Lost. Helen R. Myers

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      3

      Although every instinct told him to turn around and walk out, to climb back into his car and keep going until he ran out of gas, Jared forced himself to stay put.

      “Tell me it’s not blood,” Garth said, his voice barely more than a hoarse whisper.

      “It sure as hell looks it.”

      “But surely not…?”

      “Human? Considering the amount this would have taken, let’s guess against it for the moment, and hope to heaven somebody doesn’t show up missing within the next day or so.”

      “Jesus, Jared.”

      “If you don’t want the truth, don’t ask the questions.”

      The harsh reprimand had the older man backing away a step. “Just tell me what kind of sick bastard decided to resurrect this part of our past.”

      Someone who remembered what horror they’d lived through that terrible day six springs ago tomorrow. Someone who knew what it had done to the town and wanted another taste of that craziness. But he knew Garth didn’t want to hear that any more than Jared wanted to believe such a thing possible.

      “It’s almost graduation,” he said, grasping for a credible alternative. “You of all people know how revved kids get at this time of year.”

      “This isn’t something to joke about. Not in Split Creek.”

      Amen, thought Jared, because the last time they’d been exposed to anything like this—the first time—the price had been a life, one very dear to them both, a life that had cost the town its innocence. Anyone who thought it amusing to stir up any of that was sick, pure and simple, and needed to be found.

      “Who else has seen this?” he asked, unable to take his eyes off the numbers.

      “Just me. I noticed the light under the door, but knew Brady had finished in here over an hour ago.”

      “Brady Watts? Where is he?”

      “Over in the science lab. Should I get him?”

      The school’s janitor was a gentle-natured old black man, who kept to himself and wasn’t the kind to repeat gossip, let alone encourage it. But first and foremost he was a Southern Baptist. Seeing this message would shake him enough to seek out spiritual guidance, which would mean Reverend Isaac Mooney entering the picture, someone who did like to talk. Jared neither needed nor wanted that.

      “No. But if you can find a couple of mops and pails, then lock that door, I’ll help you clean up this mess. Or paint over it, if we need to.”

      “Don’t you want to take a picture, get a sample, or dust for—”

      “It’s kids!” Jared snapped. “Yeah, it’s six years tomorrow, but that’s no secret. You’ve heard the talk around town. People always remember what they should forget and forget what they should remember.” He turned back to the wall. “No, this is a juvenile prank meant to shock us, and why should we be surprised? Local gossip reflects what’s on TV and in the movies these days. People are being desensitized right and left, and the kids are the first to be affected. Apparently, one or two of them thought it would be fun to spook you. Don’t give him, or them, the satisfaction. We’ll wash it off and forget it. When they see this didn’t get a rise out of you, they’ll lose interest and move on to using keys to scratch car paint or something equally lamebrained.”

      “She was my sister-in-law, Jared. How can I forget?”

      “Damn you, Garth. She was my fiancée! I say, let her rest in peace.”

      Garth looked as though he wanted to continue arguing the point, but after several seconds, although red-faced, he stormed out of the rest room. As soon as the door shut behind him, Jared reached for his pocketknife and pulled a paper towel from the wall dispenser. The procedure wasn’t as pure as using the collection gear in his trunk, but he couldn’t afford to take the time to get it. If Garth got so much as an inkling of how deeply troubled Jared was by this, the guy would need a tranquilizer to get any sleep tonight, and that would mean bringing Jessica into the picture. Sandy’s older sister didn’t deserve this, either.

      Acutely aware of the risks he was taking, he used the knife to scrape at the driest corner of the first letter.