Hangman's Curse (18 page)

She nodded grimly. “Time's at a premium. We've lost two kids, and now the hospital is bringing in specialists and the police are pulling everyone they can to put them on this case. They're all waiting for what you might find out.”

He rolled his eyes, impatient with himself. “So why am I standing here? Come on, Wheeling, get with the program.” He spun around and opened the rear car door. “From what you told me on the phone, I'd say yes, you've found a pheromone, a scent that an insect gives off—you know, squirts, smears, spits—in order to send a message to other insects.” He pulled out some heavy cloth cases, set them on the ground, and then laughed at himself. “Yeah, real good, Wheeling! Tell the lady something she doesn't know!”

“But have you ever encountered anything like this?” Sarah asked. “It seems to stick to everything and lasts for weeks.”

Algernon filled his hands and arms with cases of various sizes and weights as Sarah grabbed whatever was left. “Oh, it's not too unusual. Ants mark their trails with scent markers that can last for weeks. Dogs can smell the urine of another dog for at least that long.” He nodded toward the motor home. “Uh, so . . .”

“Right this way,” she said. As they approached the door of the motor home, they met Elijah coming out. “Algernon, you remember my son, Elijah.”

He stood still a moment and gawked at Elijah, his eyes seemingly looking at either side of him. “I could say, ‘My, how you've grown,' but you already know that, don't you?”

“Hello, Professor Wheeling.”

Sarah explained as Elijah passed by them and they went into the motor home, “We're in a real rush this morning. Elijah has to take Mr. Maxwell to the school to do some nasal reconnaissance.”

“Nasal reconnaissance!” Algernon got a kick out of that.

Elijah untied Mr. Maxwell and they started walking together toward the school. Yes, that was Professor Wheeling all right.

Using a strong flashlight, and with surgical gloves on his hands, Nate examined the seams around the floor of locker number 106 while Mr. Marquardt stood over him, half curious and half skeptical.

“Like I said,” said Marquardt, “I get somebody to clean out these lockers every week, so I doubt you're going to find anything.”

“Who cleans them out?” Nate asked, now using a magnifying glass.

“Oh, whoever needs a little punishment.”

“But you're sure this was Tod Kramer's locker?”

“Oh yeah, 106, fourth period, Tod Kramer.”

Uh-oh. Nate moved his magnifying glass nearer, farther, back and forth, peering intensely. He quickly prepared a small length of double-back tape on the end of a toothpick and used it to extract a very tiny, crystalline object from the crack formed where the floor of the locker met the rear wall. When he brought it out into the light and had a better look at it, he nodded jubilantly. It was a tiny clump of sugar crystals, no doubt tainted with Tricanol. The soda straw had been cleaned out, but this little tidbit managed to remain. “Abel Frye” had been here. He dropped the sample into a tiny, sterile vial, tightened on the cap, and stowed it in his tool bag.

“So, Tod Kramer was in your fourth-period class.”

“That's right.”

“Did he ever pick on anybody?”

Marquardt scowled. “What kind of a question is that?”

Nate found himself trying to be patient. He rephrased the question. “To your knowledge, did Tod Kramer ever harass, abuse, bully, tease, shove, humiliate, you know, pick on anybody?”

Marquardt smirked a little. “I'm sure he did. A lot of them do.”

“Would you have any idea
whom
he picked on?”

“I don't pay attention to that kind of stuff.”

Nate didn't like hearing an answer like that from a teacher. “You don't?” the hand. Have you ever tried to teach a high school gym class?”

He seemed indignant at the question. “Listen. I'm here to teach, to make sure these boys come out of this school physically fit. I'm not here to baby-sit or counsel or hold little weaklings by

“No, sir.”

“It's a cage full of animals. They need to be controlled; they need to be whipped into shape. If you get soft, if you start listening to excuses and feeling sorry for whiners, the class falls apart.”

“So you do what's necessary to maintain control.”

Marquardt gave a deep, sarcastic nod. “Now you're getting the picture!”

“But if I hear you correctly, you see no need to control abuse and harassment among your students?” Marquardt looked away, giving his head a little shake as if he were talking with a naïve child. Nate decided to clarify his question. “Mr. Marquardt, two students are dead and four are dying, and in most cases it could be because they've made enemies. We're trying to find out who those enemies are.”

