Dying to Teach Page 22

  Evan nudged her with his elbow and whispered, “Are you all right?”

  Kiana nodded, her eyes on the principal.

  “You’re crying.”

  Kiana shook her head. “No I’m not.”

  Evan shot a glare at the principal. Mr. Reynolds frowned as though he had no clue what might be Evan’s problem. For several seconds there was absolute silence. Finally, Mrs. Deacon tapped them both on the arm. Even wrenched his attention from her to the principal. He drew in a breath and presented an emotional description of the events in the football field.

  How could she desert somebody as passionate and dedicated to life?

  Maybe he could transfer too.

  The scraping of a chair on the bricks made her look up. “If you’d all excuse me,” Mr. Reynolds said, “I’m going out to have a talk with the crew.”

  “Mr. Reynolds,” Evan said, “they said they’d keep a constant guard out there. They said nobody else would get to it.”

  “Very good. Very good.” He shook hands with Evan, squeezed Kiana’s arm, said he’d see them later, and left.

  “Come on, let’s get to the auditorium,” Mrs. Deacon said.

  “I’ll see you there,” Evan said. “I have to move my motorcycle to the other end of the building.”

  “I’ll walk with you,” Kiana told Mrs. Deacon. Maybe she could find out how dinner at the Philmores went and whether she’d learned why they invited her.

  “I’ll bring in your things, Kiana,” Evan said.

  “Thanks. See you in a few.”

  Mr. Reynolds had excused Kiana and Evan from classes again today. They planned to spend the morning preparing the boy’s locker room for the onslaught of actors and actresses at the final bell. The locker rooms were closer to the field, meaning there would be less delay between scenes. Less chance for the crowd to get itchy, especially if the show didn’t go well. Therefore, much transporting had to be done between the auditorium and the locker room.

  The show had to go well. Had to be a success, not only for her future, but for its reputation. She’d literally begged for financial support from local business owners, promised a great show as she peppered the audience with potential donors for both performances. Things had to be perfect.

  “Sorry I was so late this morning,” Mrs. Deacon said.

  “Late?”

  She hesitated and Kiana waited for a lengthy explanation but all she said was, “Running late.”

  “Did Mr. Reynolds yell at you? He always yells at us.”

  “No he…” Then Mrs. Deacon realized Kiana was kidding and they shared a smile.

  “I hope you weren’t sick or anything.”

  “Sick. No.”

  Nothing else was forthcoming. Something was up. How to find out what it was?

  Mrs. Deacon held the door for her to go into the green room where three large cardboard boxes sat on the table. In the corner was a wheeled cart holding a couple more boxes. “You can use these for the things we’ll need tonight,” Mrs. Deacon said. “Try to think of everything so we don’t have to send a gopher back and forth. I’ll be out to help in a few minutes, I have to make a phone call.”

  “Are you all right?” Kiana asked.

  “Sure, why?”

  “You seem distracted.”

  Mrs. Deacon smiled. “I’m fine. Thanks for caring. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Kiana watched Mrs. Deacon unlock her office and go inside. What a pretty skirt she had on. Short but not too short. Nice material that swayed when she walked. And a pretty—probably expensive—sweater in a nice color, not one she’d wear—kind of a gray/blue.

  The office door had no sooner clicked shut when there came a terrible thump, a grating sound and a groan from the other side. Kiana ran to the door. “Mrs. Deacon, is everything all right?”

  There was no answer. She called again and tapped lightly on the door. Still no answer. Kiana turned the knob and eased the door open a couple of inches. The room was dark as night. Kiana pushed to open the door all the way but it wouldn’t go more than six inches. There was resistance, something hard and solid.

  “Mrs. Deacon?”

  No answer. Kiana’s adrenaline went into warp drive. She found the wall switch and flicked it. Nothing. She moved it up and down several times. No light. What the heck was going on? And what was that smell? It was warm and kind of…metallic. Blood!

