Chain Letter Read online

  “Let’s look at a specific case,” Tony said. “Which of you knew that Joan was afraid of bugs?”

  “I hardly think the Caretaker will admit to knowing about it,” Kipp said.

  “But you were the one who said the Caretaker can’t be one of us,” Tony said.

  “I haven’t changed my mind,” Kipp said. “When I mentioned the pattern, I was merely stating the obvious. Lots of people at school are aware of our likes and dislikes, probably some people we don’t even know. Still, I’ll go along with your questions. For myself, Joan has always struck me as someone who would love insects.” Suddenly, Kipp grimaced, bending over and grabbing his leg. “I asked you not to hit me,” he breathed.

  “You said nothing about kicking you,” Joan said.

  “I didn’t know our darling Joan was afraid of bugs,” Brenda said.

  “We knew!” Fran said. “Alison and I both knew. Just the other day, we saw Joan scream at a spider.”

  Just the other day, Alison thought. That had been a very timely demonstration of Joan’s phobia. Had she purposely jumped at the spider to show she was afraid of bugs so she would fit right in with the pattern? Had she really had a bottle of cockroaches thrown through her window?

  “Joan,” Alison said, “did you cut your feet getting to the light switch?”

  “You better believe it. I cut the right one real bad.”

  “May I see it?” Alison asked.

  “What?”

  “I’d like to see the cut.”

  “You calling me a liar?” Joan said savagely.

  “Not yet,” Alison said.

  Joan steamed for a moment then reached down and slid off her right boot. The rear section of the foot was heavily bandaged, the gauze wrapped many times around the ankle. “Are you satisfied?”

  “No,” Alison said. “Anybody can put a bandage on. You weren’t limping when you came in. Take it off.”

  “No! You’re sick. You like looking at bloody scars?”

  “Alison is just trying to collect more information,” Tony interrupted smoothly. “I can understand why you don’t want to expose the cut to possible infection, but eliminating suspects is as valuable as finding them.”

  Joan stared at him in disbelief. “She’s really got you wrapped around her little finger. You’re already parroting whatever she says. I know you two went out. She couldn’t help but tell the whole school.”

  “What was that?” Neil asked, coming back from a daydream.

  “I’m no one’s parrot,” Tony said firmly, staring Joan in the eye. She hardly met the gaze before looking down, scowling at her beer bottle. Tony added, “Put your boot on. We can check your window after the meeting.”

  Joan chuckled, once. “Don’t. I already fixed it. By myself.”

  “How convenient,” Alison muttered.

  “Is this Down on Joan Day, or what?” Joan complained, her voice shaky. Tony’s harsh tone must have gotten to her. Alison felt a pang—a rather small one—of guilt. “I came here for help.”

  Tony softened, squeezing her arm. “We shouldn’t be singling you out. That’s largely my fault and I’m sorry. We’re just trying to learn what we can. Let’s get back to this bug thing.”

  “I knew Joan was afraid of insects,” Neil said. “I’m not sure how I knew.”

  “Who knew I liked my car?” Kipp asked, rhetorically. “The whole school. Who knew Brenda wanted to be in the play? The whole school. I tell you, Tony, this is not the way to go about it. Granted, the Caretaker probably knows us. But let’s look to our enemies.”

  “Who hates Joan?” Joan mumbled. “The whole school.”

  “Joan.” Tony frowned. “I said I’m sorry.”

  “I love you, Joan,” Neil said sweetly.

  Joan’s pleasure at the remark was obvious. “That’s because you’re such a far-out guy, Neil,” she said.

  “Can any of you think of someone who hates us all?” Tony asked, trying to keep the discussion on track.

  “Joan,” Kipp blurted out, quickly moving his chair lest he absorb another kick. The joke went over well, even with Joan, and they all enjoyed a good laugh. Neil cut it short, however, with his next remark.

  “Maybe the man hates us,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” Fran asked, her eyes wide.

  Kipp snorted. “Don’t bring up that nonsense again.”

