Pamela Tracy: What Janie Saw

She didn’t expect to see Derek; he’d been absent a full week—since he’d turned in the art book last Wednesday.

I knew Chad and Chris planned to kill her before we even stopped the car. She knew it, too, and looked at me with pleading eyes as if realizing I was the only sane person in the car. Before that night I was sane. But from the moment I figured out he was going to kill her, and from the moment she stared at me, silently begging me to intervene, I was no longer sane. I was simply the man in the backseat. The only one close enough to her that she could make eye contact with.

If this were truly a graphic novel, then it was pretty good. Too good.

In the drawing, a lone mailbox braved the wind by a tall, dark, ragged tree. Four people occupied the vehicle. They were stick figures, but he had added minute details—a big nose on one, hair sticking straight up on another—that made Janie long for a magnifying glass. The tiny license plate even bore minute letters and numbers.

But Derek Chaney’s fiction didn’t really belong in an art book.

A tiny sliver of concern snaked its way up Janie’s spine. Surely Derek wasn’t keeping track of actual events...?

Chad was cussing and driving. Chris wasn’t saying a word, just stared out the window that wouldn’t roll down. And, for the first time, no one complained about the broken air conditioner. Maybe Chad was thinking about heat. He’ll feel it soon enough; Hell is hot. And that’s where he’s going because Chad pulled the trigger. He better get used to the heat.

Derek had always been a disturbed young man. As a brand-new teaching assistant, first time in a college classroom, Janie had been ill equipped to deal with his mood swings. She’d tried to give him some stability by partnering him with other students.

But they mostly avoided him.

She’d sought help early on from Patricia Reynolds, the course’s main instructor and chair of the art department.

“Derek needs this class more than anyone else,” was Patricia’s response. “Right now he’s antisocial with a bad temper, but if he can make a connection with art, feel good about something he’s created, who knows how his future might change.”

Janie had nodded. There’d been a teacher in her past—Mrs. Freshia, seventh-grade English—who’d read one of Janie’s personal art-book entries and taken the time to ask, “Are you all right?” And then she’d believed Janie when she’d said, “No.”

Mrs. Freshia had testified in court on Janie’s behalf so that she could go live with her sister, who at just eighteen years old, wanted to be her guardian.

Katie had wanted her. Janie had hoped somebody wanted Derek.

So Janie had offered him alternatives to some of his more gruesome ideas. She’d tried to be friendly, to engage him in conversation. He’d smirked, then drawn a scar down the side of one of his female warrior’s face. A scar just like Janie’s, maybe a bit more pronounced.

She’d long ago come to terms with her physical scar, though. He couldn’t hurt her that way.

She’d lent an ear, but he hadn’t wanted to talk. So she’d backed off, hoping Patricia was right. Derek hadn’t been willing to talk to her, but maybe he’d been willing to draw and write.

I’ve never been a nature boy. I prefer the city with its bright lights, crowds and constant noise. I never want be hot again. It was so hot that night. The radio man said we’d broken a record for heat. I never want to hear the noises of nature again. I hate the eerie sound the wind makes. It’s like someone’s walked over your grave. It’s like a loud whistle, probably to get your attention. It says, “I know what you’re about to do.”

Janie heard the wind outside the student union windows and shivered. If she were painting tonight’s scenery and mood, she’d only use black, white and grays.

Her least favorite colors unless she was painting zebras.

In the animal world—and she was a nature artist—bright colors dominated. Tigers were orange, giraffes were yellow and camels smiled.

As a rule, she didn’t watch horror movies or read scary books. Like this one...

Brittney Travis didn’t scream. She didn’t beg. She tried to run and stumbled. Why do girls always stumble? Then, Chad shot her in the back. It was all in black and white. The blood was even black. Funny, I expected to see red, even in the darkness.

The art book dropped from Janie’s hands, and a shiver of doubt spiraled with such sincerity that she stood up, almost upending the chair she’d been sitting on.

Brittney Travis?

Janie knew the name...but from where? She wasn’t sure. Couldn’t remember.

Suddenly, there wasn’t enough light in the student union, not enough people, and the air seemed to decrease in volume. Scanning the room, she searched for a familiar face: a teacher, a student, even a janitor would do. Two students, not hers, cuddled in a corner. They were young, innocent. She recognized one of the English adjuncts. CeeCee Harrington. She was an animated woman who would talk your ears off if given a chance. As the shadows of evening fell, people were leaving. At this time of night, people didn’t linger.

Except for Katie.

Pulling out her cell phone, Janie started to call her big sister, but changed her mind. Katie was eight months pregnant and didn’t need the worry. Besides, this could be nothing. Just the crazy rant of a student wanting attention.

Right?

Patricia would still be in her office. Janie was supposed to take her the art books when she finished checking them anyway.

Holding the art book pressed to her chest, Janie hustled out the main doors and headed for the building that housed the faculty offices. Patricia didn’t leave until every class had ended and every light was turned out. Which was why in a hallway that housed more than a dozen faculty offices, hers was the only door open and the only beckoning light.

The cold finger of doubt tapped Janie on the shoulder. What if she was overreacting? What if Derek was just trying to scare her because she was young and new to her job?

She needed this opportunity, needed to do well at it and get a glowing recommendation so she’d have a shot at her dream: an artist residency in Africa.

Yet tonight, her feet didn’t falter; her mind didn’t change.

After all, she might have just read an art book detailing a murder.

When she finally got to the professor’s office, though, she wasn’t sure how to begin, so she simply stood in the doorway, trying to find her voice.

There were stacks of art supplies on every surface of the room, including chairs. Textbooks were stacked in towering rows. When Janie’d come in last August for her interview, she’d had to stand and answer Patricia’s questions.

Finally, she managed to clear her throat. Patricia turned around, all smiles.

While her office was a study in organized chaos, Patricia wasn’t. She wore a blue pantsuit with a red blouse underneath. Her hair was short and she had a thing for red high heels, almost stilettos. An angel pin was clipped just above her heart. It was her most cherished possession. Her father had given it to her before he died. It was solid white gold with a natural diamond.

Taking one tiny step into the room, Janie handed Patricia the art book. “I just read something, written by a student, and I think you need to take a look.”

“Personal issues? Is a student in trouble?”

Janie paused. Personal issues might be one way to sum up Derek’s art book. “It’s Derek, and I’m not sure.”

Patricia frowned. “What’s in it that concerns you?”

“Does the name Brittney Travis mean anything to you?”

Patricia leaned forward, her expression so stern that Janie almost took a step back. “Why are you asking?”