  Kiana jiggled the door, making it thunk against whatever was keeping it from opening. It met solid resistance. Thank goodness, not soft resistance, like Mrs. Deacon’s body. What to do? Not enough light came from behind her to see into the office. And Kiana couldn’t get the door open enough to go in.

  Repeatedly calling Mrs. Deacon’s name, Kiana put pressure on the door. Whatever held it shut was heavy, but little by little it moved across the floor. Little by little the door opened. Eight inches. Ten. Room enough to squeeze through.

  Light filtered in, but it was still dark. Very dark. The blood smell was stronger. Something terrible was wrong with her teacher. No, this couldn’t be happening again.

  Kiana crouched and patted the floor. “Mrs. Deacon?” Kiana moved to the right, groping and touching, yet holding back for fear of dousing herself in blood. Where was Mrs. Deacon?

  Kiana shuffled a bit further to the right. All at once something heavy crashed down on the back of her neck. And her own lights went out.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Pressure on her left eye brought Angie alert. From inches away, a pair of chocolate brown eyes with huge irises peered into hers. They blinked once, hovered a second, then moved away. Pressure on her eyelid released. After another second, her right lid was stretched open and the same brown hoverer zoomed in close. When the lid was released Angie blinked a few times to bring the surroundings into focus: gauges and belts, cabinets and, up close, a husky woman in blue polyester. The room shifted and rolled left. Then it leveled out and zoomed forward. That’s when she realized she was in an ambulance and belted to a stretcher. Her head felt thick, like somebody had crammed all the orifices with cotton batting.

  “What happened?” she managed to ask through cotton-clogged lips.

  “Lie still, you have quite a gash on the back of your head. What’s your name?”

  “Angie. Angelina Deacon.”

  The face, female wearing a hormone mustache—god, she hoped that never happened to her—came close. “What color are my eyes?”

  “Brown.”

  The face backed away. A darkly tanned hand appeared. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Two. What happened?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  Angie closed her eyes and saw a snake wrapped in red silk peering up at her from a small, dark space. She blinked the slithery image away. Another took its place: a pile of clothes burning with laser-like intensity on a long narrow table. Angie shook her head to dislodge that scene and pain shot from her brain to her toes. She squeezed her eyes tight, until the pain subsided. Then she remembered. “I went in the office and—” She’d stepped in for some privacy to call Jarvis and tell him about the snake in her hotel room when she bumped her head on something. No, that wasn’t right, something struck her. “How bad am I hurt?”

  The woman lifted Angie’s right arm and wound a blood pressure cuff around it. “At the very least you have a slight concussion. They’ll do a CT scan to look for further damage. We found a baseball bat beside you on the floor. For right now, I’d say you were very lucky. Another good thing: they caught the girl who did it.”

  “Girl?”

  The EMT braced herself against the stretcher as the ambulance took a right turn. “I didn’t catch her name. She’s in another ambulance. Looks like you were able to get in a lick of your own before you lost consciousness.”

  “Lick?”

  “Yeah, you walloped her good.”

  Who had been hiding in the office? How had they gotten in? Since the mousetrap incident Angie had been diligent about keeping t
hings locked tight. The EMT said it was a girl. Which meant, not a woman. One of the students. Somebody in the play, probably. But who?

  Angie woke in the hospital emergency room, in a small room with a glass window where anybody could look in. Man, her head hurt. Maybe somebody could wheel in a wheelbarrow load of aspirin. In the hallway, people bustled past, oblivious. She groped for a call button and couldn’t find it.

  She woke again to a man stretching her eyelid. Gosh, was that all they did around here?

  “Ah, you’re awake.” How could he sound so jovial when her head pounded like a jackhammer?

  “Awake,” she moaned.

  “Hurt a little?”

  “Lot.”

  “I put something in your IV for the pain. You’ll be pleased to know you only have a minor concussion. You have five stitches in the back of your head. Sorry, we had to shave off your hair. But don’t worry, you have a great shaped skull.”

