Lost Girls

chapter 20

There's an orange line down the middle of the Georgian Lakes High School parking lot that separates the pickup trucks from the rest of the cars. A sign at the entrance clearly tells you which way to go: TRUCKS to the left and PARKING to the right. It can't be a space concern, as the lot stretches far beyond where the vehicles end, all the way to a wire fence that divides the pavement from the cemetery beyond. Maybe it's a kind of mechanical social club, the trucks preferring the exclusive company of their own kind and the cars just having to get along with each other in the automotive melting pot. And they're all here: the peppy Japanese sidled up to the overfed Americans and, standing alone among them, the silent Germans, conserving their energy. To the left the pickups sit solemnly together, backs to the crowd. Bumpers and rear windows pasted with their founding principles: REGISTER MY FIREARMS? NO FUCKING WAY! and ASS, GAS, OR GRASS--NOBODY RIDES FOR FREE. But whatever the rationale for the rule I obey it along with everyone else and park the Lincoln at the end of the line of cars, an overbearing guest that everyone pretends not to notice.

It's a long walk to the steel doors at the backside of the school's main building, past the whittled benches of the smoking area and the cluster of yellow portables, each slightly lopsided on shifting cement blocks. Beyond them the playing-field goalposts raise their arms to the sky as though praying for rescue. The shouts and whistles of athletic practice. A flutter of papery carbon drifting down from the incinerator's smokestack.

This is all as I expected, but once inside I'm suddenly disoriented. I thought I'd feel grown up, an oversize man high above the gaggle of children, the hallway drinking fountains passing at my knees. But instead everything feels enlarged, stark and looming under the fluorescent lights. Especially all the dark-eyed kids standing at their lockers on either side of me, staring out at passersby like penitentiary inmates. Many boys and some of the platform-shoed girls as tall as me, some taller. They say nothing as I go by, but there's still a confusion of noise: resumed conversations and scoffing laughter over my shoulder, a muffle of late-eighties AC/DC played too loud over the PA between classes. Yet all of them notice me, their faces set to show how unimpressed they are that an unidentified adult is passing through their school.

Or not just any adult. Bartholomew Crane. Mr. Tripp's lawyer, the guy whose picture was in last week's Phoenix. Maybe it's not adolescent rudeness that makes them stare; maybe they know who I am. And who else would I be? Nobody around here wears shoes like this or a shiny satin tie of handpainted orchids. Even the gawky grade nines have figured it out, young enough to point at my face without concern that I may have seen them do it. And aren't those the doughnut-shop girls standing up ahead, there in the corner next to the trophy case? It's hard to tell, their individual faces too close together. I probably couldn't recognize them anyway, not having gotten a good look the first time. But I decide it must be them. And though I can't hear anything above the electric guitar solo now shattering down on us all from the ceiling speakers, I know they're talking about me.

I turn the corner farthest from where they stand and slide along the wall. Push aside a couple of guys in Dungeons & Dragons Tshirts on my way into the principal's office. But when I look back through the window the doughnut-shop girls are gone, washed away in the rough stream of passing kids.

''Can I help you?'' the secretary behind the counter is asking me, maybe for the third time.

''I have an appointment with Principal Warren.''

''Oh, yes.''

It's not until after the secretary has flicked a switch on the panel beside her and spoken--''Mr. Crane here to see you''--that I realize she never asked for my name.

''Would you like to take a seat?'' she asks me, and I would, but before I can make a move Principal Warren is shuffling out at me from her office, her legs constrained by a long wool skirt coiled tight around her hips.

''Mr. Crane,'' she says with a trace of exasperation, as though she'd been looking for me all over the place.

''Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,'' I say, extending my hand. But instead of shaking it she slides her fingers across my palm as though wiping something off her hand onto mine.

''My office?''

''Fine.''

I follow the moving pillar of her skirt into a small cement room decorated by yellowed certificates set in crooked frames. On her desk, a family photograph posed before a gas fireplace--wife nested in an armchair and behind her two boys in braces with a chunky husband gathering them up by the shoulders--that somehow looks as though it were generated by a computer. Principal Warren herself is now standing above me next to her desk, looking down at me with the same expression as in the family photo: impatient, suspicious, but also vaguely distressed, as though she'd eaten something too spicy at lunch.

''The Board's lawyer tells me I'm not compelled to answer your questions,'' she says with a voice that comes out in the discrete blasts of machine-gun fire. Rat-a-tat-tat-tat. ''But I want to be fair.''

''I understand.''

''Because it's important to make clear that this whole thing--well, it's pretty much torn this school apart.''

''I can appreciate that.''

