Chris Grabenstein - The Smoky Corridor

“What in blazes do you think you are doing back here, young man?”

7

Wade Mugginswas sitting on his butt in the spot where he’d landed when the wall had blown open.

Fortunately, there was no fire. Just the explosion.

And a jumble of tumbled stones.

“Far out,” he muttered.

Wade had totally blown a jagged opening about four feet wide through the ancient block and mortar wall.

And off in a crooked corner, he saw one itty-bitty, teeny-weeny gray mouse.

It was chowing down on a chunk of cheddar cheese that had Assistant Principal Carl D. Crumpler’s name written all over it.

8

“What’s yourname, young man?” the bald man snapped at Zack.

“Zack. Zack Jennings.”

“Jennings?”

“Yes, sir. I’m a new student.”

“Did I ask you anything about your enrollment status?”

“No, sir.”

“I didn’t think so.”

The man had to be a teacher. He had pens and note cards stuffed in the pocket of his short-sleeved shirt. He wore old-fashioned aviator glasses, a striped tie, and a very mean look.

“You’re a Jennings, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

The bald teacher, who wore his belt above his belly button, put his hands on his hips to give Zack an even sterner look.

“Any relation to George Jennings?”

“Yes, sir. He’s my father.”

“Humph. Figures. What, pray tell, are you doing back here in the dark?”

“I, um, got lost. Trying to find a bathroom.”

“Is that so? And what do you call that room located directly behind you?”

“It’s a bathroom.”

“Really? I thought you said you couldn’t find it?”

“Well, I did … eventually.…”

“So you were lying when you said you couldn’t find the bathroom, since you obviously did!”

“Well, yeah—now I did.”

“Was that lip?”

“Excuse me?”

“Were you giving me lip? Back talk? Sauce?”

“No, sir, I’m just saying …”

“Oh, I see. You’re a smooth talker. Just like your father. Well, listen to me, buddy boy, and listen good: I will not tolerate any of your shenanigans. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.…”

“Hello, Mr. Crumpler.”

It was the pretty teacher from the auditorium. She flicked on a light switch and suddenly the cramped corridor wasn’t so dark anymore.

“Excuse me, young lady, who gave you permission to activate that light switch?”

The blonde laughed gently. “Well, nobody, I suppose. But I figured it didn’t make much sense for the three of us to be standing here in the dark.”

“Is that so? And who are you?”

The teacher held out her hand the way a princess would in a fairy tale.

“I am Daphne DuBois, Mr. Crumpler. Your new sixth-grade history teacher? We met last week during teacher orientation.”

“Humph. I suppose we did.” Mr. Crumpler pushed his glasses up on his nose a little.

“I do apologize that I haven’t had the chance to stop by your office for a more personal introduction. I only arrived in North Chester last week, and, I confess, I’ve been so busy setting up my classroom and working on my lesson plans that I haven’t had the chance to fraternize with my fellow faculty members.”

“I am not a faculty member,” said Mr. Crumpler, very deliberately. “I am your assistant principal!”

“Yes, sir, of course. And that is why I am doubly pleased to see you again.”

Zack noticed that Ms. DuBois had a compassionate way of speaking, even when talking to a cranky old crab like Mr. Crumpler, who’d probably been grouchy longer than he’d been bald.

“What are you doing in this sector of the school?” Mr. Crumpler demanded.

“That,” said Ms. DuBois, gesturing toward the door across the hall from the bathrooms, “is my classroom. Hopefully, several of my students and their parents will be dropping by this evening.” She held up a giant cupcake carrier. “I hope three dozen will suffice.” She turned to Zack. “Are you in the sixth grade this year?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Will you be taking history?”

“I sure hope so. I mean, I think so.”

“Good. It was a pleasure conversing with you again, Mr. Crumpler.”

“Humph.”

“Would you care for a cupcake before you go?”

“No, I would not.” He pointed two fingers at his eyes, then swiveled them around to point at Zack. “I’m watching you, Mr. Jennings.” He repeated the gesture. “I am watching you!”

Mr. Crumpler stomped away.

“Mr. Jennings?” said Ms. DuBois from the doorway. She had flicked on the lights in her classroom.

“Yes, ma’am?” Zack followed her into the room. The walls were covered with the most amazingly awesome posters and pictures. Scenes from Civil War battles. Famous faces from ancient civilizations. Drawings of the pyramids and Babylon. It was like stepping into one of his favorite video games, Age of Empires.

“Are you any relation to that handsome young lawyer who was just onstage with the firefighter?”

“He’s my dad.”

“Well, aren’t you lucky?”

“Yeah. He’s probably wondering where I am. I better go back to the auditorium.”

“Would you like your cupcake now?”

Zack nodded.

“Help yourself.”

Zack went to her desk and grabbed one with a whole mountain of brown frosting swirled on top. He chomped off half its head with one bite.

“Any good?” the teacher asked.

“Delicious!”

“Well, go find your father. He deserves a cupcake, too!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Zack felt so warm and happy inside he almost forgot about Mr. Crumpler and the two Donnelly brothers.

Almost.

As he headed toward the door, Zack saw an old newspaper clipping pinned to a bulletin board. The headline was huge.

TWO DONNELLY BROTHERS

AND HERO TEACHER

DIE IN SMOKY CORRIDOR AT SCHOOL

The corridor just outside Ms. DuBois’s door.

9

Eddie parkedhis sporty convertible next to the other car.

He had the ragtop rolled up tight, because he didn’t want anybody to see the dead body slumped beside him in the passenger seat.

Not that there was anybody else tooling around on this backcountry road at nine o’clock at night.

Mr. Timothy Johnson’s bulging eyes looked like bloodshot hard-boiled eggs. There was a hole in the center of his forehead, where the single bullet from Eddie’s pistol had entered.

Eddie stepped out onto the deserted road.

Looked both ways.

He didn’t see any head- or taillights up or down the highway, so he dragged Mr. Johnson from the convertible to his own beat-up used car. He shoved the corpse behind the steering wheel.

“Enjoy the ride, sir,” Eddie said as he reached across the dead man’s legs to twist the key in the ignition.

The car roared to life.

Eddie adjusted the steering wheel till the nose of the vehicle was aimed at a stone wall on the other side of the road.

The Connecticut countryside was famous for its picturesque barriers made out of fieldstones stacked on top of each other. Cars were forever running off the road, slamming into them, occasionally blowing up.

Eddie jammed one end of the dead dowser’s divining rod under his right knee and braced the pointy tip against the gas pedal, pressing it all the way down to the floor.

When the car burned up, so would the stick.

So would Mr. Johnson’s body.

Even the lead ball in his brain would melt.

“Sir,” said Eddie, “it gives me great pleasure to bid you a fond farewell.”

He reached through the open window and tapped the transmission into drive.