Period 8 by Chris Crutcher
No such luck.
He circles to the back of the house. If Arney’s in there, he had to get in, which means an unlocked window or back door somewhere. One by one he tests them.
A low window at the back of the house swings loosely on its hinges. Paulie props it open with a stick and drops into the unfinished basement, standing still as death.
He hears voices. Stealing up the stairs, carefully placing his weight at the outer edge of each step, he pictures the layout; this staircase opens into the kitchen, across the room is a swinging door leading to the living room.
He steps into the kitchen.
“. . . shouldn’t have done that.” Arney’s voice. “You made me hurt you.”
He hears a man groan, a woman sob. The groan has to be Hannah’s dad. The sobs are her mother’s.
“Your daughter and I are going to take a ride,” Arney says. “If you call the cops, or if the cops just happen to show, I’ll kill her. You know I’ll do it. Soon as I think I’m far enough gone, and if you folks haven’t been stupid enough to send for help, I’ll let her go. Understand?”
“Arney . . .” Hannah’s voice is low.
“Shut the fuck up! You did this! If you hadn’t been calling Baum like the two-timing bitch you are, I’d have just disappeared.”
“I told you—”
“I said shut up. It’s not you I’ll hurt. But you’ll watch.” He nods toward Hannah’s sobbing mother.
Hannah is quiet.
“Better,” Arney says. “Now let’s go.”
“Oh, God, please! Arney, no!” pleads Hannah’s mom.
Arney laughs. “Sorry, you just don’t sound sincere.”
Jesus! Paulie pushes the door open a crack, sees Mr. Murphy on the floor, a pool of blood under his leg, Mrs. Murphy kneeling beside him. A shadow fractured by light from the chandelier tells him Arney and Hannah are moving toward the front door. Like a cat he’s back across the kitchen, down the stairs, and pulling himself up through the basement window. Arney has Hannah and Arney has a weapon, and Paulie can’t think of a way to call for help without getting Hannah hurt. This is off-the-charts crazy. Psycho crazy.
He dashes across two backyards to get far enough up the street to cross undetected, then sprints through two more back lawns toward the Audi, emerging only yards away. He crouches next to a lilac bush and waits.
“. . . better kill me, you son-of-a-bitch, because I’ll find a way to get back at you.”
Shut up Hannah! Just shut the fuck up!
Hannah’s hands are bound behind her, but she’s still Hannah. Arney presses the barrel of a pistol against her head and says, in the coldest tone Paulie can imagine, “Oh, I’m gonna kill you, baby, but slow. I’m dead anyway, so I’m gonna enjoy this. Fuckin’ Period 8. I’d take out all you pussies if I had the time.” He laughs again. “I don’t have the time, but I have you.”
“You were never going to let me go,” she says.
“You think?”
Paulie hears her whimper then, “You asshole.”
If they get in the car, she’s done for.
Arney drags Hannah to the passenger side, opens the door, and pushes her into the backseat. Hannah kicks at the door. Arney’s back is to him for a split second but Paulie freezes, almost as if he’s anchored to the grass. Jesus! MOVE! Hannah kicks to get out, but falls backward onto her bound hands. Arney cracks her forehead with the butt of his pistol, slams the door, and rushes around to the driver’s side.
Paulie springs at the car, screaming as he dives headlong over the low roof and into the side of Arney’s head, spilling him onto his back. He grabs a handful of hair and slams Arney’s head into the pavement, once, again, then drags him up by the shirt, throws a shoulder into his gut, and pounds him against the car. As air whooshes out of Arney, Paulie hears a distant, “Kill him, Paulie! Kill him.”
Arney’s laughter pierces the chaos as porches light up and men in pajamas and underwear rush into the street. “Kill me, Paulie! Kill me, big boy!”
Living room lights, then porch lights continue to flick on in neighboring houses as he pummels Arney, until someone yanks him back by the shoulders. He shakes him off and dives on Arney again. Two men join forces to pull him back. Arney struggles to rise while Hannah kicks her way out of the car, yelling as she hits the pavement, “The guy on the ground has a gun!” Arney scrambles for it, but someone kicks it away. “Paulie!” Hannah yells.
Paulie slumps on the street in the grasp of the two men. “He was going to kill her,” he whispers, nodding toward Hannah.
One of the neighbors shoves a knee between Arney’s shoulder blades, forcing him hard against the pavement, and calls 911.
“Hey, Bomb,” Arney yells, spitting into the pavement. “Gotcha. Big stud! Cool jock dude! Fuckin’ teacher’s bitch! Guess who orchestrated your blissful night with the Virgin Mary. And guess who told your honey who you cheated with.” He laughs again, blood running freely from his nose and from a cut on the side of his head. “Guess who made the Virgin Mary not a virgin in the first place.” He spits blood. “Man, I had that bitch locked up. Guess who helped her figure out she was a whore.”
Paulie’s heart is in his throat. “Guess who’s going to jail,” he says weakly. “And guess who’s going to be waiting if you ever fucking get out.”
“Oh, I’ll get out,” Arney says. “And all the time I’m in there I’ll be thinking of shit to do to you when I do.”