''But we've made every effort to ease the pain. Unprecedented counseling resources have been made available. I have done all I can do, given the circumstances. And yet I also have to tell you that I'm aware--on an unofficial level--that there are certain individuals--certain parties--that have taken the view that I'm partially to blame for what happened. And this concerns me, as you can appreciate. From a legal as well as the more obvious personal perspective.''

''Blame you? How?''

''That I failed to remove Mr. Tripp from his duties prior to the event. That I could have prevented things.''

She blinks once, slow as a drawn curtain between scenes, and when she goes on it's in a more openly agitated tone.

''Which is a claim that I regard--it's ridiculous. I mean, it's well and good in hindsight to say somebody should have kept him away from--but prior to the fact, you know, it's very difficult--there're proper procedures. There're policies. You can't just fire teachers because you notice certain personality--certain oddities.''

She stops now, breathless, still standing inches from my knees. What I took to be suspicion now a barely restrained desperation on her face. And it's this look that makes it clear: she thinks she's in trouble. She might not get that 2.4 percent raise as per the collective agreement that also allows for certain exceptions in cases of extreme incompetence. So she agreed to talk to me because if she gets called as a witness in the trial she wants to show how nobody could have known in advance that Tripp was a killer. And maybe that's not her only worry. It's a small town. Parents are upset. The Board has promised to look into things. There've been whisperings of negligence, suspension, civil actions. She's talking to me to save herself.

''Well, now,'' she starts again, ''how can I be of assistance to you, then, Mr. Crane?''

''A little history would be nice. Specifically, I'm wondering how you would characterize Thom's behavior prior to the girls' disappearance. Why don't we start there.''

''His behavior.'' She releases a tremulous sigh. ''Well, we had noticed some changes, to be honest. But you have to appreciate that Mr. Tripp had an impeccable teaching record. Committed to his students, a jovial presence in the staff lounge, even popular with the parents. And never stingy on his availability for extracurriculars. So I feel it was entirely understandable that for the first while I was prepared to give him some time to sort things out.''

''Sort what things out?''

''His personal life. An area I knew little about, I must confess, so I can't really be expected--''

''What evidence was there that he'd changed?''

''Oh--how do I put this? I suppose you could say he was distracted. Some students made note of it. It's all in his file. I did have some student teachers sit in on his class to take notes--to observe his performance from a casual perspective--but beyond that my hands were tied. I mean, as you may be aware, there are quite stringent union regulations which protect--''

''So you sent in your spies. And what did they find?''

''I wouldn't characterize them as spies.''

''Beg your pardon. Please go on.''

Principal Warren sighs again, looks about her as though she's just noticed the walls slowly closing in around her. Then she looks down and sees that she's still standing. But instead of moving around to her chair she settles on the edge of the desk, perches a fold of thigh onto the wood surface, the tendons in her ankles straining to prevent a sliding collapse.

''Well, what they observed was what I would categorize as an inattentiveness,'' she continues, a finger rising to flick back a strand of hair that isn't there. ''Staring out the classroom window for minutes at a time while students engaged in unruly conduct right behind him. Spitball fights, standing on the desks, leaving the room without permission, and the like.''

''And you still didn't do anything about him?''

''Mr. Crane, teachers who lose control of their students are hardly unusual.''

''What about the Literary Club? You weren't concerned that an emotionally disturbed man was spending so much time with two young female students?''

''There were no formal grounds for concern. In fact it seemed an encouraging aspect of his job performance at the time. Krystal and Ashley seemed to get so much out of it, and the Board was very supportive. Granted almost every one of Mr. Tripp's applications for budgetary supplements.''

''What did he need money for?''

''Not him. Little things that the girls needed. Makeup, props, costumes. That sort of stuff.''

''Can you tell me why a Literary Club would need costumes?''

''Performances, I suppose. I'm not sure anybody really asked. But I can tell you--in fact I'd like to emphasize-- that budgetary procedures were not my personal area of responsibility.''

''No, of course not.''

Principal Warren slides a few inches along the edge of the desk to assist the flow of blood to her legs. Crosses her arms.

''Well, I do hope I've been of some assistance,'' she says. ''Although, in dealing with such a tragedy, it's likely inappropriate to conceive of it as people taking sides.''

''Actually, it's likely the only way to conceive of it.''

She gives me a look like a hound that's just picked up a strange and troubling scent.

''Perhaps--you know, it may--oh,'' she says, abandons the thought. The arms uncross, reach down to the desk's surface to support her now obviously painful position.

''I was wondering if I might meet briefly with one of your teachers here,'' I say. ''Miss Betts. I understand she used to be a friend of Thom's.''

