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Another week and I'd be doing the same. I just had to stop thinking about Liz and ghosts and concentrate on getting out.
Twelve
AFTER LUNCH, IT WAS time for math. That was one class where the tutor needed to know exactly where I was in the program and my math teacher hadn't sent over my work yet, so I was allowed to skip it for now. Math was also the class Derek had been sitting out the day before, and he did so again, taking his course work into the dining room as Ms. Wang gave a short lesson. I guessed he was doing remedial work and needed the quiet. He went his way and I went mine, into the media room to write that e-?mail to Kari.
Getting the words right took time. The third version finally seemed vague but not like I was obviously avoiding anything. I was about to hit Send when I stopped.
I was using a communal account. What would come up in the sender field? Lyle Group Home for Mentally Disturbed Teens? I was sure it wouldn't be that, but even just “Lyle House” would throw Kari off, maybe enough for her to look it up.
I switched to the browser and searched for “Lyle House. ” Over a million hits. I added “Buffalo” and that cut my hits in half, but a scan of the first page showed they were all just random hits—a mention of a house on Lyle in Buffalo, a list of Lyle Lovett songs including the words “house” and “buffalo,” a House representative named Lyle talking about BuffaloLake.
I moved my mouse over the Send button again, and stopped again.
Just because Lyle House didn't have a cheerful Web site with a daisy border didn't mean Kari couldn't find it in the phone book.
I saved the e-?ma
il as a text document with an obscure name. Then I deleted the message. At least with a phone call, I could probably block call display. There were no telephones in the common area, so I'd have to ask to use the nurses' phone. I'd do that later, when Kari would be home from school.
I shut down Outlook and was about to turn off the browser when a search result caught my eye—one about a Buffalo man named Lyle who'd died in a house fire.
I remembered what Rae had said last night about looking up my burned custodian. Here was my chance to settle the battle between the side that said you're hallucinating—take your meds and shut up and the side that wasn't so sure.
I moused to the search field, deleted the words, then sat there, fingers poised over the keys, every muscle tensed, as if bracing for an electric shock.
What was I afraid of?
Finding out I really did have schizophrenia?
Or finding out I didn't?
I lowered my fingers to the keys and typed. A. R. Gurney school arts Buffalo death custodian.
Thousands of hits, most of them random matches to A. R. Gurney, the Buffalo playwright. Then I saw the words tragic accident and I knew.
I forced my mouse up the screen, clicked, and read the article.
In 1991, forty-?one-?year-?old Rod Stinson, head custodian at Buffalo's A. R. GurneySchool of the Arts, had died in a chemical explosion. A freak accident, caused by a part-?time janitor refilling a container with the wrong solution.
He'd died before I'd been born. So there was no way I could have ever heard about the accident.
But just because I couldn't remember hearing about it didn't mean I hadn't caught a snatch of it, maybe someone talking in class, and stored it deep in my subconscious, for schizophrenia to pull out and reshape as a hallucination.
I scanned the article. No picture. I backed out to the search page and went to the next. Same basic information, but this one did have a picture. And there was no question it was the man I'd seen.
Had I seen the photo somewhere?
You have an answer for everything, don't you? A “logical explanation. ” Well, what would you think if you were seeing this in one of your movies?
I'd run to the screen and smack this silly girl who was staring the truth in the face, too dumb to see it. No, not too dumb. Too stubborn.
You want a logical explanation? String the facts together. The scenes.
Scene one: girl hears disembodied voices and sees a boy who disappears before her eyes.
Scene two: she sees a dead guy with some kind of burns.
Scene three: she discovers that the burned custodian is real and died in her school, just the way she saw it.
Yet this girl, our supposedly intelligent heroine, doesn't believe she's seeing ghosts? Give yourself a shake.
Still I resisted. As much as I loved the world of cinema, I knew the difference between reality and story. In movies, there are ghosts and aliens and vampires. Even someone who doesn't believe in extraterrestrials can sit in a movie theater, see the protagonists struggling with clues that suggest alien invasion, and want to scream “Well, duh!”
But in real life, if you tell people you're being chased by melted school custodians, they don't say “Wow, you must be seeing ghosts. ” They put you someplace like this.
I stared at the picture. There could be no question—
“Is that who you saw?”
I spun in my chair. Derek was there at my shoulder. For someone his size, he could move so quietly I'd almost think he was a ghost. Just as silent… and just as unwelcome.
He pointed to the headline over the janitor's article. "A. R. Gurney. That's your school. You saw that guy, didn't you?'
“I don't know what you're talking about. ”
He fixed me with a look.
I clicked off the browser. “I was doing schoolwork. For when I go back. A project. ”
“On what? 'People who died at my school'? You know, I always heard art schools were weird. …”
I bristled. “Weird?”
“You want something to research?” As he leaned over to take the mouse, I caught a whiff of BO. Nothing flower wilting, just that first hint that his deodorant was about to expire. I tried to move away discreetly, but he noticed and glowered, as if insulted, then shifted to one side, pulling in his elbows.
He opened a fresh browser session, typed a single word, and clicked Search. Then he straightened.
“Try that. Maybe you'll learn something. ”
I'd been staring at the search term for at least five minutes. One word. Necromancer.
Was that even English? I moved the cursor in front of the word and typed “define. ” When I hit Enter, the screen filled.
Necromancer: one who practices divination by conjuring up the dead.
Divination? As in foretelling the future? By talking to dead people… from the past? That made no sense at all.
I skipped to the next definition, from Wikipedia.
Necromancy is divination by raising the spirits of the dead. The word derives from the Greek nekros “dead” and manteia “divination. ” It has a subsidiary meaning reflected in an alternative and archaic form of the word, nigromancy (a folk etymology using Latin niger, “black”), in which the magical force of “dark powers” is gained from or by acting upon corpses. A practitioner of necromancy is a necromancer.
I reread the paragraph three times and slowly deciphered the geek talk, only to realize it didn't tell me anything more than the first definition. On to the next one, also from Wikipedia.
In the fictional universe of Diablo 2, the Priests of Rathma…
Definitely not what I was looking for, but I ran a quick search and I discovered a role-?playing game class called necromancers, who could raise and control the dead. Was that where Derek got it? No. He might be creepy, but if he'd misplaced the boundary between real life and video games, he'd be in a real mental hospital.