  Neil shrugged. “You asked.”

  “Let Neil talk,” Fran said. “All of you think you know everything. I’ve seen lots of shows on TV, real documentaries, where weird things start happening to a group of people. And what they find out is that a dark power is at work on them. Maybe that man has—”

  “There are no dark powers,” Tony interrupted. “People who talk about them are usually trying to scare you into sending them money.” He added, “The man is dead.”

  “Not in our memories,” Neil said. His words, gentle as usual, carried unusual force. “See how he haunts us still. And is that right? Does it have to be this way?” He turned to his best friend, and Alison could see the pain in his eyes. “Tony, all this talk ain’t helping us. It doesn’t clear our conscience. But if we face what we have done, we can take away the Caretaker’s hold on us. We can be free. Go to the police. Tell them we made a mistake. This whole thing is killing me. Please, Tony, tell them we’re sorry.”

  Tony stood and went to the window. A car door had slammed and he was probably checking to see if Fran’s mother had returned home. Alison stared at him, hoping she knew not what, only that he would make the right choice.

  “I can’t,” he said at last. “It’s too late for that.”

  “And what if the Caretaker really does hurt one of us?” Neil asked.

  “Then it will be all my fault,” Tony answered.

  “All we can do is hope to find the Caretaker,” Kipp said.

  “Will we kill him, too?” Neil asked sadly.

  Chapter Eight

  Tony always spent a long time warming up before a race. His distances were the quarter mile and the half mile, but before he even stepped to the starting line, he would have jogged two miles and run a dozen sets of wind sprints. His teammates thought he carried the warm-up too far, especially when he sweated so much that he always needed to drink before he ran, which to them was a sure prescription for a cramp. His stomach didn’t seem to mind. He favored a particular brand of lemonade that came in eight-ounce clear plastic cartons that could be purchased only at gas stations. Jogging toward the ice chest in midfield, he felt exceptionally thirsty. The sun had the sky on fire.

  “How do you feel?” Neil asked, sitting beside the ice chest. He came to all the track meets. He helped keep stats, measured the shot put tosses, and reset the high jump and pole vault bars. He was a big fan, though on this particular afternoon, he was only one of many. Today’s track meet was the biggest of the year. Over half the stadium was filled.

  “Are you referring to my mental or physical state?” Tony asked. Three days after Joan had put on her homemade Bozo outfit—much to the delight of the entire senior class, which was catcalling Joan to this day—and the day after he had received the chain letter from her, a not unexpected ad had appeared in the paper.

  T.H. Come Last Next Races

  The meet was against Crete High, which was tied with Grant High for first place in the league. If he did not win both the quarter mile and the half mile, Grant would probably lose the title. Coach Sager had already penciled in the sure ten points to the final score. Tony could not lose, it was as simple as that.

  He was getting a crick in his neck guarding his back.

  “Both,” Neil said, hugging his knees to his chest. He did not seem so down today, and Tony was glad.

  “Great.” Tony smiled, flipping open the chest, reaching for his lemonade. There were four cartons on ice, all for him—no one else could stand the stuff. He tore off the tinfoil cap and leaned his head back to finish it in one gulp. Neil stopped him.

  “Let me taste it. You never k
now.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Neil plucked it from his hand. “Just a sip, to be sure it’s kosher.” He took a drink, rolled it around inside his mouth and made a face. “It tastes sour.”

  “It’s lemonade, for godsake.” Tony took the carton back and downed it quickly. Reaching for another container, he hesitated. Was that an aftertaste in his mouth or what? He decided he was the victim of suggestion. He didn’t, however, take any more. “Where are the others?”

  “Keeping their distance. They’re afraid the earth’s going to open up and swallow you.” Neil laughed. “Not really. Kipp and Brenda were here a few minutes ago. I told them you like to be by yourself before a race. They’re in the stands somewhere. I hope you didn’t mind my speaking for you.” He added, “I told Alison the same thing.”

