Target for Tonight by Dick Ashbaugh

The author certainly has a “way” with teenagers — bright and crisp! Question facing Marybeth and Karen: is it possible to fight bullets with arrows?

The ivory phone on the pink kitchen wall buzzed abruptly and teenager Marybeth Carmichael laid aside the handful of silver she was polishing. She lifted the receiver off the hook, murmured “Gr-r-r,” and hung up. Her father coming through the door looked at her curiously. “Either that was a wrong number,” he said, “or it’s the shortest telephone conversation you’ve had in ten years.”

“It was Karen,” said Marybeth, resuming her methodical polishing of the silverware. “She knows how slow I am doing dishes, so she calls every few minutes and yells ‘Onward, onward’.”

“Well, hurry it up,” he said. “As soon as you’re through I want to fix that hot water faucet. I promised your mother it would be done before she gets back from her Friday night devastation of the supermarket.” He spread his tool kit out on the snack bar. “Otherwise there will be tears and admonitions. You and Karen have a date tonight?”

“Strictly business,” said Marybeth. “We’re going over to school and mimeograph the programs for the Festival tomorrow. You’re coming, aren’t you, Daddy? To the Festival, I mean.”

“I wanted to play golf,” he said hollowly, “but your mother has been holding a pistol at my head.”

“You’re a true-blue parent and you won’t be sorry. It’ll be terrific. As a final, our archery team is going to attack a settler’s cabin with flaming arrows. Real neat-o. We’ll be dressed as Indians and we’re going to burn it to the ground.”

“Jolly,” said her father. “Just so you don’t burn down the rest of the property.”

“Don’t worry about that. The Fire Department will have a truck parked right there. They’re going to demonstrate how to smother flames.”

“Seems to me you spend more time on archery than you do on your studies. I sent you to school to learn about the Louisiana Purchase, and what happens to a man-and-a-half who digs a ditch-and-a-half in a day-and-a—”

“Oh, we learn that stuff too,” said Marybeth airily. “We have archery so we won’t lose our minds. I’m high scorer this year. Miss Kinslow says I should try for the district amateur.”

“That’s all we need in the family,” groaned Mr. Carmichael, “a lady archer.”

“Archery is good for a girl,” said Marybeth defensively. “It develops certain pectoral muscles that tend to sag in middle age.”

Mr. Carmichael coughed abruptly and rattled his tools. “Suppose you use some of your partially developed muscles and finish those dishes.”

“Sure, Daddy, just a minute.” She watched the soapy water gurgle down the drain and scrubbed the sink until it gleamed. “Isn’t Mother taking longer than usual tonight?”

He glanced at the wall clock. “She does seem to be running a bit late. I suppose the twins wanted to ride the merry-go-round. These shopping centers are getting more like Disneyland every day.”

He paused with a wrench in his hand. There was a sudden screech of tires and a thumping noise in the side driveway. A car motor raced wildly and then snapped off.

“Hey, something funny here.” Mr. Carmichael started toward the rear door. “Your mother is a better driver than that.” He dashed out with Marybeth on his heels.

Apprehension surged through him as he saw the car standing at an odd angle on the driveway, one wheel over the low concrete curbing. The rear door burst open and one of the twins hurtled toward him. They collided and. Donny grasped him wildly around the waist. He could see the other twin, Davey, struggling out of the front seat. “Hey, what happened?”

Donny sobbed dry-eyed, his face against his father’s chest. “It was awful, Dad. This guy with a gun hit Mom. Then he shoved Davey into a whole bunch of canned beans — and Davey’s got a big bump where this can hit him on the head.”

He pulled Donny away from his grasp. “Quick, Marybeth, take the kids in the house.” In one motion he pulled open the door and slid into the driver’s seat. Mrs. Carmichael collapsed slowly into his arms, then shook her head and looked up. He held her tightly. “Pam, for Pete’s sake, what happened?”

“It’s all right, Steve. I... I mean, don’t worry. We’re okay. Just reaction, I guess.” She buried her head against his shoulder and shuddered.

“Take it easy,” he said soothingly. “When you feel like talking, tell me about it.”

She spoke against his shoulder, her words partly muffled. “It was pretty frightening. They held up the supermarket while we were there — a gang of toughs in black leather jackets. We had just gotten to the check-out counter when they came in waving guns. One of them shoved Donny and I... I took a swing at him. He slapped me. My ears are still ringing.”