“Then you must be after that Snyder kid, am I right?”

“I'll be honest with you, Mr. Marquardt. We're taking a look at him.”

Marquardt smiled a mean smile. “He's your man. That kid's nothing but trouble.”

“Do you think Ian Snyder would have reason to want to harm Tod Kramer?”

Now Marquardt laughed. “You better believe it!”

Algernon sat at Sarah's worktable, gazing through head-mounted magnifying glasses as he carefully dissected the soda straw with a scalpel. “Uh-huh, yes, yes, right on the money. Now we're cooking with gas . . .”

He cut a portion of the straw away, then held it to his nose. “Female. Definitely female.” He looked over his magnifiers at Sarah, who sat beside him. “So we had a female inside this straw. She was squirting her pheromone all over the inside of it, trying to attract a male. That's what Max was smelling. That's what you have on all these items belonging to the victims. Some pheromones are so sticky they spread like head lice.”

Sarah considered the long list of scented objects. “Looks like we could also have a lot of females in a lot of places.”

“And that would be bad news, Sarah. Bad news. So we press on . . .”

From his tool kit, he grabbed a jeweler's tool—a long, skinny little gadget with four grabbing fingers at one end, operated by pressing a plunger at the other end. He carefully inserted it into the straw, muttering to himself. “Like poor Rapunzel, trapped in a tower . . . waiting for Prince Charming . . .” He began to withdraw the grabbing tool, slowly, slowly. “And herrrrrre . . . he . . . is.”

Sarah put on her own pair of magnifying glasses and looked as Algernon held a little tangle of brown fuzzy shards under the light.

“Mm-hm,” he said, turning the little grabber and gazing through his magnifiers. “Two walking legs, one pedipalp, and . . . an anterior portion of the cephalothorax. All that's left.”

Sarah didn't understand. “All that's left?”

He explained. “Leftovers. Somebody put a female in this straw and then sealed her in with two plugs made of sugar. She put out her pheromone, her scent, to attract a male, and this guy right here came calling. He burrowed his way through a sugar plug, mated with her—it's not very exciting, kind of like throwing a McDonald's hamburger into a glove box—and then . . .” He looked over his magnifiers at her. “She ate him. These are the pieces left over.”

“She
ate
him?”

He set the grabber tool in a stand and dollied his wheeled chair over to his notebook computer. “Not uncommon among spiders. The black widow likes to have her lovers for lunch. But this poor guy . . .” He began tapping on the computer keys. “He wasn't a black widow. He looks more like a brown recluse. They're poisonous and pretty rare in this part of the country.” An image came up on the screen—a gruesome, detailed electron photograph of a spider with black, multiple eyes, sharp claws, and bristly hairs. Algernon examined the computer image, then wheeled over for another look at the spider parts under the light. “Yeah. Bingo. Brown recluse.”

Then he straightened up in his chair as if startled by a thought. “God help us.” Then he sat there, staring as if in a trance.

Sarah asked, “Algernon? What is it?”

He snapped out of it, but now he was agitated. “I don't want to speak too soon. But here . . .” He hurried over and started unlatching another of his tool cases. “Help me get this sniffer set up. Is the school in session today?”

“Yes.”

That jerked his head around, his eyes wide with horror. “It
is?”

10
a lethal
combination

E
lisha, still covered
up to the neck in a bright orange safety suit, quickly returned from the bio-chem department, fresh batteries in hand. Norman Bloom, overcome with curiosity, was walking beside her and would not be dissuaded.

“I mean, it's a little strange seeing a girl from biology class wearing a protective suit to school,” he was saying.

“Norman,” Elisha admitted, “I'm actually here to do some investigating.”

“Investigating? Investigating what?”

“We're checking the cold-air return,” Mr. Loman told him. He'd already used that answer on some early arriving kids who'd passed by and asked what the opened vent and ladder were all about. He looked at his watch and told Elisha, “Come on, climb in there before anybody else sees you in that getup. We're gonna have a ton of traffic in just a few minutes.”

Elisha hesitated. “I can't. I have to wait for clearance.”

“Clearance?”

Elisha nervously, self-consciously tinkered with the radio on her belt. “I have to hear from home first.”