''Well, you're of course free to make your own inquiries. But I can't assure--let me check her schedule.'' She says it shed-yool . Reaches behind and lifts a huge blue binder to her lap all without moving from her place on the desk. ''Well, she's running a practice at the moment. You're free to wait until her next spare, which will likely--''

''So she'll be outside, then?''

''Miss Betts is the field hockey coach. And field hockey is generally not considered an indoor sport, Mr. Crane.''

With this she smiles, hard and fast. Throws herself up to her feet, extends her hand over my shoulder to show me the door, which is no more than eighteen inches from the back of my head.

''I may give you a call,'' I say on my way out.

''I would always welcome an opportunity to clarify my position,'' she says brightly as she closes the door behind me.

There's a cold drizzle settling over the flapping ponytails and stocky calves of the Georgian Lakes girls' field hockey team as I skirt along the sidelines toward midfield. The players appear not to notice me, though, screaming for passes and uncalled penalties, their faces pale as chicken skin. At the foot of the bleachers stands Miss Betts, polished whistle between her teeth, her body wrapped in puffy layers of nylon windbreaker over cotton sweat suit. Behind her sit the half-dozen substitute players, silent, rubbing their forearms for warmth.

''Miss Betts?'' I ask when I'm only a couple feet from where she stands but she doesn't look my way. Then her voice, a chesty bark echoing out over everything else.

''NOTHING FANCY! C'MON TRACEY! NOTHING FANCY!''

I turn to watch now as well, and there's the girl who must be Tracey with her stick held loose along her waist like an infantry rifle pointed directly our way.

''Excuse me. Miss Betts? My name's Bartholomew Crane,'' I try again, my eyes now following a heroic rush toward the goal by a girl with bruised kneecaps that ends in a vicious slash to her ankles and a sprawling skid fifteen feet across the mud.

''GET UP NOW, ZOE! SHAKE IT OFF!'' Miss Betts shouts to the fallen girl, but refuses to call a penalty. I'm about to suggest that the foul was so clear you'd have to be blind not to see it when she says in a normal speaking voice but still without turning her head, ''Thom's lawyer?''

''That's right. I was wondering if I could ask you about him.''

''You can try. HUSTLE!''

''Okay. What happened that made him start to act strange in the time leading up to Ashley and Krystal's disappearance?''

''Nothing really. Just the total destruction of his life. One of those divorces with so many lawyers involved it probably left both of them broke. But Thom was never worried about the money. It was Melissa that he wanted. To keep his daughter. So when the judge awarded him joint custody I tried to tell him, 'Hey, you did all right there, guy,' but he wouldn't say anything. Just get this dark mask around his eyes like the Lone Ranger or something. And then he really fucked up. TASHA! WOULD YOU DO ME A FAVOR AND GET UP OFF YOUR ASS?''

She keeps the whistle clenched in her mouth, the little ball inside rattling with her words as though caught halfway down her own throat.

''Fucked up how?''

''Started trying to see Melissa when he wasn't supposed to. The idiot. Courts do not take kindly to fathers mooning around their daughter's schoolyard on days when they don't have visiting privileges. Everybody gets very upset. And so I try to tell him that, and he just gets that Lone Ranger face again. I DO NOT LIKE BALL HOGS! Told me how one time he went to Melissa's school and walked in the front doors to try to pick her up or talk to her before her mother got there, or something like that, but the vice-principal sees him coming and calls the cops. Because everybody knows about this guy, right? So the cops come and write him up some ticket saying he's in violation of the custody order and leave him there outside the school grounds and tell him to leave the girl alone. And then it starts to rain . I swear to God. Thom Tripp was not the kind of guy to make stuff like that up. Just pissing down on him. But he doesn't move, staring up at all the windows of the school to find Melissa's face and sure enough he does. She's right up there on the second floor looking down at him along with everybody else in the place--they'd heard the sirens, eh--and that's her dad, just standing there. This drowned rat of a man waving up to his scared little girl.''

Now Zoe is running over toward us, one of her bruised knees dripping a neat line of blood into her sock. ''Rock out there,'' she pants. ''Got scraped up.''

''SUB!''

One of the girls from the bleachers behind us trots stiffly out, giving Zoe a swift whack on the behind with her stick as she goes.

''I heard that he later tried to take Melissa away,'' I say, the words turned to a billowing mist against the side of Miss Betts's face. ''That that's why the court finally denied him access. Why the wife moved away.''

''I heard that too. But Thom wasn't saying much by then. To anybody. I mean, I still cared about the guy, right --he was in need of some serious help--but what can you do? I say hello to him and all he can do is give me this do-I-know-you? look. DIG! DIG! DIG! After a while looking out for a guy like that starts to get a little tired.''