He held her away, examining her face in the light of the dash. There was an ugly red welt on her left cheek. “The punks,” he said, biting off the words. “I hope they nail them. I’d like to get a crack at the one who did this.”

He helped her from the car and supported her as they walked toward the kitchen door. “We were lucky,” she said. “They shot a man standing right behind me. Davey has a bump on his head. I don’t think it’s serious. They wanted to take us to the hospital, but all I could think about was getting home.”

Marybeth had Davey perched on a high stool and was applying ice cubes to the bump on his forehead. “The poor baby,” she said. She looked around wide-eyed. “Mother, are you all right?”

“I’m all right, darling. Just a little bruise. I’d like a glass of water.” She sank down on a chair in the breakfast alcove.

“I’d better run Davey down to the doctor,” said Mr. Carmichael. “It could be a concussion. Although the guy has an awfully hard head.” He grinned at Davey, who grinned back.

“Aw, I’m all right, Dad. When this guy hit Mom I got mad and belted him on the shins. He gave me a big shove and I went right into this pile of canned stuff. Spinach, I think. I hate spinach.”

Donny chortled. “It was baked beans. You should have seen Davey — he really messed up that pile of cans.”

Mr. Carmichael heaved a great sigh. “The next time you go shopping it’ll be with an armed escort. That’s the third holdup in the neighborhood in the past two weeks. Sounds like the same gang.”

“I just wish,” said Marybeth grimly, “I’d been there with my bow and some nice steel-tipped arrows.”

“Oh, come now, honey,” said her father. “You can’t fight bullets with arrows.”

The wall phone buzzed and Marybeth reached for it. “Right in the middle of everything. That’s Karen, for you.” She picked up the receiver and said, “Yes, Karen. Well, there’s been some excitement here. My mother was held up at the supermarket. A man shot at her and hit Davey on the head with a can of beans. Oh, you’ve heard it on the radio! Of course, kid, I’ll see you at school in twenty minutes.”

“Marybeth!” Her mother spoke up sharply. “You’re not leaving this house, young lady. That horrible gang is probably running around somewhere in the neighborhood.”

“But Mother,” wailed Marybeth. “We’ve got our programs to do for the Festival tomorrow! It’ll only take an hour or so and Mr. Knowland has given us special permission. What can possibly happen at school?”

“No use pushing the panic button,” said her father, and Marybeth looked at him gratefully. “That gang is far away by now, you can bet on that. I’ll drop Marybeth off at school when I take Davey to the doctor.”

Mr. Carmichael swung the car into the parking lot alongside the great sprawling glass-and-brick facade of Eastmoor High school. “Not a light in the place,” he said to Marybeth. “Are you sure you’re supposed to work here tonight?”

“Oh, yes, Daddy. We’ve got the mimeograph set up in the archery room. It’s off the gym and you can’t see it from here. I’ll bet Karen is there all ready. Old eager beaver. Now, please don’t worry. Her father will pick us up later.” She kissed Davey on top of his head. “You’re a brave little brother,” she said, “and I’m very proud of you.”

“I’m all right,” said Davey. “Just so Doc don’t stab me with no old needle.”

After the car drove away and the friendly light died out, Marybeth looked at the great blank row of darkened windows and shivered slightly. There was a dim light in the lobby of the gym entrance and she headed that way. Just as she reached the door it clanged open and she stepped back in momentary fright; then she recognized the tall gaunt figure of Mr. Bleecker, the custodian.

“Oh,” he said with a grunt, “you must be the other one. Mr. Knowland said there’d be two of you.” He opened a panel in the wall and switched on a single exit light. “I got enough trouble during the day without worrying about you kids at night.” He walked along ahead of her down the dim corridor, jingling his great ring of keys. “Man needs a little peace now and then.”

To the right of the corridor lay the great vaulted expanse of the gymnasium visible through the arched passages leading under the scats above. A faint glow from the skylight far overhead filtered down, slashed by a single bar of light from the outside cast by a vertical row of glass blocks set in the opposite wall.

Marybeth shivered slightly at the ghostly cavern so different at night from the noisy, brightly lighted expanse of gleaming hardwood in the daytime. The entire building took on a different character. Instinctively she stepped up her pace to be closer to Mr. Bleecker’s tall plodding figure.

As they turned into the side corridor leading to the archery room, she took one last look into the shadowed expanse of the gym. Suddenly she stopped and peered hard through the darkness. The narrow band of light across the glistening floor had blinked momentarily, as if an elongated shadow had just passed across it. Something, or somebody, had passed over the gym floor, quickly and silently.

