Acting as if it didn't matter.

But it did matter. He dreaded Archie's next move. The announcement that someone had tipped Leon off about the visit.

Silence as Archie's eyes swept the room again. Inscrutable eyes that revealed nothing, told no secrets. Did his eyes linger on me a moment longer than anyone else? Carter wondered, knowing the secret of that "something else." He was relieved to hear Bunting interrupt Archie's scrutiny.

"Can't we still arrange a day off from school?" Bunting asked. "Everybody's going to be . . . teed off." He'd almost said
pissed off
, which would have landed him in trouble again. "We put a lot of work into the arrangements."

"The project is canceled," Archie said flatly. "Without the Bishop, it's pointless."

Carter didn't know what to do with the damn gavel. Was Archie about to end the meeting?

"Anybody know what the something else is?" Archie asked, not belligerent, seeming to be genuinely interested in a possible response.

No response. Everybody wanted simply to get out of there.

Archie glanced at Carter.

"The gavel, Carter," Archie reminded. "The meeting's over."

The gavel struck the desk like a hammer driving a nail through wood into flesh.

Although he hated the smell of the storage room, the stench of boy sweat and overripe socks and sneakers, Archie remained behind after everyone had gone.

To add up the score.

He hadn't managed a confrontation between Obie and Bunting, but none had been necessary. He knew Obie intimately, could almost read his mind, could certainly read his expressions, Obie's face like a relief map with nothing hidden. He had seen a stunned and subdued Obie, obviously still reeling from the events of the night before, but not suspicious, not ready to spring into action. Obie had barely glanced at anyone in the room, had not sought out Bunting in any way. Archie was willing to bet his reputation on the fact that Obie did not know who had attacked him and his, girl in the car.

The other result of the meeting was even more obvious to Archie. And more satisfying.

Carter was the traitor, of course. Carter, who had showed no enthusiasm for the Bishop's visit from the start. Carter, who obviously hated his role as gavel wielder. Carter had stumbled through the meeting as if in a trance, missing his cues with the gavel. Dropping it, for crissakes. Guilt had spread on Carter's face like a coat of paint. Paint the color of blood. Carter the jock, lost without his stupid sports. Carter, who had suddenly developed a conscience. From the moment the meeting started, Archie had been aware of Carter's haunted eyes, pale face, the jock turned jellyfish, turned stool pigeon.

Carter was the traitor.

Further proof would be needed, of course, to eliminate any doubt. But Archie would get that proof.

He stood in the foul, fetid air of the storage room and thought:

Poor Carter.

Carter's We would never be the same again.

L
aurie wasn't home.

Or maybe she wasn't responding to the doorbell, just as she might have been refusing to answer the telephone.

He pressed the button again, heard the faint echo of the bell—ding, ding, ding—within the house. But no activity. Somehow, the house
felt
empty. Laurie's presence had always been blazingly immediate to him, charging the air, alerting his senses. Now: nothing. Her mother's VW wasn't in the driveway either.

He rapped on the door, not expecting a response now, but having to do something.

Damn it. He ached to see her. Was filled with guilt and loneliness and longing. Felt hounded, his thoughts swirling around like the snowflakes in those glass globes people keep on mantelpieces.

Turning away, walking down the steps, feeling as though he was in retreat from a skirmish he had just lost, he plodded to his car. The merriment of the spring day mocked him. Brilliant sun, whiff of lilac in the air, all of it empty somehow.

This was his second visit to Laurie's house this afternoon. He had come here directly from Trinity, found no response, and driven to Monument High. The campus was deserted. Peering in the front door, he had seen a custodian pushing a mop down the corridor. He was an outsider at her school. As he walked back to his car, he realized how little he knew about her life, her daily existence. She talked sometimes of her girl friends and he had met two or three of them—but their faces were a blur and their names a vague litany of Debbies and Donnas.

Resting his chin on the steering wheel now, disconsolate, he stared at Laurie's house. His vigil seemed hopeless; the house wore an air of vacancy, abandonment.

His mind went to the Vigils meeting and Archie's strange performance. Under ordinary circumstances he would have been figuring out all the angles, pondering the potential meaning of Archie's behavior. But he couldn't concentrate on Archie now. Laurie and his anguish dominated everything else.

Fifteen minutes went by. More frustrated than ever, sighing almost to the point of hyperventilating—he often had trouble drawing a deep breath when he faced tough situations—he started the car, raced the motor. Couldn't stand doing
nothing
any longer.

There was only one bright spot in the day, not exactly bright but at least not as downbeat, grim, and depressing as everything else: Ray Bannister's deliverance from his assignment on the day of the visit. The project had been canceled and so had Ray's part in it all.