  Although his friend was acting nonchalant, Tony could hear the tension in his last line. He had told himself he wouldn’t do this to Neil, and he had gone right ahead and done it just the same. He was an SOB, why didn’t he just accept the fact and have the initials tattooed on his forehead so he wouldn’t be able to fool anyone else? The problem was, Alison was the first girl he had found who made him feel important without having to swell his already bloated ego. Quite simply, he was happy around her. But these feelings, they seemed to totter on a balance: Add a gram of joy to this side and you had to put a pound of misery on the other side. That is what he had been trying to tell Alison that night in the car. I feel guilty, baby. He would have, except it would have been like stealing a piece of Neil’s pride, and he would never do that.

  “I should have told you I went out with her,” Tony said. “I meant to.”

  “That’s OK. You better keep stretching. The starter is . . . ”

  “It’s not OK. I stabbed you in the back. But . . . I didn’t even intend to ask her out. I just did it, you know?”

  “Did you have fun?” Neil sounded genuinely curious.

  He hesitated. “I did.”

  “Are you going to go out with her again?”

  Tony sat down on the ice chest and yawned. The sun must be getting to him; he felt like he’d already run his races and was recovering. “Not if you tell me you don’t want me to.”

  “If you had fun, why not?”

  “Neil . . . ”

  “I would never tell you what to do.”

  I wish you had, Tony thought, a year ago. Almost involuntarily, he found himself searching the stands for Alison. Dozens of people waved to him but none of them looked like her. One of the reasons he was defying the Caretaker, petty as it sounded, was so that he could show off in front of her. “When are you going to get that leg fixed?” he asked, as if that were relevant to the topic.

  “Soon. Why?”

  “So we can run together.”

  “I could never keep up with you.”

  “You wouldn’t have any trouble today, I don’t feel so hot.”

  “But you said you felt great.” Neil reached for the empty carton. “The lemonade! Maybe there was something in it.”

  Tony laughed. “Would you stop that! I mean, I don’t feel so hot because of what I did to you. I think it would help if you’d at least get mad at me.”

  Neil was hardly listening. “Another time, maybe.” He pointed to the starting line, where a half dozen young men in bright colored track suits were peeling off their sweats. Crete High had a quarter miler who had not lost this year. Tony could see him pacing in lane two, a squat, powerfully built guy. Tony knew he would snuff him. “You better get moving,” Neil said.

  Tony stood. “Will you cheer for me?”

  Neil grinned. “Only if you win.”

  While the other contestants fought with their starting blocks, Tony stood patiently inside lane one behind the white powdered line, taking slow deep breaths, wanting to be mildly hyperventilated before they took off. Blocks had never helped him in a sprint as long as the quarter mile and he doubted they would be helping anyone else in the race. Being in lane one, he had the disadvantage of the tight turns but he always opted for the position for it gave him a clear view of the other runners. This fellow from Crete High—Gabriel was his name, Tony remembered—would feel him on his heels until the last turn. That is when he would blow past the guy. He would rely on his kick. He had to save himself for the half mile. He wasn’t feeling any surplus of energy at the moment. Yawning, he pulled off his sweat pants and put his right foot a quarter of an inch behind the starting line.

  “We’ll go at the gun, gentlemen,” the starter said, a short fat man with a cigar hanging out the corner of his mouth. He pulled out his black pistol and aimed at the sky. “Set!” Tony took a breath and held it, staring at a point ten yards in front. He thought he heard Alison shout his name and smiled just as the gun went off. The distraction cost him a tenth of a second before he could even begin.

  Gabriel was either a rabbit or else he was extremely confident of his endurance. Tony was two strides in back of the guy’s stagger going into the first turn. And he was working. No matter how he trained, some days he was simply flat, and he knew this was one of those days as he reached the first quarter-lap white post. He was not unduly concerned. He had such faith in his superior physique that he was still positive he would win.

  Yet when they straightened into the backstretch and he saw that he had failed to gain ground on Gabriel’s stagger, which he should have done automatically, he began to worry. His breathing was ragged and he couldn’t seem to get his rhythm. He would have to gut this one out. Driving his arms, he willed the gap between them to close.