“Mr. Bleecker!” she called toward the custodian, now out of sight around the corner. “Please, Mr. Bleecker, I think there’s someone in the gym!” She ran toward him as he turned and muttered something crossly. A door opened just ahead and light flooded the corridor as Karen’s face appeared. “Hi, kid,” she sang out cheerily. “About time. Gee, that was awful about your mother. I can’t wait to hear.” She stood aside for Marybeth to enter.

“But I wanted to tell Mr. Bleecker something,” said Marybeth hastily. “Wait a minute.”

“He can’t hear you anyhow,” said Karen. “Probably has his hearing aid turned down.”

Mr. Bleecker stopped in the doorway, jingling his huge key ring. “Now, listen, you kids,” he said, “you’re responsible for turning off lights and not leaving anything electrical hooked up. Understand? I go home to supper in a few minutes and I won’t be back until midnight. I left a door unlocked in the gym entrance. Pull it tight when you leave.” He glowered at them. “I want everything shipshape or I report you to Mr. Knowland.” He turned abruptly and stalked off down the corridor.

“What a grouch,” said Karen. “C’mon in, kid. I’ve got a stencil ready to run. Gee, I want to hear about your mother. I brought my transistor along and there was a news flash just a minute ago. The police have this whole end of town blocked off. Kind of exciting.” She stopped suddenly and looked at Marybeth. “Creepers, what’s the matter, Marybeth. You look pale.”

“It’s... oh, nothing really.” Marybeth shut the heavy metal door and snapped the lock. “It was probably my imagination, but I thought I saw someone sneaking through the gym.”

“Must have been a shadow. We’re the only ones in the building. Maybe what happened to your mother made you a little jumpy. I can’t blame you. But, gee, kid, it’ll get awfully stuffy in here with that door closed. No windows or anything.”

Marybeth smiled a little weakly. “I guess I’m just being silly.” She opened the door a few inches and peered out cautiously. “I don’t see why Mr. Bleecker couldn’t have left a light in the corridor.”

“He claims he’s protecting school board funds,” said Karen. “The old pinchpenny. He should hear my father groaning about taxes. C’mon, open the door and let’s get going. I’ve got to go down to the typing room and get more paper. This won’t be enough.”

“Hey, neat-o,” said Marybeth walking toward the archery rack at the end of the room. “Everything ready for tomorrow.”

“It should be,” said Karen. “Miss Kinsloe and I worked all afternoon. Restrung the bows and got all the arrows ready.”

“Lucky you,” said Marybeth. “You got out of English Lit. and Home Ec. We baked apple dumplings and mine tasted like glue. These are certainly funny looking arrows.”

“Oh, those are the flaming arrows for the finale. They’re simply fantastic. You don’t have to light them or anything. This little whoozis on the end throws out sparks from air friction and ignites the chemical in this tube. I think Miss Kinsloe said it’s magnesium. We fired some on the range and they’re fabulous. It takes a little more pull. That’s why we restrung the bows.”

Marybeth picked out a bow and pulled at it experimentally. “I see what you mean. This is—” She stopped suddenly and put the bow down.

From somewhere toward the front of the building came the unmistakable rattle of a heavy door being opened and closed. Karen’s brow furrowed. “That’s funny. Mr. Bleecker went out the back way. I heard him leave. Maybe that’s one of the teachers.”

She walked to the door and stepped out into the corridor, peering toward the main aisle. Suddenly she whirled back into the room, slammed the door, and leaned against it, her face pale.

“There’s someone out there, Marybeth,” she said, her voice choking slightly. “It’s a man. He lit a match and I saw him plainly. He... he’s wearing a black leather jacket.” Her voice dropped to a whisper and they stood listening in silence for several moments.

Suddenly Marybeth gave a short, sharp scream of warning. “Karen! The doorknob is turning. You forgot to lock—”

Karen twisted around desperately and fumbled for the catch. It clicked into place just as the knob turned hard and a weight thumped against the door. They both stood transfixed as the knob turned futilely and then stopped. There was no sound from the outer corridor,

“Who is it?” Marybeth called out, her voice quavering. “Who’s out there?”

The only answer was the faint click of metal against metal, and then dead silence. As an ironic counterpoint to the scene they could hear a police siren rising and falling in the distance. They looked hopefully at each other, and then the hope died as the siren faded away.