There's the crack of lumber as one of the bigger girls gets away a good shot that's stopped dead by the goalie's rib cage.

''NICE SAVE! NICE SAVE!''

''What about the Literary Club, all the time Thom was spending with the girls. Did anyone think that was unusual?''

''Absolutely. The way he was all hush-hush about it, like he was running a goddamn cult instead of a discussion group or whatever it was. Even rigged up a little curtain he threw over the window of his classroom door on Thursdays after school so nobody could look in. Definitely weird. But those girls, they just loved it. Pretty much dropped everything they used to be into except for that club of theirs, which wasn't a club at all, really, just the three of them. All top secret. And that's probably what they liked about it. Girls that age love to keep their secrets.''

''So you really don't know what they might have been doing in there?''

''Like I told you, I don't have a clue. Nobody did. And Thom wasn't telling.''

Within seconds the drizzle turns to rain that may be the coldest yet, the play before us now obscured by a shifting wall of gray. But it isn't stopping them. I can still hear the crack of sticks meeting each other, the strained cries working to hack the ball to the opposing end.

''Would you agree to be a witness if I need you?'' I raise my voice another notch to be heard through the patter of the rain on Miss Betts's nylon shoulders. ''To testify as to Thom's character? I know you two were friends, and he could use your help.''

''You know what?'' she replies after a time. ''I really hope you're a good lawyer. Because that's the only kind of help Thom Tripp needs now. And as for me being a witness for him? After what he did? Let me tell you this: Ashley used to be on this team. I used to be her coach. She was a good kid. She had a spark. Krystal too. There's nobody around here that doesn't miss the both of them like hell.''

For the first time Miss Betts turns her head away from the field to look at me, her broad face glazed in moisture.

''I'd rather be the first to throw the goddamn switch than help that bastard one inch,'' she says, then turns away from me again and blows her whistle. Three sharp blasts through the freezing rain that call her players in.

Even with all the lights off behind me the gray of the laptop's screen is giving me a headache. One of those dull, not-going-anywhere numbers that lead you to seriously consider knocking your skull against the nearest door frame. Turn off the computer and watch the last traces of color flee into the corners. The room swelling in the darkness.

I'm feeling around for a pen, making a list I can't see. There on the legal pad before me in oversize handwriting so that I might make sense of it in the morning. A descending column of invisible names. ''Don't just deny. Blame it on somebody else.'' Another fundamental Grahamism, but it was a rule I knew already.

McConnell Flynn

The dads. Always a good bet. McConnell almost too happy with the way things are turning out, too quick with an angry, vengeful word for the press. And those threats. If I can get all that in we might be in business. Flynn a poor second, but was so certain his daughter was dead, he didn't even want to consider the possibility that it could be otherwise. Maybe parents have their instincts. But they're also the most likely to do their own children harm, statistically speaking. A patriarch who can't control his anger. A lonely, disposable depressive. Snapshots any jury could recognize from miles off.

Laird J.

Any kid who keeps a detailed scrapbook on two female classmates who end up going missing has got to be considered suspicious. And if I could dig up some evidence of an interest in Satanic heavy metal or an obsession with horror movies, we could be onto something.

Runaways

They're not dead at all. Or might not be. The lake's not that big, but the wide world certainly is for girls who had something to run from. Krystal's house couldn't have been a barrel of laughs, and Ashley was surely smart enough to figure out that a job somewhere on her own offered better prospects than sticking around with her going-nowhere old man. And best of all: still no bodies.

Unidentified third party

Get one of the profilers from the RCMP to shock the courtroom with the number of violent psychotics currently at large on the continent. Just the suggestion of a stranger-passing-through-town scenario might be enough. People know the warped psychologies of serial killers better than their own these days. Or they've at least seen The Silence of the Lambs.

T.'s assistant

Even if the lake-disposal scenario sticks, it's still a hell of a job for the teacher to have pulled off all on his own. If I can fish a name out of him, we could sell his friend and plead our way down to something reasonable. Sometimes five years can feel like you've gotten away with it.

I close my eyes and roll my head back on my neck, grind a satisfying pop from the cartilage. Time for bed, if I can find it. But for a time I stay at the desk and face the wall, not sure if my eyes are closed or whether the dark is all that I can see.

The Lady

I write this without seeing it on the page but feel its shape in the slow L, the coiled y of my hand. Then I fold the paper into the smallest square I can squeeze between my fingers and flip it back over my shoulder. Wait to hear the sound of it meet the floor, but there's nothing but my own breathing and the touch of rain against the glass.