  Angie’s hand shot up to her head and the doctor laughed. “I love doing that. We only had to clear a small spot, to get the stitches in. Lie back and rest till the medication takes effect.”

  Just to be sure, Angie touched her hair. Except for the fact that it was clotted with dried blood, it was all there. “Home?”

  “A half hour or so. The neurologist is preparing meds and a prescription.” From her ex-life as an ER nurse, Angie knew it would take far longer than a half hour. “Anyone we can call to pick you up?”

  “That would be me,” said a deep voice that boomed around in her aching head and made her wince. A tall, hazy figure stood in the doorway. A few blinks brought Detective Rodriguez into focus.

  “You know him?” the doctor asked.

  “Cop.”

  “Okay. I guess that’s okay then.” He patted her arm. “Take care.”

  “Thanks.”

  Rodriguez approached the bed. He was smiling. “Jarvis was right, you just can’t stay out of trouble.”

  “Finds me.”

  “How are you?”

  “Argh.”

  “Gotta learn to stay out of the line of fire.”

  “You catch ’em?”

  “Yes. One of the girls from the play? Care to guess which one?”

  Donna, Deb, Martina, Wanda…no, no, no, couldn’t be.

  “Her name’s Kiana Smith,” Rodriguez said.

  “Ki—” Angie shook her head and again pain blasted into every nerve ending. “No. She was…” Angie pulled in a breath and held it till the pain-echoes went away. “…with me.”

  “We found her lying beside you on the floor.”

  “Prob’ly…look…f’me,” she inhaled and rested till the pain eased back. “Not her.”

  Rodriguez nodded thoughtfully. “Makes sense.”

  “She okay?”

  “Took a bash on the shoulder. They’re doing X-rays now.”

  “Up?”

  He seemed to be wondering if health-wise it was all right for her to move, because he first glanced out the big window, probably looking for somebody to ask. After a second he groped around under the bed. The head whirred upward. “Say when.”

  When the bed was at about a forty-five degree angle, she wiggled a hand for him to stop. “When.” The intravenous painkiller was working. Magically Angie’s headache faded and her ability to speak returned. “You think the snake and fire person was waiting in my office?”

  He considered her awkwardly worded question a moment and, with a little magic of his own, translated her thoughts. “Wouldn’t be surprised. Do you want me to call Jarvis?”

  “No! He’ll haul me home.”

  “It’s where you should be.”

  “Trouble won’t leave because I’m gone. Somebody wants the show stopped.”

  “You might get yourself killed.”

  “Got to watch over the kids.” Then she chuckled, which brought a new volley of pain, though not so bad as before. “Done good so far, right?”

  “I know there’s no use trying to talk you into postponing everything so I’ve made plans to be there with you. My captain’s sending a couple of others too. I assume Jarvis will be there.”

  “Yes.”

  A man in a white lab coat entered carrying a few packets of what Angie recognized as Tylenol III and a slip of paper from a prescription pad. “Here are a few pills to tide you over till you get the scrip filled.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You can go home. Go to bed. Avoid excitement for at least three days.” Rodriguez laughed but cut it short at the nurse’s sharp look. “I mean it. She needs to rest.”

  “Yes sir,” Angie said.

  “Is the Smith girl still here?” Rodriguez asked.

  “Her mother just arrived to pick her up.”

  They stopped at the hotel so Angie could take a quick sponge bath and gather evening clothes for the show. Though she was in a hurry to get to the school, Rodriguez insisted they stop for something to eat.

  At two p.m. Angie arrived at the school with Detective Rodriguez glued to her side. She had him escort her first to the football field. The stage was totally set up, including the first scene’s furniture. The heavy curtain was in place. Lighting had been erected.

  Hand shielding his eyes from the bright afternoon sun, Randy Reynolds stood at one end of a long line of bleachers surveying the area. Though she didn’t really want to talk to him right now—she had more pressing things on her mind—she approached him. They met in the long narrow area, where the band would play, between the bleachers and the stage.

