Creepy Teacher: A Psychological Thriller (5 page)

A
utumn was a
good time for grilling, Stuart Renly decided. He had went to Walmart and bought several essentials. Charcoal, lighter fluid, a lighter, hot dogs and fixings, cream soda, and so on. He’d ended up spending a hundred and fifty seven dollars, and filling the trunk of his Buick.

But a person couldn’t spend that much money on food for one plus grilling supplies. Oh, no. Stuart Renly bought several other items. A green lawn chair, a green baseball cap, a pair of camouflaged binoculars. These were the essentials of loitering.

As an afterthought, he had found a book on bird-watching, which complimented the binoculars.

He had also bought a flashlight.

He had his entire evening planned.

What an intelligent guy needed to have handy was an excuse. Something called Plausible Deniability. Who wouldn’t find it odd for a strange man to be hanging around a public park after dark? Most neighbors would object. And some might call the local police. If anyone
did
see him loitering about, he needed to have an excuse all lined up and ready to go.

Thus, the grilling and the bird-watching bit.

Which he was wrapping up now.

He had already waved at several curious neighbors, eaten his hot dog meal, and acted like the classic barbequing dude.

By now, it was beginning to grow dark.

Bailey Howard still hadn’t come home from the Chicken Shack, where she obviously worked, given the uniform shirt and the fact that she had hoofed from her house to there.

Not a far walk, and she’d fiddled with her phone the whole time.

Noteworthy that her car hadn’t restarted once it had stopped, and when Stuart Renly drove past her house again after his spree at Walmart, he saw that her dad was laboring in the driveway with the vehicle’s hood up.

And he had gotten it running, Stuart had observed through the side yard. Just five minutes ago, he had watched the car pull out of the driveway, heading in the same direction that Bailey had walked to work.

She would probably be home any moment, Stuart assumed.

And hoped.

He was more than ready, more than tired of waiting.

He tossed his car keys in the grass just to the edge of the pavilion where he had been sitting, overlooking the playground and the back of Bailey’s yard.

He rose from the picnic table now, packed up the barbeque supplies, and carried them to his Buick. Once his trunk was loaded, and got in his car to wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

He was fairly used to waiting.

His plan tonight was genius in it’s simplicity.

He’d wander around the park in the dark, moving as needed with the binoculars to gain a workable angle on Bailey’s window, whichever window that happened to be, and he’d know that soon enough, hopefully. Should anyone approach him in the night, he’d quickly toss the binoculars under a pine tree and act like he was looking for his keys. He had everything in his trunk, and a few neighbors to corroborate, to prove he’d been doing nothing but harmlessly barbequing.

He honestly doubted the excuse would be necessary.

MacArthur park wasn’t in a top-tier neighborhood. The park closed at 10 p.m., and so he’d probably have until then to wander around unmolested. Luckily, at this time of the year, darkness fell around…well, right around now, Stuart Renly determined, looking around.

Fifteen minutes later, the Escort’s headlights waggled into the driveway and clicked off. Another five minutes, and a shaded window lit yellow on the main level along the side of the house. He could assume that was Bailey’s room, but there was no way of knowing because of the shade. Bad, bad, bad luck. Really unfortunate luck, if that was, in fact, Bailey’s room. Being on the side of the house, and shaded, would throw a wrench in his entire evening plan. Not to mention the money he’d spent.

He waited, thinking about the half-inch crack that would likely be between the window jamb and the shade. Typically, there was such a crack, as window shades rarely fit exactly. But he’d have to stick his eyeball right up close in order to see through a peeping sliver like that.

He couldn’t risk it.

No way.

Perhaps his binoculars would reach into the sliver from fifty feet away, but he had his doubts.

He grabbed them, exited the car, shut the door quietly, and moved through the grass in the darkness toward the border of MacArthur park and Bailey’s yard.

As he approached, the back patio light tripped on.

He moved behind a pine tree, listened as a door creaked open, then peeked around a bough of fragrant green needles to see Bailey Howard’s dad in swimming trunks. He proceeded to light four patio torches surrounding a round hot tub. Using the binoculars, Stuart Renly zoomed in. In the flicker of torch light, he could clearly see a hairy belly button sunk in a pale white, rounded gut.

Not what Stuart Renly had in mind!

The porch light tripped off, the door creaked again, and what emerged onto the patio now was the disgustingly fat Mrs. Howard, donning a small bikini.

The husband and wife piled into the hot tub, and within moments she was upon him, straddling him, if that was actually possible, which it obviously was, although a putrid sight. The binoculars captured the back of his head, and her gargantuan white utter sacks, pressing into his face, and Stuart Renly simply could not believe his eyes.

He hadn’t seen anything like this before.

Beluga whales mating.

Not what he had in mind!

*     *     *

Bailey Howard sat
on her bed.

