High School. Impressive. The Linden family must have been big stuff around here once. Don Frost’s report had said that both Linden daughters had been disinherited. Patrick wondered why. Maybe the old man had found out about the baby and didn’t much approve?
School was just over. Patrick watched the kids come pouring out of the building like a liquid rainbow. Some of them lined up, noisily jabbing and teasing, to climb into big yellow buses. Others trudged along stoically, watching the sidewalk, heavy backpacks dragging on their shoulders.
A few others, the ones with straight white smiles, shining, well-cut hair and expensive designer clothes, danced in groups toward the parking lot. Their trucks and sports cars waited like rows of lapdogs, ready to perk up at the sound of their masters’ remote control chirps.
He knew what their lives were like, those lucky ones. Back at San Francisco’s elite Master’s Preparatory Academy, Patrick had been one of them, the envy of even the richest of his friends. Out of all the top-of-the-line sports cars in the Academy parking lot, Patrick’s Mercedes had been the coolest.
High tech sound, alloy wheels, gliding sunroof, global positioning system before anyone else had ever heard of it. Low slung, with lots of attitude. Shining black on the outside, deep, rich maroon interior.
Red and black, wasn’t that perfect? Red and black to match the bruises that had once colored his arms, to match the bloody vomit that came up whenever Julian Torrance’s fists caught him in the kidneys.
He waited until everyone seemed to have left. He waited until the gray stone building stood motionless against the huge blue sky. And then he opened his car door, headed down the sidewalk and went inside.
J. P. Linden High School. A carved stone archway proclaimed the school name. The double doors were unlocked. Though a sign asked him politely, as a visitor, to check in at the front office, no one stopped him when he passed by without a glance.
The dimly lit hallway lined with sports trophies and “State Champion” banners, smelled like all high schools. Part chalk, part textbook, part musty old building. And under everything the lingering smell of the kids—cheap cologne and sweaty gym clothes, hair spray and hormones.
His footsteps echoed as he walked. The school seemed huge for such a small town; it must draw from nearby communities. That would account for all the buses.
Still, it didn’t take him long to find the gymnasium, where, according to Don Frost Investigations, the Linden High Homecoming Dance had been held every November for more than thirty years.
The gym was deserted, as well. It was too late in the year for basketball, too early for the prom. Today it was just a big empty floor and stacks of collapsible bleachers. Streams of dusty sunlight struggled in through high, dirty windows. The floor was well worn, overdue for replacing. Obviously this school hadn’t been new even back when The Homecoming Baby was born.
He stood at the gym door and surveyed the nearest hallway. Two doors were set into the far end, maybe twenty yards away, just far enough to hide the weak wails of a newborn. Boys, the first door read. And the second, Girls.
He moved toward the second door. But as he stood there, uncertain whether to go in, he suddenly wished he hadn’t come. What had he been thinking? This was exactly the kind of sentimental nonsense he ordinarily despised.
And it was illogical, too.
Hell, he didn’t even know that this was the bathroom the wretched girl had used.
And even if it was… What good would it do him to see it? It had all happened thirty years ago. Nothing would be left to mark the event today.
“Sir?” The voice behind him startled him. Patrick turned, aware that the echoing emptiness of this building had affected him more than he’d like to admit.
A man was in the hallway, holding a large push broom and a cleaning cart. A light-skinned Mexican, the man was probably sixty years old, but he had a barely lined face, as if he didn’t let life bother him much.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m sorry,” Patrick said. He’d known he might run into questions, and he had his story ready. “I hope it’s all right for me to look around. I’m thinking of moving to Enchantment, and I wanted to check out the school my kids would be attending.”
If he had any. But of course he didn’t add that part.
“Oh, sure. The staff don’t mind. Though things are stricter nowadays than they used to be.” The custodian leaned against his broom, clearly pleased to have an excuse to chat instead of sweep. “It’s a good school. Good kids. I moved away once, went to work in Taos, and what those kids wrote in the bathroom stalls you wouldn’t believe. Disgusting.”
Patrick smiled and nodded. “I’ll bet. But no serious problems here? Nothing for a parent to worry about?”
The man shrugged. “Well, they’re teenagers. At sixteen they all think the f-word is pretty funny, you know? But still, I’m glad I came back. This was my first real job, and I guess it’ll be my last.”
“Your first job?” Patrick did some quick calculations. “How long ago did you start working here?”
“’Bout forty years. The school was a lot newer then, easier to clean. Course I was younger, too. That might be why.”
Suddenly the older man’s gaze slid toward the bathroom door, and, as if he had finally registered how peculiar it was for this stranger to be standing outside the girl’s bathroom, he narrowed his eyes.
“Listen, what did you say you were—”
A look of understanding passed across his face.
“Oh, I get it. You’ve heard the rumors, haven’t you? You heard that a girl had a baby in that bathroom. It was a long time ago, but still, you’re wondering if it’s true, aren’t you? You’re wondering if it’s safe to let your kids go to a school where things like that happen.”
Patrick smiled, hoping he was pulling off the right amount of paternal concern and normal curiosity. “You’re right. I did hear about it. But I don’t know—I thought it might be some kind of urban legend, just a good creepy story to tell at sleepovers.”
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