  “I called the hospital. They said you’d been discharged. I hope you’re all right.”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Angie said.

  “She’s not fine,” said the detective. “She has a concussion and a gash on her head, and has been ordered to have complete rest.”

  Randy gave her a perceptive smile. “I don’t know you well, Angie, but I’ve heard that once you start a job, you see it through to the finish come, as they say, hell or high water.”

  “You’d just better do all you can to keep her and those kids safe,” Rodriguez said. Angie shot him a take it easy look.

  Randy was unfazed by Rodriguez’s stern comment. “I hired a security agency. They will have undercover men on-scene during and after the show.”

  “I hope it’s enough.” Rodriguez patted her arm. “Come on, we have work to do.”

  They walked around the back of the stage where tables were piled high with props and things needed for set changes. Four crewmembers bustled about. In turn, each came up and wished Angie well. Her heart soared for these kids.

  She faced Rodriguez. “What did you mean, I hope it’s enough?”

  “The words slipped out before I could stop them. I don’t want to worry you, but I also don’t want you lulled into complacency. We don’t know what, or who, we’re dealing with here. We don’t know how far they’ll go to stop this event.”

  How far would they go? Until the incident with the cut wood at the outdoor stage, Angie had been sure they were only looking for something—something related to Gwen’s murder. It seemed that all the “events” were fashioned to keep them from digging too deeply around the back-stage area. Till somebody sawed that piece of wood.

  Her response to Rodriguez was cut off when she saw Kiana standing at the far end. The girl looked tired and washed out. She came to hug Angie. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

  “Same here.” She gripped both Kiana’s shoulders and peered into her eyes. They seemed clear and bright. “You sure you can handle this?”

  Kiana nodded and winced. “If you can do it, so can I.”

  “Where’s your mother?”

  “She just left. She’s all messed up. She only left because Mr. Reynolds told her he hired a security team. He promised it would be safe.”

  How could he promise such a thing? Somebody needed to talk to him about his single-minded determination—but later. Other things needed doing right now.

  Angie pulled her into a hug. “Then le
t’s get to it. We have four hours till the performance of a lifetime.”

  Kiana shuffled away, calling for Evan to gather the crew together, that she had something to say. He scampered off to do her bidding. Kiana looked around as if making sure nobody was watching and palmed some meds from a foil packet. Angie smiled, counting the moments till she too would do the same.

  What she wouldn’t give for a cup of latte right now.

  “Oh no.” Angie sank back against the brick wall. Rodriguez grasped her arm.

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m all right. At least physically.” She moved away from the wall to stand on her own. “She’s going to think I’m the most irresponsible person alive.”

  “Who? What are you talking about?”

  “Cilla Philmore. We had a date to have coffee.”

  “She’ll understand.”

  Angie gave a small laugh. “I missed a dinner date at their house the other night too.”

  “She’ll understand,” he repeated.

  To her right, the cast and crew stood in a circle around Kiana. Angie hadn’t been invited to the pep talk so she finished her circuit around the staging. Her intention was to make sure nothing had been tampered with, but the construction crew had remained true to their word and posted three of their people on-site. One, a tall man in a blue flannel shirt, stepped up to Angie as she and Detective Rodriguez passed. He introduced himself and said what a shame it was when kids work so hard for something and some idiot tried to take it away.

  “I couldn’t agree with you more. I truly appreciate you and the others volunteering to help out.”

  “Three of us will be here all night. The janitors are staying also, to keep watch inside the building.”

  Angie wasn’t sure how safe she felt with Lincoln Underwood on guard but she thanked the flannel shirted man and moved away. As Rodriguez eased alongside her, she told him her suspicions about the janitor.

  “I’ll have one of the men keep an eye on him. Where to now, ma’am?”

  “Call me Angie.”

  “If you call me José.”