  The final curve was agony. The quarter mile, which required as much strength as speed, was never easy, but this was ridiculous. Each gasp squeezed tighter a red hot iron clamp around his lungs. He must be coming down with something, he thought, a heart attack, maybe. Hitting the straightaway, he finally managed to draw even with Gabriel, which is exactly where he wanted to be at this point. The problem was, he couldn’t get in front of the dude. His legs were—in the words of the sport—going into rigor mortis. All the way to the tape, which had never approached so slowly, he thrashed with his arms, the only thing pulling up his knees. Five yards from the finish, he had somehow managed to slip a body width behind. He had no choice. He threw himself at the line. The tape did nothing to break his fall. Nevertheless, it was a relief to feel it snap across his chest. He had won.

  The cigar-puffing starter helped him up and slapped him on the rump, congratulating him on a thrilling victory. His teammates jubilantly pumped his hands and Coach Sager went so far as to hug him. Tony received the gratitude in a hazy blur of oxygen debt. But he distinctly heard his time—49.5. He had run 48 flat last week and had finished waving to the crowd. He had to be sick. He couldn’t be getting old.

  The half mile was in half an hour. Normally, he jogged steadily between the two events. Today he staggered about unable to find his sweats. He had another lemonade from the ice chest and had to struggle to keep it down. His digestive tract felt like it was digesting itself. Had this not been such a crucial meet, he would have called it a day.

  “You looked like you were running in mud,” Neil said unhappily, popping out of nowhere, holding his sweats. Tony took them but felt too weak to put them on. “Are you OK?”

  “I’ve felt better.”

  “You’ve looked better. I’m glad you won but don’t you think you should forget the half?”

  He leaned over, bracing himself on his knees, shaking his head, which seemed to be coming loose. “We need the points.”

  “Then at least get out of the sun for a few minutes. Go sit under the stands.”

  That sounded like good advice. “I will.”

  Neil turned away. “I’m going to help at the pole vault. I tell you again, don’t run if you’re sick. It’s not worth it.”

  Tony dropped his sweats and stumbled toward the seats. Several people, mainly girls, shouted his name and he answered with a vague wave. By sitting down he was running the risk of ty
ing up, but he felt he had no choice. He found an unoccupied spot in the shadow of the snack bar and plopped to the ground, leaning his back on the cool concrete wall, closing his eyes. He wouldn’t have minded just sitting there for the next eight hours.

  He might have dozed. The next thing he knew, Alison was kneeling by his side. She had on a green T-shirt and sexy white shorts that showed her legs to the point where his imagination could comfortably take care of the rest. Green was one of Grant High’s colors and the green ribbon in her curly black hair was the best piece of school spirit he’d seen all day. She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

  “You were wonderful.” She smiled.

  “I stunk.” Sweat dripped off his arms. “I still do.”

  “But you won.”

  “But I should have won easily.” He rested his head on his knees. “I feel like a space cadet.”

  Alison put her arm around him. Her flesh was cool like the wall, soft like he remembered from their kisses in the car. “I’ll walk you down to your car. You should get home, take a shower, and lie down.”

  “I have to win the half,” he mumbled.

  “You have to run again? That’s crazy, you’re exhausted. You’ve done enough.” She paused. “Are you doing this to show the Caretaker?”

  “To show you.” This was a fine time he had picked to pour out his feelings. He felt like he might throw up.

  “I don’t care how many races you win.”

  He had expected her to say that, and still she had surprised him. She had said it like she had meant it. He sat up, saw her concern. He was still playing the game of trying to impress the girls. “I know you don’t,” he said, taking her hand, seeing past her to center field where Joan and Kipp were rampaging the ice chest. Unlike Neil, they were not helping put on the meet and did not belong out of the stands. “But I have to run. For the team’s sake and for the sake of my Algebra II grade. Remember, Sager is also my math teacher.” He went to stand and without her help he would have had trouble making it.