“You are one sick fuck, Stack.”
“Don’t ever forget it.”
.19
Paulie, Justin, and Hannah sit on the dock on a warm spring day less than a week after the national media circus has left town and things have begun to calm down; pants rolled up, legs in the cold water, trying to make sense of it.
“How does this happen under our noses?” Hannah asks. “I mean, you’re right, Jus, anyone who says ‘It can’t happen here’ is a clueless douchebag, but I keep thinking all this was going on while we were living our regular lives.” She shakes her head. “Mary, Kylie. You gotta hate yourself for not getting to know them better. At least I do.”
Justin shakes his head slowly. “It’s amazing when everything you think turns out not to be the truth. Man, I’ve had a buzzer going off deep inside me about Arney long as I can remember. But I just thought it was because he was a shithead of the normal kind.”
“I know,” Paulie says. “When all this shit started coming out about him, there wasn’t any part of it that didn’t seem right.”
Justin looks at Hannah. “Lucky, lucky lady,” he says.
Hannah leans back, both hands on the dock propping her up. “You should have seen him at our house,” she says, tears rimming her eyes. “My dad jumped up when he threatened me and Arney just shot him. He didn’t hesitate. I feel so lucky it was only in the leg, but I don’t think Arney would have hesitated to kill him.” She shakes her head. “You should have seen him.”
“Just remember he didn’t,” Paulie says. “Your dad’s gonna be okay and everyone’s alive. I wanna know who set the fire at Kylie’s. That’s the guy I want drawn and quartered.”
“My bet’s Stack,” Justin says. “Or that fucking cop.”
“Heard anything about her?” Paulie says to Hannah.
Hannah shakes her head. “God, I wonder how long she’s been sitting in class wanting to tell somebody. And where is Mary? I sure could’ve been nicer to her.”
“She’s somewhere, I bet,” Paulie says, “and I’ll bet we’ll hear from her again. The news said all the bad guys fingered Woody as the ‘brains’ behind the sex ring stuff, but none of them thought he was a killer. Rankin, yeah, but not Woody.”
“Profiler dude on CNN said the same thing,” Justin says. He kicks the water. “I woulda bet ol’ man Wells had a hand in it there for a while, but I guess I just didn’t get him.”
“He did have a hand in it,” Hannah says. “Raise your kids so they can’t think and sooner or later, your kids will be in trouble. At lea
“Yeah,” Paulie says, “we’ll probably hear from her, but I’ll bet she’s never the same.”
Justin nods. “All the happy endings are taken.”
They look around at a junky turn-of-the-century Chevy cresting the hill. Paulie stands, waves. “Bobby Wright,” he says. “Told him to meet me up here.”
“Did he raise his hand and ask if you really meant it?” Hannah says.
“Gonna turn him into a channel swimmer,” Paulie says. “Don’t be dissin’ my man Bobby. He’s a work in progress. Been spending a little weight room time with him.”
Justin laughs. “How’s that workin’?”
“It’s gonna take a little more time in the weight room,” Paulie says.
The door to the Chevy opens and Bobby steps out. “I didn’t know you guys were up here having a meeting,” he says. “I could come back later.”
“We’re havin’ a meeting, all right,” Justin says, “but you’re invited. Step right up here.”
“Got your suit?” Paulie asks, looking down at the others. “A lot of work in progress.”
Logs watches from the back of the room as Period 8 slowly fills up on the last day of regular classes.
When everyone’s seated and into their lunches, Bobby Wright raises his hand.
“Bobby, I’m begging you, put your hand down. Spit it out.”
“What are we gonna do?” Bobby says.
“About what?”
“Some of these guys are graduating, but the rest of us are still here. What’re we gonna do with no Period 8?”
“Bravery doesn’t just last a few days, Aquaman,” Justin says. “That’s what you’ll do. Be brave.”
“You don’t need a classroom,” Hannah says. “Mr. Logs sleeps through half these things anyway. You can meet any time, any place you want.”
“Yeah,” Justin says. “Do it like the Thumpers.” He points to Ron Firth. “Those guys’ll meet in a barn.” He laughs. “They do midnight campfires at Twisted Crick.”
“And a damn good thing, too,” Paulie says.
“Always happy,” Firth says, “to light the way.”
Hannah turns to Logs. “Do you think we’ll ever hear from Mary? Do you think she’s alive?”
“God, I wish I knew,” Logs says. “Conventional wisdom says Woody Hansen took her. He’s gotta be watching television, so he knows the law knows everything he’s been into, the sex ring, the drugs, everything. Killing her could only make it worse.” He pauses and thinks a moment. “If Rankin didn’t find a way to hook up with them.”
The room is silent.
“Mr. Wells is putting considerable resources into finding her. Money can make things happen. I’ll pass along anything I learn.” He shakes his head. “I just don’t know.”
“How did Arney fool us like that?” Marley asks. “I mean, we elected him student body president. And knowing he’s been in Period 8 all this time, hearing us talk about our lives, makes me feel . . . I don’t know . . . shitty.”