“I’m scared,” said Karen, sinking weakly into a chair. “All of a sudden I’m scared. I thought you were just seeing things.”

“We’re all right,” said Marybeth, her teeth chattering slightly, “as long as we keep the door locked. They can’t possibly get in. Maybe if we just stay quiet they’ll go away.”

For what seemed like an eternity they stood in frozen silence. Then suddenly a man’s voice came floating into the room, muffled but distinct as though he was standing at the end of a tunnel. “Al’s hurt bad,” said the disembodied voice. “That cop got him in the leg. Pete’s trying to fix it up with some first aid stuff he found in the locker room. We got to get out of here.”

Another voice answered in a high whine. “Oh, sure, with cops swarming all over the place. Who’s in this next room?”

“A couple of high school kids. I saw them come in. They locked the door before I could get to them.”

As the voices floated through the room, Karen and Marybeth looked at each other curiously. Then Karen leaped up and pulled her chair toward the end wall. “It’s the ventilating grille,” she whispered, pointing high on the wall. “It opens into Miss Kinsloe’s office. That’s where they are.”

Marybeth pulled up a chair and they stood on tiptoe with their ears pressed against the metal wall grille. The high-pitched voice whined again. “Here’s some keys in this desk. Maybe I can open that door. We could shove the kids in the car and make a break for it. The cops wouldn’t dare shoot. I could blow the lock off but it’d sound like a cannon.”

Karen wobbled on her chair. “Oh, creepers, I hope they don’t find the right key. It’s in that bunch someplace.”

“Okay,” said a voice. “You try the keys and I’ll go down to the locker room and see how Pete’s doing with Al. You sure the janitor is out of action?”

“Are you kidding? He’s wrapped up nice and tight in a broom closet. I got his keys so I’ll get that door open one way or the other. Tell Pete to get ready with Al. Once we get those kids we can crash out of here.” The voices faded away as they moved into the corridor.

Karen hopped to the floor and Marybeth landed beside her. “We’re in a mess,” moaned Karen. “He’s bound to find the key. They’ve even got poor old Mr. Bleecker. Tied up in a broom closet.” She half giggled. “I’ll bet he’s plenty mad.”

Karen turned suddenly and snatched up a bow. “A chance? We’ve got these. Twenty bows and about two hundred arrows. Do you realize what a steel-tipped arrow can do at close range?”

“But they’ve got guns. Bullets are a lot faster than arrows. Besides, I couldn’t shoot anybody.”

“I could,” said Karen tensely. “Just remember what they did to your mother and your little brother.” She pushed papers from the heavy table and pulled the table over. “Look, I’ll stay here where I can get a good shot at the door. You get on the other side behind the desk. They won’t be expecting anything like this.”

Suddenly Marybeth felt coldly furious. She tried several bows and picked up a handful of arrows. She remembered the ugly red welt on her mother’s face and the bump on Davey’s head. “These arrows, though,” she said. “They might set the place on fire.”

“No time to worry about that,” whispered Karen. There was a sudden clicking at the door. “He’s trying the keys now. Get over there, Marybeth. It’s our only chance.”

They crouched in silence and listened to the whining voice alternately mumbling and cursing as the keys were tried in quick succession. For several weirdly silent minutes the clicking went on, and then they heard a triumphant snort as the lock slid open.

The door creaked slightly and opened an inch or so. The whiny voice came through from the corridor.

“Now listen, you kids, come on out real nice and you won’t get hurt. If I have to come in there after you it’s going to be trouble.”

The door swung wider as he pushed it with his foot. Karen fell for the trick and shot too soon. The arrow screeched against the metal door panel and ricocheted into the corridor. There was a sudden blinding burst of flame and a startled cry from outside the door — then a thunderous roar as a bullet smashed into the door panel, slamming it wide open.

Sighting carefully across the desk top, Marybeth sent an arrow sizzling through the open doorway. It exploded in the outer corridor and they could hear the thud of feet running down the passage.

They both sprang from cover and almost collided at the doorway. “Cut across the gym,” gasped Karen. “I’ll try to make it for the entrance. They can’t get both of us,”

Still clutching her bow and a handful of arrows, Marybeth sprinted into the corridor thankful she had worn her flats with rubber soles. At the turn into the main aisle she saw two figures plunging toward them from the rear. It was too late to warn Karen. As she made the turn into the gym passageway she heard a startled grunt as Karen collided with one of the plunging figures.

