Dying To Teach Part 24

"Oh Evan, who's doing this? Who wants the drama program to fail that badly?"

"I don't know but we're going to find out. I promise."

Somberly she followed him back to the bike. They got on and motored around the field to the front parking lot and went into the school. They found Mr. Reynolds and Mrs. Deacon seated at the table in his outdoor office. Mrs. Deacon knew right off there'd been trouble. She shot to her feet and hurried toward them. Kiana let Evan explain what happened.

Mrs. Deacon remained standing beside Kiana. Did she look so bad she needed support? Probably she did. This whole thing was making her wonder if it'd be better to just let the program die, and transfer to Carlson North. The drama program there wasn't as advanced. The teacher not as easy to get along with, but she could suffer it out till May. She would do anything for even a partial scholarship.

So, what was stopping her from transferring? Why stay here and deal with this? Any moment now, somebody might get hurt, and all because she wouldn't let this drop. An image flashed into her head-of the meeting with the school board. She, Evan and Gwen had stood before them, with the rest of the crew overflowing the front row of the auditorium. "The kids need this program," Gwen had said. "Look at the success we've had. Our shows have brought in money to buy new curtains, paint for the green room, costumes-"

"Yes," the superintendent had said, "all things for the department. If the program expires, those things won't be needed any more. It's all a trade-off. We're losing nothing."

Gwen had stepped forward and set her feet in a stance Kiana called her bulldog pose-reserved for moments like this. "Except children's education. Has the reason we're all here escaped you? And, let me remind you that this school's drama program also provided new basketball hoops-" Someone in the group started to speak and Gwen had pointed a finger at him- "and three tables for the cafeteria. These kids," Gwen had half-turned and pointed at Kiana, "these kids could be on the streets or in front of video games, yet they work tirelessly to make this program work."

Gwen had pointed at her, and only her. At the time, Kiana thought it was a generic gesture meant to include everyone. Till now. Till this moment Kiana believed Gwen was trying to keep the program going for the sake of the program. But she was doing it for Kiana-to keep her dream alive.

So, where did that leave Kiana? In a mad dash effort to save her own future? Would it be worth it without Gwen's pa.s.sionate encouragement? Sure. Life was there for the taking. She had to make it work, had to make Gwen's faith in her come to fruition. Which didn't answer the original question-to transfer or not? If she left, Evan would be alone to either make the program a success or quit altogether.

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

Kiana nodded, her eyes on the princ.i.p.al.

"You're crying."

Kiana shook her head. "No I'm not."

Evan shot a glare at the princ.i.p.al. 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 princ.i.p.al. He drew in a breath and presented an emotional description of the events in the football field.

How could she desert somebody as pa.s.sionate and dedicated to life?

Maybe he could transfer too.

The sc.r.a.ping 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 n.o.body 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 cla.s.ses 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 k.n.o.b 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-G.o.d, 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 s.p.a.ce. 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 b.u.mped 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 things 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 gla.s.s 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 b.u.t.ton 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 st.i.tches 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 st.i.tches 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?"