As soon as she’d gotten home, she had told her parents that she was going to be on a homework call with another student from Algebra class.

They had said okay.

They were outside lounging in the hot tub now.

She was waiting for the phone to ring.

She had taken the quickest shower possible, and now her phone read 8:47—no, actually 8:48—and Eric Cady still hadn’t called.

This is pathetic
, she thought.
I’m fidgeting, a bundle of nerves, wondering if he’ll actually call. And now I’m doubting he will because he’s three minutes late. Relax. Don’t be a dingbat. If he doesn’t call, he doesn’t call. You’ll be fine. What do you care anyway, if he doesn’t? Was he on your mind three weeks ago? No. Okay. But he is now. God, he is now! It’s pathetic!

The phone rang.

It was Jany.

Bailey answered quickly, saying, “Jany, get off my phone. Eric is supposed to be calling me.”

“When?”

“Three minutes ago.”

“Call me back,” Jany said. “Goodbye.”

Then her phone buzzed and the name Eric Cady flashed in green above Jany’s disengaging call. Bailey had programmed him into her contact list immediately after clocking in at the Chicken Shack.

“Hello, this is Bailey,” she answered.

That sounded priggish, she decided.
Don’t be a geek!
She leaned back against the pillows lining her headboard. She exhaled slowly through her mouth, hoping he wouldn’t hear it, or be able to tell she was going out of her mind with nervousness. She knew he couldn’t hear the fact that her palms were sweating.

“Hey, it’s Eric.”

“Hey,” she said.

“You’re off work now, huh?”

“Yeah. I worked until eight fifteen.”

“Cool. Do you make good tips there?” he asked.

Straight Q & A was fine with her. Short answers she could handle, she hoped, without her voice cracking.

“Not bad.”

“The more, the better, I’m guessing, huh?”

“Yep,” she answered. Then she felt compelled, for fairness’s sake, to ask
him
something, so she said, “Have you finished your Algebra?”

“No.”

“Want to work on it?”

“No.”

“Oh. Why are you calling?”

“To talk. Have you decided about my party?”

Bailey smiled.
To talk
sounded good. Sounded great, in all honesty. Regarding the party, she hadn’t had a chance yet to ask her parents. Her dad would probably say no, but her mom wore the pants, and she’d probably say yes. Still, Bailey didn’t really feel like admitting all that to Eric. It sounded immature, like her parents still treated her like a child. Plus, she still had reservations of her own about going or not.

She simply admitted, “I haven’t had a chance to ask my parents yet.”

“But do you want to go?”

“If I can find someone to go with, maybe,” Bailey said.

“Maybe?”

“You still haven’t told me what kind of party it.”

“It’s a barn party.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning Brad Townsend’s dad runs a media company, so Brad’s bringing a projector and a gigantic screen. And Casey Crawford is bringing his DJ equipment for sound. And we’re going to bring hay bales down from the loft and have a Freddy Krueger movie marathon.”

Eric Cady had said it all in one breath. Bailey couldn’t imagine herself being able to squeak out more than one sentence at time right now. That meant he wasn’t nervous. That meant he was cool under pressure. No surprise, she realized, given his reputation. And how he described the party sounded a lot different than what she had expected.

But who is Freddy Krueger?
she asked herself.

To Eric, she just said, “That sounds cool.”

That sounds cool
was about the most brainless thing she could have said, she knew. But her mind was frazzled, running in too many new directions at once.

“Do you know who Freddy Krueger is?” he asked.

“No,” she said flatly.

“I love your honestly,” Eric said.

That comment hit home, and Bailey knew instantly that she would treasure the affirmation forever. In a world where liars prospered, she prided herself on always being truthful. At least trying her best.

“Thank you,” she said. But regarding Freddy Krueger, she asked, “Who is he?”

“A serial-killer from the 1980’s who slashes his victims with a glove made of knives,” Eric said.

After a moment, Bailey said, sarcastically, “Wow, that sounds perfect for a teenage party out in some old barn in the middle of nowhere.”

“It’s right on Hwy 8,” he told her.

“May I tell my parents it’s not a drinking party?” she asked.

“I’m not providing alcohol,” he said. “If people bring their own, I won’t say anything, unless things get out of hand. How about telling your parents you’ll be my date, and that the two of us won’t be drinking?”

Bailey smiled to herself and said, “Okay. I can ask them tomorrow.”

They talked on the phone for two more hours.

And Bailey never called Jany back.

F
orefront in Bailey’s
mind was why Eric Cady liked her. She knew he did—after last night, she finally believed it—but it baffled her as to why. Last night, he had talked to her in a way that almost seemed intimate. He kept saying how he admired her for this and that, such as for having a brain, and for using it, and for not being a follower. He said she seemed brave and courageous.

He really knew nothing about her, nor she about him.

Only what appearances showed.