“Poor Karen, poor Karen,” ran through her mind as she raced through the gym entrance. Back of her she heard the whiny voice echoing in the corridor. “I got one of them, Duke. The other one’s heading for the gym. Grab her!”

Marybeth burst into the gymnasium, turned to race up the steps leading to the seats, then changed her mind, and headed directly across the wide expanse of polished floor. Back of her she heard the insistent thud of feet pounding down the passageway. In a brief remembered flash she saw the tumbling team practicing at one end of the gym as she left school that afternoon. She remembered their mats and the wooden stands they used for acrobatics.

With the bow and clutch of arrows banging against her knees, she headed for the far corner. In the faint, luminescent glow from the skylight she saw the mats and cleared them in one bounding leap. Back of her the pounding feet grew closer, and then her pursuer, running blindly at full speed, struck the mats. There was a startled yip and he flipped almost completely over before he struck the floor with a sickening thump.

Marybeth was far up in the first tier of seats before she stopped to look back. All was now silent in the gymnasium. Moving numbly and holding the bow tightly, she moved upward into the highest tier of seats against the rafters. There she pushed open a window.

Across the wide expanse of the parking lot on the other side of the street there were houses, peaceful and brightly lighted in the darkness. Cars ran up and down the street, their brakes squealing as they stopped for the traffic light at the corner. There was help down there — but it was far away.

To her left out the window was the great silent expanse of the football field there the Pageant would be held tomorrow. The Pageant and the street below and the happy lighted houses seemed far off... She trembled and tears came to her eyes as she leaned her head against the cool wall. “Poor Karen,” she murmured.

Then lights flickered against her closed eyelids and she opened them suddenly and started down into the parking lot below. A long open convertible slid across the black-stop and stopped a few feet from the building. Two men came out of the rear door and they were supporting a third man between them. The car’s motor raced impatiently. The light from the convertible’s dash gleamed on the driver’s black leather jacket.

For a moment Marybeth watched in fascination. Then, acting as if in a dream, she raised the bow and fitted an arrow. She sighted over the window ledge and pulled back on the bow, allowing a little extra. There as a soft, deadly twang as she released the arrow.

“That,” she murmured, “is for what you did to my mother.”

A split second later the magnesium-tipped arrow exploded in the front seat of the convertible. Two seconds later another exploded in the rear seat. The three figures approaching the car reeled backward as the flaming figure of the driver hurtled from the front seat and rolled over and over, screaming on the ground.

“And this,” said Marybeth softly from her high perch, “is for my little brother.”

An arrow exploded in front of the reeling trio as she reached for another arrow, dimly conscious now of footsteps pounding up the aisle between the scats.

“And this,” she said, shaking tears from her eyes, “is for—”

She felt her arm pulled back suddenly and the bowstring hummed harmlessly in her hand.

“Onward, onward!” shouted the figure at her side. “I deserve one shot at least.”

“Karen!”

Marybeth released her grip on the bow and stepped aside as Karen pulled it from her hand and inserted an arrow. Karen stepped to the window, pulled the bow back, and then relaxed. “Wouldn’t you know — too late! That darn Fire Department didn’t have to come so soon.” The parking lot below had filled suddenly with a bedlam of roaring motors and sirens, and a blinding glare of floodlights was sweeping over the building. Karen leaned against the wall panting for breath. “I got away from that goon,” she said, “and pulled the fire alarm at the end of the hall. I’ll probably get expelled.”

“Sure you will,” said Marybeth unsympathetically. “We both will. But maybe we can save ourselves.”

“How?” asked Karen anxiously.

“Let’s go let Mr. Bleecker out of that broom closet. He’ll be our friend for life.”

“The way I see it, Miss Kinsloe,” said Marybeth’s father, “something like archery can be a definite aid in an educational program. Naturally I want my daughter to understand the Treaty of Ghent and how to estimate the yardage of wall-to-wall carpet, but there are other considerations.”

“Of course, Mr. Carmichael,” said Miss Kinsloe smoothly. “I hope you understand that the academic education of our students is uppermost. However, we feel that physical development is of equal importance. Marybeth is a highly competent student, but archery will help her develop coordination.”

“Hm’m,” said Mr. Carmichael. “I understand it will also help her develop certain pectoral muscles that tend to sag in middle age.”

“MIS-ter Carmichael!” Miss Kinsloe turned abruptly and fled.