At least he could deliver a bit of good news to someone on this most rotten of all days.

A while later Ray Bannister's mother directed him to the cellar.

"He's working on his secret project, so he might not let you in," she said good-naturedly. She had the most astonishing tan Obie had ever seen. Deep and rich, like melted caramel. He followed her directions through the house and down the cellar stairs. "Don't forget to knock," she called after him.

The door at the bottom of the stairs was closed. Secret project? He knocked.

"Who's there?" Ray's voice was faint on the other side of the door.

"Obie."

A few moments later Obie confronted the secret project. It looked, for crying out loud, like a guillotine.

Which, as it turned out, was exactly what it was, Ray Bannister said. Then explained: "Well, not exactly a guillotine. It's an illusion. But one of the best."

"Did you build it yourself?" Obie asked, both attracted and repulsed by the apparatus, sensing a threat in its presence, ugly in the cellar's dim light.

Ray seemed shy suddenly. "I always liked working with my hands." Running his hand over the side of the blade, he said: "I was just about to test it. Want to help?"

Obie stepped back instinctively, wanted nothing to do with this lethal piece of machinery. Yet he had to admit that he was fascinated. His eyes kept straying to the crossblock with the carved-out groove on which the victim's neck would rest.
Victim
was the wrong word, of course. After all, this was only fun and games. Illusion, like Ray Bannister said.

Ray walked over to the workbench and picked up a shopping bag. Smiling wickedly at Obie, he pulled out a head of cabbage. "See, Obie? I'll give a demonstration, just like a regular magician. A real cabbage—my mother got it at the supermarket for forty-nine cents. She's a good egg, didn't even ask me what I needed a head of cabbage for."

Ray Bannister placed the cabbage in the curved groove, about three feet below the slanted blade. The blade looked menacing, extremely dangerous poised above the cabbage. Suppose it wasn't a head of cabbage but a real head? Obie recoiled from the thought.

"Watch," Ray Bannister said, drawing out the syllable, letting his voice trail off dramatically. He pressed a button near the top of the guillotine. The blade plummeted, flashing brilliantly for a moment as it caught a ray of light from the ceding bulb, hitting the cabbage, exploding the vegetable into a thousand pieces of moist green and yellow leaves.

"Not as clean as slicing somebody's neck, but you get the idea, don't you, Obie?" Ray asked, chuckling.

"Messy," Obie said, hiding his queasiness. What a terrible day. And a guillotine demolishing a cabbage to top it all. "Now," Ray said, with a flourish, bowing toward the guillotine, assuming the role of Bannister the Great. "Be my guest."

"You're kidding," Obie said.

"Don't you trust me?"

Trust? Obie thought of Archie and Bunting and the attack at the Chasm and now Laurie unapproachable. "I don't trust anybody," Obie said.

"Hey, it's only a trick, an illusion," Ray said, frowning. Frankly, he was a bit nervous about this first demonstration. Knew it was foolproof, nothing to worry about, but edgy. He had been edgy ever since Obie had approached him, plunging him into the strange world of Trinity. "Look, I'll offer myself as the victim." Keeping his voice light. "I'll lay my neck on the line. Literally. And
you
press the button."

Obie eyed the deadly blade and the remnants of the demolished vegetable. The smell of raw cabbage filled the air. "I'd rather not," Obie said. Then, also trying to keep it light so that Ray Bannister wouldn't think he was chicken, "I can see the headlines if anything goes wrong: 'Student Loses Head Over Trick.' "

"Come on," Ray said, stepping smartly to the guillotine. He knelt down and bent over, placing his neck in the groove, facing the floor now. "All you have to do, Obie, is hit the button."

"Not me," Obie protested.

Ray craned his neck to look up at him. "There's no risk. Do you think I'd be crazy enough to take a chance like that?"

Obie wondered whether he was being ridiculous and paranoid.

"Let's go," Ray commanded, adjusting himself once more, wriggling his body a bit. "This isn't the most comfortable position in the world."

"Are you sure it's foolproof?" Obie asked.

"Is anything really sure in this world?" Ray asked. Then quickly: "Just fooling, Obie. Come on, push the damn button."

Obie sighed, accepting his fate, realizing that this was a day in which nothing could go right, and if the trick didn't work, then the hell with it. The hell with everything.

"Well, it's your neck, not mine," Obie said, stepping up to the guillotine. "And I'm not kidding." Glancing down at Ray, he said: "Ready?"

"Ready." A bit muffled. Was that a quiver in his voice?

Obie pressed the button.

