In the Air Tonight (29 page)

“Miss Larsen!”

Several of the children ran to her, all talking at once. Bobby backed up, bumping into the doorjamb, then sidestepping quickly to avoid the brush of the bodies still flowing into the room.

Raye cast him a concerned glance before she was enveloped. A redheaded boy grabbed her hand; a girl with huge, brown eyes wrapped her fingers in Raye’s belt loop. One chattered about what his dog had done; the other shared how she had finally learned to ride her bike without the little wheels. Raye miraculously carried on a conversation with both of them.

He could tell by the way they touched her that they adored her. Her smile blossomed as she spoke to them. She looked so right, standing there in the sun with all the little children around her, that Bobby’s chest hurt even worse at a sudden realization.

They could never have a future together.

A woman like Raye, with a gift like that, should have a passel of kids. Not only did she deserve them, but the as-yet-to-be-born children deserved her. What they didn’t deserve, what she didn’t, was to be saddled with a man who’d squandered the gift of his own child and was so weakened by the sight of any others that he could barely function.

Right now the joyous sound of their voices, the scent of peanut butter and juice, the whirl of their little bodies made Bobby want to run as fast and as far away as he could. Instead he remained pressed against the wall just inside the door until one little girl saw him and stopped.

Her face lit up. “Hi!”

Bobby’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. The kid didn’t mind.

“Whose daddy are you?” she asked.

He ran like the coward he was.

In the hall the cacophony became louder and his ears rang. Several kids bumped into him as he made his way toward the nearest exit and burst outside. He had the sense to check the door, make sure it locked behind him. Then he walked around the entire school and did the same with every single door that he found. He had to say the security was excellent, which made him feel better about wandering to the empty playground and taking a seat on a bench that faced the school.

Bobby was breathing faster than if he’d sprinted five miles. He tried to calm himself, but he didn’t have much luck. He could still see the tops of little heads through the windows. He wanted to close his eyes, turn away, but he had promised to keep Raye safe.

He already had the death of one person he loved on his conscience; he didn’t need two. So he forced his gaze forward, even though his stomach continued to roil and his eyes began to ache. He should probably blink a few times—maybe throw up.

He did the first, managed to avoid the second. The wind kicked up and tumbled leaves over his shoes. Strangely it smelled like rain despite the lack of a single cloud in the sky. He sniffed again, and his skin prickled.

Who was making cinnamon toast?

For an instant the world shimmered behind a veil of tears. Then, oddly, the chill that had washed over him fled. He could still smell rain and cinnamon and sunshine, but his stomach settled, his breathing evened out, and as his gaze touched Raye, who stood at the window of her class, an odd sense of peace came over him.

*   *   *

As always, after a weekend apart, the children surrounded me and began to share what they had done. I listened, commented, let them ramble until I heard Carrie’s voice.

Whose daddy are you?

By the time I turned, Bobby was gone.

I went back to what I’d been doing. I didn’t have much choice. I knew better than to leave the kids alone. Even without Stafford—though where he was this morning, I had no idea—there’d be trouble if I went in search of Bobby.

I should have known he wouldn’t go far. Something might be wrong—and I had a pretty good idea what—but nothing could be wrong enough for him to break his promise to keep me safe. Within minutes I saw him sitting alone on the playground. He appeared so wan and sad I wanted to ply him with ginger ale and kisses.

Then he lifted his head. The breeze stirred his hair, and Genevieve appeared on the bench at his side. He drew in a deep breath; his forehead crinkled. For an instant I thought he might cry. Then she leaned her head on his shoulder; his breath rushed out and some of his color returned.

He might say he didn’t believe in ghosts, but he felt them. Or at least he felt her.

“You’re going to have to tell him.”

Both my own and Henry’s reflection appeared in the glass.

Out of the corner of my eye, I checked on the kids. Everyone was doing as I’d asked—writing and/or drawing the story of their weekend to share with one another. I had a few minutes, maybe less.

“Tell him what?” There was so much Bobby didn’t know.

