Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

He’d pedaled his bike three miles to the pool every day. One Tuesday, during a hot, dry spell in late July it was particularly crazy — with some loud, unruly kids and their equally obnoxious mothers, who objected to his tone when he reprimanded their darling little brats over his bullhorn. He was glad for the end of the day, near twilight. The pool was closed, and he washed down the lounge chairs and the deck area with a hose. He looked forward to hanging out with Elvis that night and maybe going to a late movie. After locking up, Chris headed for his bike — the only one still at the bicycle rack outside the chain-link fence behind the pool house.

He stopped abruptly when he saw something white on one side of his handlebars. As he got closer to his bike, he noticed it was a piece of paper, rolled up and fixed on there with a rubber band. He unrolled the paper, and read what was scrawled across it:

Meet me here behind the pool house at 9:00. It’s inportant.

Chris looked up from the note and glanced around the empty parking lot. He figured this was some kind of prank. Someone was screwing around with him, some idiot who didn’t even know how to spell important .

“I don’t have time for this shit,” he muttered to himself. He had no desire to wait around there until nine. He shoved the note inside one of the pockets of his cargo shorts, and forgot about it — until the following night.

At quitting time, he found another note wrapped around his bike’s handlebar — in the same spot as before, by the left-hand grip.

Why didn’t you meet me? I’ll be waiting for you here tomorrow night at 9:00. It’s very, very important we talk. I know you are a nice, thoughtful person, and you will be here.

The next day, as Chris sat on his lifeguard perch — slathered with sunscreen, wearing his pith helmet, sunglasses, and red trunks — he looked down at the crowd around the pool. He wondered who was jerking him around with these weird notes. Why didn’t they just tell him who they were? Was it one of a gaggle of girls who hung out at the pool every day? Did one of them have a crush on him? Maybe he was about to get punked, and they were all in on the joke. Or was it that overly tanned older-woman regular who always looked at him kind of weird behind her designer sunglasses? A bunch of guys his own age hung out at the pool, and he’d had to discipline a few of them from time to time when they acted like jerks. Maybe they were setting him up, so they could beat the crap out of him or something. Finally, there was a guy about twenty or so, who may have been gay — and he was always friendly. Was he the one leaving him these notes?

During his lunch break, Chris went out and checked his bike for another note on the handlebars. But there was nothing. So he ducked into the pool house office and wrote his own note, then secured it with a rubber band to his handlebars. It said:

Who are you?

For the rest of the afternoon, Chris kept checking the crowd to see if anyone was watching him. Near closing, he saw a burgundy-haired girl around his age, hanging outside the chain-link fence — near the pool house. She had that Goth look, and wore a black T-shirt, black jeans, and black wrist-bands. She was so pale — almost sickly looking. And he imagined she had to be sweltering as she stood in the sun in those black clothes. She put a hand up to the other side of the fence, her fingers hanging on the crisscrossed chain links. She stared right at him — to the point that Chris became uncomfortable.

He finally had to look away. A few moments later, when he glanced back toward the pool house again, she was gone.

She reminded him of Mr. Corson’s niece — whatever her name was. It had been months before. Sabrina? No, Serena . He’d been convinced she was the one whispering to him in the men’s room at the funeral parlor during Mr. Corson’s wake. Who else but Serena would have left his lost sunglasses — the pair of Ray-Bans he now wore — on that gate outside Mrs. Corson’s apartment complex? It would have been just like her to plant those strange notes for him.

But it wasn’t Mr. Corson’s niece in the community pool’s parking lot. This girl was taller, and so skinny she looked emaciated.

At closing time, Chris checked his bike, and the note he’d left on the handlebars was gone. Nothing was there in its place. After a bit of deliberation, he jumped on his bike and pedaled home. He thought about driving back to the pool at a quarter to nine, but decided to get together with Elvis instead.

For the next few days, he kept an eye out for that Goth-looking girl. And he always expected to find another note on his bicycle handlebars at quitting time every night.

Pretty soon, Chris forgot about the girl in black. He didn’t see her again until late August — on another hot afternoon. He just happened to glance over toward the pool house from his lifeguard’s perch, and there she stood on the other side of the fence. She was glaring at him. It looked like she was wearing the exact same clothes she’d worn last time. And she looked sick, or drugged out, or both. She seemed to hang on to the fence to keep from collapsing.

Chris grabbed his bullhorn: “Office?” he said, holding his hand up. That was the sign that he needed someone to relieve him. One of his coworkers, Karen Linde, a pretty, college-age blonde with a boyfriend, hurried out of the office. “What’s going on?” she asked.

He climbed down from his post to meet her. “I just need to check on something for a few minutes,” he said distractedly. “Thanks, Karen. Be right back.”

He hurried toward the gate by the pool house. The Goth girl started to back up. She weaved a bit, like she was drunk or about to faint. Chris glanced over his shoulder at Karen, taking his place on the lifeguard’s perch. When he looked forward again, the girl was gone. It was as if she’d just vanished. Chris didn’t have any shoes on, but he ventured out to the parking lot with its hot asphalt and pebbles. He scoped the area for any sign of the girl, but didn’t see her.

Before heading back inside the fenced area, Chris checked his bike. There wasn’t anything on the handlebars.

For the rest of the day, he kept his eyes peeled for the Goth girl. But she never returned. Then at quitting time, he went out to his bike. There wasn’t a note on the handlebars.

But someone had slashed both his tires.

Chris never set eyes on the sickly looking Goth girl again. But he thought about her now. It was happening again. Another strange, anonymous note; and someone had broken into his locker to leave it for him: Ask your stepmother about Tina Gargullo and Nick Sorenson.

Chris couldn’t help thinking this was yet another little mystery that would go unsolved. He wondered what would end up slashed this time.

Hunched in front of the computer monitor, he noticed most of the other students had left. Outside the streetlights were on. He glanced over his shoulder at Mrs. Chertok, who gave him a patient half smile and pointed to her wristwatch. Chris checked his own watch: 5:23. The library was closing in seven minutes.

His fingers started working on the keyboard again. Under the Google subject head, he typed in all three names — Molly Wright, Nick Sorenson, Tina Gargullo — and then pressed ENTER.

The first item that came up didn’t show Molly’s name, and yet Chris somehow knew this was what he was supposed to find:

3 Dead, 5 Wounded in Campus Shooting SpreeThe gunman, Roland Charles Wright,26, was shot by a security guard. . a teacher, Nick Sorenson,32, and a cafeteria worker, Tina Gargullo,20, both died on the scene. Wrightfired three rounds into Sorenson . . www.thechicagotribune/news/1302007.html