Nothing happened. For an agonizing moment, the blade remained still, poised dangerously, of course, but unmoving. And then a sudden
swish
, so startling and unexpected, catching Obie as he drew breath, that he leaped back in surprise. The blade fell so quickly that his eyes could barely follow its descent. The most startling thing of all was the way the blade penetrated Ray's neck—or
seemed
to penetrate it—and yet did not. Ray's neck was undisturbed, no terrible rending, no blood. The blade now rested below the curved groove as if it had passed through Ray's flesh.

"Jesus," Obie said, awed.

Ray leaped from the kneeling position, smiling triumphantly, smirking really, immensely pleased with himself. "
Voilà
," he pronounced, waving toward the guillotine and then bowing sweepingly, his arm moving as if doffing a hat.

Obie shook his head in wonder. "How the hell does that work?" Actually, he was shuddering inside, realizing that for a stunning moment he had wanted the blade to slice through human flesh, imagining that the neck on the block was the neck of whoever had assaulted Laurie, had
touched
her.

"A magician never tells his secrets," Ray Bannister said, a little breathless.

Obie narrowed his eyes as he regarded him. Had Ray somehow doubted, just a little bit, the effectiveness of the trick? Had there been a chance it might not have worked?

He'd never know, of course, because it was an impossible question to ask. Anyway, Ray Bannister was now basking in his triumph, running his hands across the walnut-stained wood and the gleaming blade.

Remembering the original purpose of his visit, Obie said: "Listen, Ray, that assignment I told you about? The Bishop's visit?"

Ray nodded, remembering, his features twisted into a look of distaste.

"Well, it's canceled, called off. The Bishop can't make it that day. You're off the hook."

Ray gave a whoop of relief. "Great! I really didn't want to get mixed up in that Vigils business you told me about."

Obie didn't reply, feeling a small stab of pity for Bannister. He knew that Archie never forgot and that Bannister was doomed to become involved sooner or later.

Ray Bannister turned his attention to the guillotine again, eyes full of affection. Obie squinted, studying the apparatus, then turned his eyes to the remains of the cabbage strewn across the floor. He shivered for some reason.

When he arrived home a half hour later, he found a note from his mother.

At hairdresser's. Laurie's mother called. She and Laurie off to visit relatives in Springfield for a few days.

Obie's thoughts were insects chasing each other bewilderingly. Why hadn't Laurie herself called? Why her mother? And where in Springfield were they visiting? He crumpled the note and threw it into the wastebasket. A moment later he retrieved it, smoothed the paper out, read the words again. He sensed doom in the message.

His dreams were wild that night. Were they really dreams? Or simply thoughts and emotions racing just below the surface of his mind as he lay uncomfortably in bed, restless, heaving himself from one side of the mattress to the other? Images flooded his mind. Laurie, of course, beautiful, full lips, a teardrop of ketchup at the corner of her lips, in the car. The guillotine swishing down and splitting the cabbage, suddenly not the cabbage but a human neck, blood spattering around the room instead of cabbage leaves. The smell of blood in his nostrils. Did blood have a smell? He was helpless as the images continued, the slash of light in the car's interior, Laurie gasping, then screaming, the rough hands forcing him to the ground, holding him prisoner, the slashed loafer with the dangling buckle.

Loafer?

He saw the loafer distinctly. Scuffed brown, ripped or torn as if someone had slashed the instep with a knife.

And the dangling buckle, hanging by a thread, dull brass, never polished.

He burst awake as if flying into the air from the upper part of a seesaw while the lower part banged the earth violently. He sat up in bed, head aching, squinted at the digital alarm clock. 2:31. Throwing the blanket aside, he rubbed his forehead as if he could erase the ache like figures from a blackboard. Had he been dreaming? But the loafer did not seem like an image from a dream, receding as you come awake. The loafer had been real, not a manifestation of his weariness and frustration and disappointment, but a reality exploding out of memory.

This memory:

As the unknown assailant had held him prisoner on the ground, while somebody else had assaulted Laurie in the car, he had peered into the awful thing his life had suddenly become and had seen, a mere few inches from his eyes, the torn loafer worn by the bastard who held him captive.

Staring now into the night, eyes wide as if toothpicks held his lids open—something he had seen in a kung fu movie—he was wild with the knowledge of what his subconscious mind had uncovered.

A clue.

More than a clue.

A piece of evidence that could identify without any doubt one of the attackers at the Chasm that night. He saw himself unmasking the bastard, forcing a confession out of him, getting information about the others who had been involved, all of this while Laurie watched, her eyes shining with admiration and love.

He lay back, breathing deeply, exhausted, as if he had just completed a perilous mission, avoided a thousand pitfalls, escaped with his life . . . and he fell into a deep sleep in which an army of men wearing slashed and ruined loafers trampled across his body all night long.