“To check a furnace duct?” Norman asked, chuckling at the whole bizarre situation. “What's going on here?”

Elisha put on the headset and spoke into it. “Hello, Mom? This is Elisha. We're ready to go when you are.” No answer came back. “Hello? Mom? Are you there?”

Mr. Loman looked at his watch, then suddenly blurted, “Norman, we're looking for some kind of bug.”

Norman made a face. “A bug?”

Elisha could feel her face flush with anger. “Mr. Loman! If you don't mind—”

Mr. Loman asked Norman, “Norman, you know spiders and bugs, right?”

“Sure.”

Mr. Loman unclipped his flashlight from his belt and handed it to him. “Okay, up the ladder. We need you to crawl down that shaft and tell us if you see anything unusual.”

Elisha was horrified. “Mr. Loman! You can't do that!”

Mr. Loman only looked at his watch again. “Well, I'm sorry, Elisha, but the time to do this is right now, and you don't have clearance, whatever that means. This school's going to be crammed with kids in just a few minutes and this ladder could be a safety hazard. If Ms. Wyrthen finds out I had this ladder out in the hall during school hours she'll can me!”

“You want me to look for
spiders?”
Norman asked, still bewildered.

“Spiders, bugs, whatever. You do know what a bug looks like, don't you?”

Norman got indignant. “I most certainly do. I've collected several specimens and—”

“Up the ladder.”

“Norman!” Elisha countered. “Don't go! It could be dangerous!”

He brushed that off. “Elisha! I know insects. I know what to look for. Don't worry.” He started up the ladder. “What if I get dirty?”

“You get to go home and change,” said Mr. Loman.

Norman headed up the ladder as Elisha stood there helplessly, watching someone else bump her from
her
adventure. She got on her radio again. “Mom! I'd be ever so pleased if you would
answer!”

Nate and Mr. Marquardt were back in the gym office, Marquardt at his desk, Nate in an available chair. Marquardt seemed to draw strength from being in his office, kind of like a king in his own little throne room.

“Stupid kid,” he was saying. “Wears a dangly earring in P.E. class. One of these days somebody's gonna rip that thing out.”

“Somebody like Tod Kramer?”

Marquardt stayed cool as he slowly nodded. “If Snyder asks for it one too many times, yeah.”

“So Ian and Tod
were
in the same fourth-period gym class, is that right?”

“That's right.”

“And Tod abused Ian Snyder on occasion?”

Marquardt actually seemed amused. “On
occasion?”

Nate consulted the class schedule they'd gotten from the school office. “Well now. Brock Hanley's in your fourth-period class, too. He's your teaching assistant.”

Marquardt turned defensive. “So what's
he
done?”

“Oh . . . found an interesting way to get lunch money.” Nate found a name that almost startled him. “
Norman Bloom
is in fourth period!”

That name brought a derisive sniff from Mr. Marquardt. “Bloom,” he muttered disgustedly.

“You seem to have a low opinion of Mr. Bloom.”

“He's a wimp.”

That stopped Nate in his tracks. “Norman Bloom is a
wimp?”

“Sure. All his growth hormones went to his brain. The kid can't throw a football.” He laughed. “He can't even
hold
a football.”

“Have you told him that?”

“I let the boys know when they can do better, you bet.”

“Did Tod Kramer or Brock Hanley ever pick on Bloom?”

Marquardt tilted his head as if ready to scold a child. “Oh, are we sticking up for Bloom now?”

Nate reminded himself to keep cool, go slowly, speak gently. “I've been hired to track down what's happened to some kids in this school, some of whom were your star athletes, which means I have to find a culprit and a motive, which means I have to find out if any of the victims had enemies, which means I have to ask questions about people like Tod Kramer and Brock Hanley and whomever they may have picked on.”

“And my answer's going to be the same for all of them!” Marquardt's temper was starting to show. “Every kid in my classes gets an even break. Every kid gets the same pressure. We push them to produce, we don't accept excuses, we require maximum effort. If the strong prey upon the weak at times, so be it, that's part of their education. That's life talking. That's the way the world is. It's what makes us tough. Just read your science book, Mr. Springfield. This is a world of winners and losers. The weak toughen up, or they fall behind; the strong prevail, and we're all better off. Maybe people like you don't like it, but that's the way it works.”