Logs smiles, a smile devoid of humor. “I don’t know if Rankin found Arney or Arney found Rankin. You can bet they recognized each other on first sight. Guys like them have radar for human weakness and they feed on it. Arney Stack is a guy who will tell you a brilliantly conceived lie and then have nothing but contempt for you for believing it. People are objects to Arney. He learned early how to imitate things like care and intimacy, but he never felt either of them. Arney Stack is among a very small and very dangerous percentage of humanity. He’s twice as good at deceiving as anyone is at detecting him. And I’m with you all the way, Marley. I hate that he poisoned this place.”
“Desert’s a beautiful place at sunset,” Justin says, “but rattlesnakes live there.”
“My man,” Logs says. “King of the metaphor. Truth is, there aren’t a lot of people in the world like that, and you guys have already run into two of them. Statistically, you shouldn’t run into many more.” He shifts in his chair. “Look, if we let this drag us down, the bad guys win. That’s a cliché for a reason. Time will help. Somebody finding Mary would do wonders, or seeing Kylie come out of the hospital with some strength.” He gazes around the room. “Look at the good news: Hannah’s alive, and her dad will fully recover. Arney’s going away, and I’m not frozen fish food. That’s a start.” He exhales. “We all know how vulnerable we are now. That’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
Tears well in Hannah’s eyes. “What are we going to do without you? Whether we’re staying or going, this is it.”
“I’m retiring, not dying,” Logs says. “I have the same telephone number in the same house with the overgrown lawn—in case any of you wants to bring your mower over to show your appreciation.”
Marley says, “Mr. Logs, if you were going to give us all one piece of advice to take out of here, what would it be?”
“Advice about what?”
“Anything. One thing.”
Logs thinks a minute. Then, “Don’t listen to me.”
Marley frowns. “What?”
“That’s my advice,” Logs says. “Don’t listen to me. I’m an old guy. Turn me loose and I’ll want you to learn from my experiences. I’ll remember things that happened to me in my time and think I should warn you. But that’s all BS. There is one teacher in this world and that teacher is experience. Mine for me, and yours for you. So that’s it. Don’t listen to me. Go out there and try stuff.”
Marley smiles, looks at Hannah. They execute a synchronized eye roll.
“I gotta give you one more,” Logs says.
“One more what?”
“Piece of advice.”
“Okay.”
Logs raises his eyebrows and points straight at her. “Stay alive. Do whatever you have to do to stay fucking alive.”
There is a collective gasp. No one has heard Logs use that word in class. Paulie’s heard it from him plenty of times out in the world, but never here.
Logs shrugs. “Last day. What can they do to me?”
The bell rings and students rise to leave. Logs stands at the door receiving high fives, fist bumps, and hugs.
“We in the water this afternoon?” Paulie asks as he passes.
“In over our heads,” Logs says back.
Paulie pulls his car to the curb across the street from Hannah’s house and watches as she secures her single scull to the top of her car.
“That ought to hold it,” he hollers as she gives the last strap an extra tug.
Hannah shades the sunlight with her hand. “Hey, Paulie. I thought you guys were going to meet me at the lake.”
Paulie gets out, starts toward her.
Hannah walks to meet him and they stand facing each other in the middle of the empty street.
“I made a promise to God that night,” he says, and swallows hard.
“Yeah?”
“That if He’d help me save you, I’d be willing to give you up; quit wishing, whining, you know, aching for one more chance.”
Hannah smiles, eyes watering. “That was dumb.”
“But then I remembered . . .”
“What?”
“I don’t believe in God.”
Hannah puts her arms around his neck there in the middle of the street and holds tight. Paulie can’t tell if she’s laughing or crying, but he doesn’t care. All he knows is, her arms are around his neck.
“I don’t know how this is going to go,” she says into his ear.
“I don’t either,” he says. “I just know it’s got a lot better chance than it did a minute ago.”
Mary Wells wakes in a dark motel room, listens for the man’s breathing.
Quiet.
She finds her cell on top of the dresser, grabs it, and walks outside into bright sunlight. She crosses the parking lot to the busy four-lane on the outskirts of . . . wherever she is.
She crosses the street to a Denny’s, takes a booth, and orders coffee, discovers from the waitress that she’s in Chico.
<
Several young people burst through the entrance, laughing and teasing. One of the girls wears a letter jacket from the local university.
She watches them fill a booth, snatching menus from each other, looking . . . free.
She looks out the window at the passing cars and feels a weight lift. The waitress brings her coffee. “You okay, sweetie?”
Mary smiles and nods, thanks her, and puts the cell back into her purse.
About the Author
CHRIS CRUTCHER has written nine critically acclaimed novels, an autobiography, and two collections of short stories. Drawing on his experience as a family therapist and child protection specialist, Crutcher writes honestly about real issues facing teenagers today: making it through school, competing in sports, handling rejection and failure, and dealing with parents. He has won three lifetime achievement awards for the body of his work: the Margaret A. Edwards Award, the ALAN Award, and the NCTE National Intellectual Freedom Award. Chris Crutcher lives in Spokane, Washington.
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Credits
Cover art © 2013 by Gremlin/Getty Images and Forest Woodward /Getty Images
Cover design by Sylvie Le Floc’h and Joel Tippie
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Period 8