“Her presence has soothed him, and he doesn’t know she’s there. If he did, it might help.”

“Him or her?”

“Both. Maybe if he knew she was all right, he’d be all right too.”

“Then she could move on.”

Henry’s black-clad shoulder lifted and lowered. “She doesn’t belong here.”

“Neither do you.”

“We aren’t talking about me.”

“We will.”

“You aren’t gonna take her away from me.”

Stafford stood on my other side. From his expression he’d heard the whole exchange—or at least enough of it to worry.

I jabbed my finger in his direction. “You will not pull the fire alarm, young man.”

His expression went canny. “You promise not to send Genevieve away?”

I hesitated, but in the end I couldn’t lie to the child, though I probably should have. “I can’t do that.”

Stafford disappeared. I waited for the alarm to shrill. Instead, one of the windows shattered.

The kids started screaming.

Bobby shouted, “Get down, Raye!” and sprinted for the front door.

I’m sure he thought someone was shooting at me. I’d have thought the same thing if the glass hadn’t shattered outward—and I didn’t know about Stafford.

“Stop that,” I said.

The children listened. Stafford did not. A second window went
sploosh
.

“That’s it,” Henry snapped.

Spink.
A third window cracked, tiny tributaries spreading outward from the center, the sound similar to ice during the spring thaw. Pieces fell away like the parts of a puzzle.
Tink, tink, tink.
They bounced onto the blacktop outside.

“Everyone in the coat room,” I ordered.

Just because Stafford was sending the glass outward at the moment, didn’t mean he couldn’t change directions.

“You need to go to the apple tree.”

“Not now, Henry.” I was busy herding the stragglers.

“I don’t care when, though the way he’s behaving, it should be now.”

“He?”

“The horrid little imp. His bones are buried beneath the apple tree.”

People started appearing in the doorway—Mr. Jorgensen, the janitor, the principal, Mrs. Hansen, and Jenn.

“What the hell?” my friend asked as Mrs. Hansen went straight to the children and began to usher them out the door. Mr. Jorgensen stood over the broken glass shaking his head.

I ignored them, my attention on Henry. “You’re sure?”

“Genevieve told me what happened to the child.” He glanced through the hole where a window should have been and then back. The concern in his eyes made my heart tumble toward my feet. “Perhaps once it is known, he will be on his way.”

I nodded, not wanting to continue my conversation with air now that there were more adults in the room than myself.

Bobby burst in. “Why didn’t you get down? You could have been shot.”

“No one’s shooting.” I lifted my chin in the direction of the windows. At least Stafford had stopped at three. “Look for yourself. The glass shattered outward.”

His scowl deepened. “How?”

“That’s your department.” And I couldn’t exactly explain about the ghost child having a temper tantrum any more now than the two dozen times it had happened before.

I spent the rest of the day trying to calm my now wired class enough to teach them something, as well as ignore Mr. J as he taped cardboard to the window holes.

“Had to order the glass,” he said. “Won’t be in for a week.”

The glance he gave me made me want to apologize. The man spent more time in my room than almost all the others combined.

Then there was Bobby, who tried very hard to discover why my windows had exploded at all, never mind in which direction.

“Kindergarten classes always seem to have a lot of stuff go bad,” Mr. Jorgensen said.

He’d been the janitor at this school since I’d attended kindergarten.

“Though I ain’t never seen three windows crack like that without somethin’ hittin’ ’em first.”

Something had hit them—though I wasn’t sure if it were Stafford’s fists, feet, or the power of his ghostly mind. Did it matter?

Bobby spent a few hours after lunch surfing the office computer. I’d offered him the one in my classroom, but he’d studiously avoided looking at the children, shaken his head, and fled.

I was going to have to tell him about Genevieve. Not telling him certainly wasn’t helping.

First I had to deal with Stafford. And to do that, I needed to be alone.

After story time, I texted Jenn:
Is Bobby still at the computer?

No. He’s in with Mrs. Hansen.

Excellent. Mrs. Hansen would talk his ear off for at least a half hour. It was what she did.

Can you come and sit with my class for a few?

Her answer was quick and brief.
No.

They’re asleep.

You told me that last time. Then they woke up.

It hadn’t been pretty. I’d have to make sure I was back before that happened again.

Ten minutes,
I promised. If I hadn’t found Stafford’s bones by then they were buried too deeply to be found with a shovel anyway.

Jenn arrived, scowling. She probably would have bitched at me some, but she was afraid to wake “them” up. If I hadn’t been the same, and in a big hurry, I would have bitched about her evening with Brad.

I’d been around to pick up the pieces when the two of them had self-destructed the first time. What had she been thinking to allow him into her house, let alone allow him to stay the night? Then again, she’d told me he was ridiculous in bed.

Another reason I zipped my lip and left the room without a word. My ears still burned from her telling me all about it years ago. Jenn had always had a tendency to overshare.

I snuck into Mr. J’s office. He was rarely in it, unless he had to retrieve a tool or a cleaning solution. A school of this size kept him hopping. He could probably use part-time help, but I think they’d spent all that money on the metal detector. People had panicked big-time after the last school shooting, and, really, who could blame them?

I snatched a shovel—Mr. J did all the gardening too—and hurried to the apple tree that swayed at the very edge of the property. Lucky for me it was on the gymnasium side of the school. No windows. Not that I couldn’t have explained away my behavior as a treasure hunt or some other kindergartenesque project. But I’d rather not.

I contemplated the circle of earth around the tree. Under the apple tree could mean anywhere, and I didn’t have the time.

“West side.” Henry materialized. He had to duck or get a branch through his brain. I wondered if that would hurt.

“Here.” He pointed to the foot of the tree.

I started to dig. “How do you know that?”

“The property line is…” He sliced his hand across the tree.

I didn’t bother to ask how he knew where the property line ran. All that mattered was the digging.

“The boy was buried on school grounds, which is why he’s attached to the place.”

The first few shovelfuls weren’t easy to remove. The grass was thick and the ground was dry. But after that, things got easier. If you call tiny pieces of bone tumbling from the earth easier.

“You should probably use your hands now,” Henry said. I glanced up. “You don’t want to break the skull.”

I dropped the shovel.

The idea of using my hands, of touching a skull, made me a bit woozy, but I did it. I had to. I couldn’t just leave him there.

My fingertips met something solid, and I yanked them back.

“Go on,” Henry urged.

I brushed away the dirt from the slightly rounded protuberance. If I’d just been digging, for whatever reason I might do such a thing, I’d have thought I’d found a rock. In seconds the skull of a child emerged in the bottom of a hollow; bone fragments littered the overturned dirt. I sat on my heels, rubbed a thumb gently over the crack in the skull.

“Oh, Stafford,” I whispered.

“Is that a skull?”

Chapter 23

Raye snatched her hand out of the hole. She glanced to the right of the apple tree before lifting her gaze to Bobby’s. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Someone died.”

“I figured that out for myself.” He went onto his knees at her side, careful not to disturb anything. “That’s a kid-sized skull.”

It also had a kid-sized fracture. He’d seen enough of them to know.

“Why did you dig it up?” he asked.

“Someone had to.”

“And it was you because…?”

She didn’t answer.

“How did you know to dig here?” He remembered what she’d said as he walked up. “Is that Stafford?”

“Yes.”

She seemed pretty certain, which made Bobby nervous. How would she know who it was and where it was unless …

His mind shied away from the rest of that sentence. There had to be another explanation.

“Did someone confess to you where he was?”

“Confess?” she repeated.

“The kid has a skull fracture. Whether it was an accident or on purpose, the fact remains that someone buried him where he shouldn’t be buried.”

“We have to put him to rest.” She reached for the bones. He grabbed her hands.

“You shouldn’t touch anything more than you have already.”

“Right.” She set her hands on her knees, but she remained where she was.

“I have to call the chief.”

Raye nodded.

“Is there anything you want to tell me before I do?”